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So, Hunterdon Regional H. S. Library 





The Works of 
Edgar Allan Poe 


171 


One Volume 





Poems, Tales, Essays, Criticisms 


with New Notes 





Special Biographical Introduction 
by 
Flervey Allen 


Author of 
““Tsrafel,’ the Life of Poe 


WOR ON OR ODN OE OE OR IE RSS 





P. F. COLLIER & SON CORPORATION 
NEW YORK 


CopyYniGHrT, 1997, 
BY 
WALTER J. BLACK CQ. 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
BY THE FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY 


Introduction 


Up unTI1 within recent years the biog- 
raphy of Poe has been one of the most 
obscure and controversial in the field 
of American letters. The careful labors 
of various scholars, and the bringing to 
light of new evidence from time to 
time, due to research and fortunate ac- 
_cidents during the elapse of years, has 
now made it possible to reconstruct 
with a more less final degree of accuracy 
the main events in the life of one of 
the few figures in American literature 
who has attained a niche in the hall of 
international fame. As far as the events 
and the calendar facts of the poet’s life 
are concerned, there is no excuse any 
longer to speak of the “Poe mystery.” 
The enigma, if any, which continues to 
cling to the name of Edgar Allan Poe 
is to be found in the character of the 
man rather than in the facts of his 
mortal journey. 

To the reader of these and the fol- 
lowing pages who may become inter- 
ested in the fascinating, and withal 
strange character of Poe himself, the 
satisfaction of curiosity must be found 
to a large degree elsewhere, in the his- 
torical, literary, critical, and psycholo- 
gical commentaries which have gradually 
gathered about the poet’s name. But 
the main interest in any writer whose 
works remain alive, must of necessity 
be most legitimately centered in what 
he wrote. Biographical and_ biblio- 
graphical, even psychological comment is 
necessarily secondary. 

The most essential thing then is to 
have available a conveniently arranged, 


accurately edited, and complete text of 
his work, with an introduction contain- 
ing the pertinent and definitely ascer- 
tained facts about the life of the author 
in the light of the most recent research 
available. If to these facts a few critical 
remarks, not open to reasonable objec- 
tion be added, in order te aid the gen- 
erally intelligent reader to a more imme- 
diate and yet primary approach, and 
if the whole work be _ permanently 
bound in a single pleasant volume, the 
publisher may be considered to have 
rendered a valuable and a _ practical 
sel vice. 

Such is the ideal of the present edition 
of the Works of Edgar Allan Poe. In 
the case of Poe, indeed, such a service 
is peculiarly necessary and timely. There 
are available many excellent and well 
edited editions of various collections of 
his work both in prose and poetry, but 
a reasonably complete edition of his 
work in all fields bound in one volume 
has been up until the present time en- 
tirely unavailable to the public. To 
remedy this somewhat scandalous state 
of affairs, one that has recently been 
justly complained of by an eminent 
English critic, is the raison d’etre of this 
book. Considerable expense, research, 
and justifiable enthusiasm has gone into 
its preparation. The introduction wiil, 
as outlined above, confine itself almost 
exclusively to biographical facts. ‘Te 
these we can now proceed: 

Edgar Allan Poe was born at 33 
Hollis Street. Boston, Mass., on Janu- 
ary 19, 1809, the son of poverty stricken 


INTRODUCTION 


actors, David, and Elizabeth (born 
Arnold) Poe. His parents were then fill- 
ing an engagement in a Boston theatre, 
and the appearances of both, together 
with their sojourns in various places 
during their wandering careers, are to 
be plainly traced in the play bills of the 
time. 


Paternal Ancestry 


The father of the poet was one David 
Poe of Baltimore, Maryland, who had 
left the study of the law in that city to 
take up a stage career contrary to the 
desire of his family. The Poes had 
settled in America some two or three 
generations prior to the birth of Edgar. 
Their line is distinctly traced back to 
Dring in the Parish of Kildallen, County 
Cavan, Ireland, and thence into the 
Parish of Fenwick in Ayrshire, Scot- 
land. Hence'they derived from Scotch- 
Trish stock, with what trace of the Celtic 
is doubtful. The first Poes came to 
America about 1739. The immediate 
paternal ancestors of the poet landed at 
Newcastle, Delaware, in 1748 or a little 
earlier. These were John Poe and _his 
wife Jane McBride Poe who went to 
settle in eastern Pennsylvania. This 
couple had ten children in their family, 
among them one David who was the 
grandfather of the poet. David Poe 
married Elizabeth Cairnes, also of 
Scotch-Irish ancestry, then living in 
Lancaster, Pennsylvania, whence, some- 
time prior to the outbreak of the Amer- 
ican Revolution they moved to Balti- 
more, Maryland. 

David Poe and his wife, Elizabeth 
Cairnes Poe, took the patriot side in 
the Revolution. David was active in 
driving the Tories out of Baltimore and 


was appointed “Assistant Deputy Quar- 
termaster,’ which meant that he was a 
local purchasing agent of military sup- 
plies for the Revolutionary Army. He 
is said to have been of considerable aid 
to Lafayette during the Virginia and 
Southern campaigns, and for this pa- 
triotic activity he received the courtesy 
title of “General.” His wife Elizabeth 
took an active part in making clothes 
for the Continental Army. David and 
Elizabeth Poe (Sr.) had seven children 
David, the eldest son, becoming the 
father of the poet. Two sisters of 
David, Eliza Poe (afterward Mrs. Henry 
Herring) and Maria Poe (later Mrs. 
William Clemm) enter into the story of 
the poet’s life, the latter particularly, 
as she became his mother-in-law in ad- 
dition to being his aunt. With her he 
lived from 1835 to 1849. 

Young David Poe was destined for 
the law, but as previously mentioned, 
he finally left his native city to go on 
the stage. His first professional ap- 
pearance took place at Charleston, S. C., 
in December, 1803. A dramatic notice 
of this performance in a local paper 
describes David Poe as being extremely 
diffident while— 

“.,. . His voice seems to be clear, 
melodious and variable; what its com- 
pass may be can only be shown when 
he acts unrestrained by timidity. His 
enunciation seemed to be very distinct 
and articulate; and his face and person 
are much in his favor. His size is of 
that pitch well fitted for general action 
if his talents should be suited to sock 
and buskin. .’ This is perhaps the 
only direct evidence extant of the phys- 
ical appearance of the poet’s father. No 
pictures of him are known to exist. His 
histrionic powers were at best very 


INTRODUCTION 


limited. He continued to play in minor 
parts in various Southern cities and in 
January, 1806, married Elizabeth Arnold 
Hopkins, a young childless widow, also 
an actress, whose husband had died but 
a few months before. Elizabeth Arnold 
Poe became the mother of Edgar Allan 
Poe. 


Maternal Ancestry 


The young widow whom David Poe 
married in 1806 had been born in Eng- 
land in the spring of 1787. She was 
the daughter of Henry Arnold, and 
Elizabeth Arnold (born Smith) both 
actors at the Covent Garden Theatre 
Royal, London. Henry Arnold died ap- 
parently about 1793. His widow con- 
tinued to support herself and her child 
by acting and singing, and in 1796, 
taking her young daughter with her, she 
came to America and landed in Boston. 
Mrs. Arnold continued her professional 
career in America at first with con- 
siderable minor success. Either immedi- 
ately before, or just after arriving in 
the United States, however, she married 
a second time, one Charles Tubbs, an 
Englishman of minor parts and char- 
acter. The couple continued to act, 
sing, and dance in various cities through- 
out the eastern seaboard and the young 
Miss Arnold was soon noticed on the 
play bills appearing in childish roles 
as a member of the various troupes to 
which her family belonged. Mr. and 
Mrs. Tubbs disappeared from view 
about 1798 but the career of Elizabeth 
Arnold, Poe’s mother, can be traced 
accurately by various show bills and 
notices in the newspapers of the dif- 
ferent cities in which she played until 
her death in 1811. It was during her 


wanderings as an actress that she mar- 
ried C. D. Hopkins, himself an actor, 
in August, 1802. There were no 
children by this union. Hopkins died 
three years later, and in 1806, as previ- 
ously noted, his widow was married to 
David Poe. 

The couple continued to play together 
but with very minor success. They had 
three children. William Henry Leonard 
born in Boston in 1807, Edgar born in 
Boston in 1809, and Rosalie at Norfolk, 
Va., probably in December, 1810. Due 
to their poverty, which was always ex- 
treme, the first child, Henry, had been 
left in the care of his grandparents in 
Baltimore shortly after his birth. Edgar 
was born while his parents were filling 
an engagement at the Boston Theatre. 
In the summer of 1809 the Poes went 
to New York where David Poe either 
died or deserted his wife, probably the 
former. Mrs. Poe was left with the 
infant Edgar and some time afterward 
gave birth to a daughter. A suspicion 
was afterwards thrown on the paternity 
of this last child and on the reputation 
of Mrs. Poe, which played an unfortu- 
nate part in the lives of her children 
It is safe to say that it was unjust. 

From 1810 on, Mrs. Poe continued, 
although in failing health, to appear in 
various roles in Norfolk, Va., Charles- 
ton, S. C., and Richmond. In the 
winter of 1811 she was overtaken by a 
fatal illness and died on December 8th 
in circumstances of great misery and 
poverty at the house of a Scotch mil- 
liner in Richmond. She was buried in 
the churchyard of St. John’s Episcopal 
Church in that city two days later, but 
not without some pious opposition. 

Mrs. Poe was survived by three 
orphaned children. Two of these, Edgar 


INTRODUCTION 


and Rosalie, were with her at the time 
of her death and were cared for by 
charitable persons. Edgar, then about 
two years old, was taken into the home 
of John Allan, a Scotch merchant in 
fairly prosperous circumstances, while 
the infant Rosalie was given shelter by 
a Mr. and Mrs. William Mackenzie. 
The Allans and Mackenzies were close 
friends and neighbors. The children 
remained in these households, and the 
circumstances of their fostering were, 
as time went on, equivalent to adoption. 

Frances Keeling Valentine Allan, the 
wife of the Scotch merchant who had 
given shelter to the “infant orphan 
Edgar Poe,” was a childless woman who 
had been married for some years. The 
child Edgar appears to have been a 
bright and attractive little boy, and 
despite some reluctance on the part of 
Mr. Allan, he was soon ensconced as a 
permanent member of the household. 
Although there is some evidence of an 
attempt on the part of paternal rela- 
tives in Baltimore to assert their inter- 
est in the child, the young boy remained 
as the foster-son of John Allan in Rich- 
mond, where he was early put to a 
school kept by a Scotch dame and ap- 
parently later to one William Irwin, a 
local schoolmaster. There is every evi- 
dence that his early years of childhood 
were spent in happy and comfortable 
surroundings. Mrs. Allan and_ her 
maiden sister, Nancy Valentine, who 
resided in the same household, were 
peculiarly fond of their “pet.” He 
seems, indeed, to have been somewhat 
overdressed and spoiled as a very little 
boy, a propensity on the part of the 
women which the foster-father tried to 
offset by occasional but nrobably well- 
timed severity. 


In 1815 the family sailed for Eng- 
land on the Ship “Lothair,’ taking 
Edgar with them. After a brief stay in 
London they visited Scotch relatives, 
the Galts, Allans, and Fowlds, at Kil- 
marnock, Irvine, and other places about 
Ayrshire. A journey was made to 
Glasgow and then back to London in 
the late fall of 1815 when Edgar was 
sent back to Scotland at Irvine. There 
for a short time he attended the Gram- 
mar School. By 1816, however, he was 
back in London where his foster-father 
was endeavoring to build up a branch 
of his Richmond firm, Ellis and Allan, 
by trading in tobacco and general mer- 
chandise. The family resided at South- 
ampton Row, Russell Square, while the 
young Edgar was sent to a boarding 
school kept by the Misses Dubourgs at 
146 Sloane Street, Chelsea. He re- 
mained there until the summer of 1817. 
In the fall of that year he was entered 
at the Manor House School of the Rev. 
Mr. John Bransby at Stoke Newington, 
then a suburb of London. At this place 
he remained until some time in the spring 
of 1820 when he was withdrawn to re- 
turn to America. The young Poe’s 
memories of his five years’ stay in Scot- 
land and England were exceedingly vivid 
and continued to furnish him recollec- 
tions for the remainder of his life. He 
seems to have been a precocious and 
somewhat lordly young gentleman. A 
curious and vivid reminiscence of these 
early school days in England remains 
in his story of “William Wilson.” It is 
significant of his relations with his 


- foster-parents that the bills for his Eng- 


lish schooling are rendered for Master 
Allan. There can be little doubt that 
at this time Mr. Allan regarded him as 
a son. Other evidence is not lacking. 


INTRODUCTION 


John Allan’s business ventures in 
London had been unfortunate. He re- 
turned to the United States,. arriving in 
Richmond in August, 1820, consider- 
ably embarrassed, a condition in which 
his partner Charles Ellis was also in- 
volved. Assignments of real estate were 
eventually made to satisfy creditors. 
The life of the Allan family, however, 
continued to be comfortable. Edgar 
was sent to an Academy kept by Wil- 
liam Burke, later by Joseph H. Clarke, 
and attended by the sons of the best 
families in Richmond. At school the 
young Poe excelled in languages, ora- 
tory, amateur theatricals, and attained 
a notable prowess in swimming. He 
appears to have attracted the attention 
of his masters and elders by his bril- 
liance and to have been well liked but 
somewhat aloof from most of his play- 
mates. At a very youthful age he 
began to write poetry, his first verses 
dating from his early teens. About 
1823 he became intimate in the home 
of a schoolmate, Robert Stanard, whose 
mother, Jane Stith Stanard, took a 
tender interest in the brilliant young 
boy, an affection which was ardently 
and romantically returned. It was to 
this lady that Poe afterwards addressed 
his poem “To Helen,” beginning 

“Helen, thy beauty is to me” 

Mrs. Stanard soon went mad and died. 
The tragedy was undoubtedly taken to 
heart by Poe to whom it came as a 
great blow shocking him significantly. 
He is said on somewhat questionable au- 
thority to have haunted her grave in 
the lonely cemetery by night. There 
is no doubt that he continued to cherish 
her memory as long as he lived. 

Be that as it may, however, by 1824 
the young poet who had been address- 


ing the girls of a neighboring female 
academy in juvenile lyrics found him- 
self fully embarked upon the troubled 
waters of a more adult life. Mrs. 
Stanard had died; his foster-father John 
Allan was in precarious financial straits; 
Mrs. Allan’s health was rapidly failing; 
and there was domestic dissension of 
the most serious kind in the household. 
John Allan had from time to time in- 
dulged in extra-marital relations. Some 
of his natural children were then living 
in Richmond and the knowledge of this 
in one way or another seems to have 
become known to his wife. Her sorrow 
was great. During the visit of La- 
fayette to Richmond in 1824 young 
Poe, who was an officer in a cadet com- 
pany, acted as an escort to the old Gen- 
eral. This gave him a new sense of 
his own dignity and importance and at 
the same time he appears in some of 
his contacts about the town with more 
adult companions to have learned. of 
his foster-father’s mode of life. At 
home Edgar took the part of his mother, 
and a quarrel, which through various 
ramifications lasted for upwards of a 
decade, now took place between Poe 
and John Allan. 

The situation was peculiarly exasper- 
ating to all concerned and the conflict 
dramatic. 

Mr. Allan, it appears, had at the 
time of the death of Mrs. David Poe 
come into the possession of some of 
her correspondence. What was in these 
letters no one will ever know as they 
were afterwards destroyed by Mrs. 
Clemm at the request of Poe himself. 
There may have been some compro- 
mising matter in them. At any rate, 
in order to insure Edgar’s silence as to 
his own affairs, Mr, Allan wrote a letter 


INTRODUCTION 


to William Henry Leonard Poe in Balti- 
more, complaining of Edgar in vague 
terms accusing him of ingratitude, and 
attacking the legitimacy of the boy’s 
sister Rosalie. The effect of this letter, 
and there may have been others, was 
evidently very disturbing to both the 
sons of Elizabeth Poe. Certainly it 
must have drawn the lines much tighter 
in the Allan household in Richmond. 
Three years later we find Henry in 
Baltimore publishing a poem entitled 
“In a Pocket Book,” which ‘shows every 
indication that the doubts about his 
sister’s legitimacy had gone home. 

Rosalie Poe about this time began to 
show distinct signs of arrested develop- 
ment. She never fully matured, and 
though she continued to be cherished as 
a daughter by the Mackenzies who had 
first sheltered her, she remained at best 
a sorrowful reminder of the past to 
her brother Edgar. She outlived him 
by many years, finally dying in a charit- 
able institution in Washington, D. C. 

The death of Mrs. Stanard, the finan- 
cial troubles and consequent irritability 
of John Allan, the disputes and counter 
charges in the household, and his own 
doubtful position there—for he had 
never been adopted and his dependence 
on charity was constantly reiterated— 
all of this proved an uneasy background 
for a young and ambitious poet. In 
addition there are indications that Mr. 
Allan as a practical Scotchman had little 
or no sympathy for his foster-son’s am- 
bitions in the realm of literature. 

In 1825 Mr. Allan’s financial straits 
were amply relieved by the inheritance 
from his uncle William Galt of a large 
fortune. He found himself in short, a 
very wealthy man. The whole scale of 
living of the family now changed to a 


method of life consonant with their 
better condition. A new house of con- 
siderable pretension was purchased, and 
in this large and comfortable mansion, 
situated at Fifth and Main Streets in 
the City of Richmond, a round of en- 
tertainments and social functions began 
despite the failing health of its mistress. 
Poe accompanied the family to the new 
house. His foster-father withdrew him 
from Mr. Clarke’s Academy and had 
him prepared for the University of Vir- 
ginia which under the patronage of 
Thomas Jefferson had but recently 
opened its doors. 

On a street nearby lived a little girl 
by the name of Sarah Elmira Royster. 
Poe frequented her parlor where they 
sang, and drew pictures. Elmira played 
the piano while Edgar accompanied her 
on the flute, or they walked in the 
gardens close at hand. Henry Poe is 
known to have visited his brother in 
Richmond about this time and to have 
accompanied Edgar to the Roysters. 
Before Edgar left for the University 
he was engaged to Elmira. The affair, 
however, was not made known to the 
adults of either household. 

In February, 1826, Edgar A. Poe 
matriculated at the University of Vir- 
ginia. He was then only a little more 
than seventeen, but his manhood may 
be said to have begun. 

His position at the University was a 
precarious one. As the “son” of a 
wealthy man he had a great deal of 
credit and Poe himself was prone to live 
up to the reputation. On the other 
hand his foster-father appears even at 
this time to have been so alienated 
from his ward that he provided him 
with considerably less than the amount 
necessary to pay his way. The young 





INTRODUCTION 


student made a rather brilliant record 
in his studies but also fell in with a 
somewhat fast set of youths. In order 
to maintain his position he began to 
play heavily; lost, and used his credit 
with local shopkeepers recklessly. It is 
at this time also that we first hear of 
his drinking. The effects of a very little 
alcohol on Poe’s constitution were dev- 
astating. He appears to have been a 
brilliant, but rather eccentric and de- 
cidedly nervous youth. Another cause 
of strain at this period was the 
unhappy “progress” of his love af- 
fair. Mr. and Mrs. Royster were evi- 
dently aware of the fact that young 
Poe was no longer regarded as an heir 
by his foster-father. They had, of 
course, soon learned of his love affair 
with their daughter and now brought 
pressure to break off the match. Poe’s 
letters to his sweetheart were inter- 
cepted; Elmira was forbidden to write; 
the attentions of an eligible young 
bachelor, A. Barrett Shelton, were 
pressed upon her, and she was finally 
sent away for a while into safe keeping. 
In the meantime Mr. Allan was in- 
formed of the financial difficulties of 
his ward whose indebtedness is said to 
have totalled $2500. His anger became 
extreme, and upon the return of Poe to 
Richmond to spend the Christmas holi- 
days of 1826, he was advised by his 
guardian that he could not return to 
the University. 

The opening weeks of 1827 were 
spent in Richmond in the most 
strained relation between young Poe and 
Mr. Allan. Poe’s career at the Uni- 
versity had no doubt been’ very 
unsatisfactory. On the other hand Mr. 
Allan’s anger was implacable and ex- 
treme. He refused to pay any of his 


ward’s debts of honor, or any other 
debts, thereby reducing the proud spirit 
of the youngster whom he had raised as 
his son to despair. The young Poe was 
pressed by warrants. His foster-father 
used the opportunity to insist upon his 
reading law and abandoning all literary 
ambitions. On this rock apparently 
they finally split. A violent quarrel 
took place between them in March, 
1827, at the conclusion of which the 
young poet dashed into the street and 
went to an inn whence he wrote 
demanding his trunk, personal belong- 
ings and clothes. Several letters passed 
between the two without a reconcilia- 
tion being effected. Their mutual griev- 
ances were rehearsed and Poe finally 
concluded, despite his utter destitution, 
to work his way North to Boston, then 
the literary capital of the United States. 
Mr. Allan it appears tried to interfere, 
but his wife and her sister seem to 
have supplied Poe secretly with a small 
sum of money by means of one of the 
slaves before the young man set out on 
his travels. 

Under the assumed name of Henri 
Le Rennét he left Richmond with one 
companion, Ebenezer Burling, and 
reached Norfolk, Va. Here Burling left 
him while Poe went by ship to Bos- 
ton where he arrived ‘almost penni- 
less some time in April, 1827. He did 
not, as has so often been asserted, even 
by himself, go abroad. The dates of 
his known whereabouts taken from let- 
ters and documents at this time defi- 
nitely preclude even the possibility of 
a European trip. 

In Boston there is some obscure evi- 
dence that Poe attempted to support 
himseif by writing for a newspaper. It 
is certain, however, that while in Boston 


INTRODUCTION 


during the spring and summer of 1827 
he made friends with a young printer, 
one Calvin F. S. Thomas then newly 
embarked in the trade, and prevailed 
on him to print a volume of verse, 
Tamerlane and Other Poems. ‘The 
printer does not appear to have known 
Poe by any but an assumed name. The 
title page of the little volume pro- 
claimed the work to be “By A Bos- 
tonian.” The bulk of it, probably due 
to Poe’s inability to recompense the 
printer, was apparently destroyed or 
suffered to lie in neglect. Only a few 
copies of it got into circulation and only 
two obscure notices appeared. Poe 
himself seems to have secured scarcely 
some for personal use. In the mean- 
time the author of this unknown but 
now famous little volume was reduced 
to the greatest extremity. Totally with- 
out means and too proud or unable to 
appeal to Richmond, he finally as a 
desperate measure enlisted in the United 
States Army on May 26, 1827, under 
the assumed name of Edgar A. Perry. 
He was assigned to Battery “H” of the 
First U. S. Artillery and spent the sum- 
mer of 1827 in the barracks of Fort 
Independence, Boston Harbor. At the 
end of October his regiment was ordered 
to Fort Moultrie, Charleston, S. C. 
The ensuing two and a half years 
form a curious interlude in the life of 
a poet. Poe spent the time between 
November, 1827, and December, 1828, 
doing garrison duty as an enlisted man 
at Ft. Moultrie, S. C. The fort was 
located on Sullivan’s Island at the 
mouth of the harbor. The young sol- 
dier had a good deal of spare time on 
his hands which was evidently spent in 
wandering along the beaches, writing 
poetry, and reading. His military duties 


were light and wholly clerical, as he 
had soon been noticed by his officers 
better fitted for office work than for 
practice at the great-guns. Of this 
period, and of his doings and imagin- 
ings, the best record is the “Gold Bug,” 
written many years later, but replete 
with exact local color and scenes. Poe’s 
duties evidently brought him into close 
contact with his officers. He was 
steady, sober, and intelligent; and pro- 
motion ensued. We soon find him 
listed as an “artificer,’ the first step 
out of the ranks. He himself, how- 
ever, felt that his life was being wasted 
and some time in 1828 correspondence 
was resumed with his _ foster-father 
in Richmond, the purport of which 
was a request for reconciliation 
and a return to civil life. Although 
Poe’s letters were touching, appealing, 
and penitent, his guardian was obstinate 
and the youth remained at his post until 
December, 1828, when his regiment was 
ordered to Fortress Monroe, Virginia. 
Seeing that his guardian would not 
consent to having him return home, he 
now conceived the idea of entering 
West Point. Sume of the officers of 
his regiment, a surgeon in particular, 
became interested, and influence was 
brought to bear on John Allan. On 
January 1, 1829, Poe, still serving under 
the name of Perry, was promoted to 
Sergeant-Major of his regiment, the 
highest rank open to an enlisted man. 
His letters home became more insistent 
and to them were now added the prayers 
of Mrs. Allan, who was dying. She de- 
sired to see her “dear boy” before she 
expired. Strange as it may seem, John 
Allan remained firm until the very last. 
He finally sent for his foster-son, then 
only a few miles away from Richmond, 


INTRODUCTION 


but it was too late. Mrs. Allan died 
before Poe arrived home, and despite 
her dying request not to be buried until 
her foster-son returned, her husband 
proceeded with the funeral. When Poe 
arrived at the house a few hours later 
all that he loved most was in the 
ground. His agony at the grave is said 
to have been extreme. 

Mrs. Allan had extracted a promise 
from her husband nevertheless, not to 
abandon Poe. A partial reconciliation 
now took place and Mr. Allan con- 
sented to help Poe in his plan to enter 
West Point. Letters were written to 
the Colonel of his regiment, a substi- 
tute was secured, and the young poet 
found himself discharged from the army 
on April 15, 1829. He returned for a 
short period to Richmond. 

Poe remained only a short time at 
“home.” He secured, largely through 
his own solicitation, a number of letters 
of influence to the War Department. 
Armed with these, and a very cold letter 
from his guardian- who _ averred, 
“Frankly, sir, do I declare that he is 
no relation to me whatever’—he set 
out about May 7th for Washington 
where he presented his credentials, in- 
cluding a number of recommendations 
of his officers couched in the highest 
terms, to the Secretary of War, Mr. 
Katon. A long delay of almost a year 
occurred, during which his appointment 
to West Point was in doubt. 

During most of this period, May, 
1829, to the end of that year, he re- 
sided in Baltimore. His foster-father 
supplied him from time to time with 
small sums just sufficient to keep him 
alive, and remained cold and suspicious 
of his good intentions as to West Point. 
In the meantime young Poe, after being 


robbed by a cousin at a hotel, sought 
shelter with his Aunt Maria Clemm, 
the sister of his father. In the house- 
hold of this good woman, who was from 
the first his guardian angel, Poe found 
his grandmother, Mrs. David Poe, Sr., 
then an aged and paralyzed woman, his 
brother Henry, and his first cousin Vir- 
ginia Clemm, a little girl about seven 
years old. She later became the poet’s 
wife. During this stay in Baltimore 
Poe exerted himself to further his 
literary name. Shortly after his 
arrival we find him calling on William 
Wirt, just retired from active political 
life in Washington, author of “Letters 
of a British Spy,’ and a man of con- 
siderable literary reputation. Poe left 
with Wirt the manuscript of “Al Aaraaf” 
and received from him a letter of ad- 
vice rather than recommendation. The 
incident, however, shows that he had 
then on hand the manuscript for a 
second volume of poems. ‘These con- 
sisted of several which had appeared in 
his first volume, much revised, and 
some new ones. 

He now went to Philadelphia and left 
the manuscript with Carey, Lea and 
Carey, a then famous publishing firm, 
who demanded a guarantee before they 
would print it. Poe wrote to his guar- 
dian asking him to support the little 
volume to the extent of $100, but re- 
ceived an angry denial and strict censure 
for contemplating such an action. By 
July 28th he had, however, apparently 
arranged for publication of the volume 
in Baltimore and wrote to Carey, Lea 
and Carey withdrawing the manuscript. 
Through Baltimore friends and relatives 
he was enabled to reach the ear of 
John Neal, then an influential Boston 
editor, and the forthcoming work re- 


INTRODUCTION 


ceived some helpful notices in the Sep- 
tember and December issues of the 
Yankee for 1829. The book itself, en- 
titled Al Aaraaf Tamerlane and Minor 
Poems, was published by Hatch and 
Dunning in Baltimore in December, 
1829. Somewhat mollified by this suc- 
cess and the notice it attracted, but 
much more so by the assurance that 
his foster-son was about to receive his 
long delayed appointment to the Mili- 
tary Academy, Mr. ‘Allan permitted 
Edgar to return to Richmond where he 
stayed from January to May, 1830, at 
the ‘“‘big mansion.” His life in Balti- 
more had been a poverty-haunted one, 
and the return to his former mode of 
existence was undoubtfully a welcome 
one to Poe. | 

Mr. Allan, however, had his own 
private reasons for desiring to have his 
ward out of Richmond as soon as pos- 
sible. He had resumed intimate rela- 
tions with a former companion after the 
death of his wife and was now expect- 
ing an unwelcome addition to his natural 
children. Quarrels with Poe were re- 
newed. After a peculiarly bitter one 
Poe wrote a letter to a former ac- 
quaintance in the army, a sergeant to 
whom he owed a small sum of money. 
In this he permitted himself to make 
an unfortunate statement about his 
guardian. The letter was later used by 
the man to collect from Mr. Allan the 
amount due him and was the final cause 
of Poe’s being cast off. 

The appointment to the Military 
Academy was received at the end of 
March. The examinations for entrance 
were held at West Point at the end of 
June, and in May Poe bade farewell to 
his guardian and left for the Military 
Academy, visiting his Baltimore rela- 


tives on the way. On July 1, 1830, he 
took the oath and was admitted as a 
cadet at West Point. 

Poe remained at the United States 
Military Academy from June 25, 1830, 
to February 19, 1831. There can be no 
doubt that the military career was dis- 
tasteful to him and that he had been 
forced into it by his guardian in whose 
fortune he might still hope to share. 
Mr. Allan, however, regarded his duties 
as fulfilled, with Edgar provided for at 
the public charge, and was glad to have 
him away from Richmond. On the day 
that Poe entered West Point, his guar- 
dian was presented with a pair of nat- 
ural twins for whom he later on ar- 
ranged in his will. This did not prevent 
his marrying a second time, neverthe- 
less, and the new relation made him 
more than ever inimical to his foster- 
son. 

Edgar Poe continued to perform his 
duties creditably at the Military Acad- 
emy when all hope of any help in the 
future from Mr. Allan was shattered by 
a letter from Richmond which disowned 
him. The soldier had presented to his 
guardian the letter written by Poe a 
year before, and the rage of. Mr. Allan 
was extreme. Realizing that all hope of 
a competence from Richmond was now 
at an end, Poe decided to take things 
into his own hands and leave the army 
forever. As he could not obtain Mr. 
Allan’s consent to resign he went on 
strike and neglected to attend forma- 
tions, classes, or church. He was court 
martialled and dismissed for being dis- 
obedient. While at the Military Acad- 
emy he had arranged with Elam Bliss, 
a New York publisher, to bring out a 
third volume of poems to which the 





INTRODUCTION 


student body at the Academy had sub- 
scribed. 

In February, 1831, he went to New 
York. He was penniless, illy clad, and 
nearly died of a “cold” complicated by 
internal ear trouble, after reaching the 
city. 

Forced to eat humble pie he again 
appealed to his guardian, but in vain. 
He remained in New York long enough 
to see his third volume off the press. 
It was entitled Poems, Second Edition, 
and contained a preface addressed to 
“Dear B.,” a person unknown, in which 
some of the young author’s critical 
opinions, largely taken from Coleridge, 
were first set forth. 

After attempting abortively to obtain 
letters of introduction to Lafayette 
from Col. Thayer, the Superintendent 
at West Point, in order to join the 
Polish patriots then revolting against 
Russia, Poe left New York and jour- 
neyed by way of Philadelphia to Balti- 
more. He arrived in the latter city 
some time about the end of March, 
1831, and again took up his residence 
at Mechanics Row, Milk Street, with 
his aunt Maria Clemm and her daughter 
Virginia. His brother Henry was then 
in ill health, “given over to drink,” and 
dying. The next four years were spent 
in Baltimore under conditions of ex- 
treme poverty. Poe was still obscure 
and his doings for much of the time 
are very vague. A few facts, how- 
ever, can be certainly glimpsed. 

During most of the Baltimore period 
Poe must have followed the life of a 
recluse. He now began to turn his at- 
tention to prose and was able to place a 
few stories with a Philadelphia publi- 
cation. His brother Henry died in 
August, 1831. Edgar continued to live 


with the Clemms. The household was 
poverty stricken, he himself was not in 
very good health part of the time. 
What the family lived on is not clear. 
Attempts were made to interest Mr. 
Allan once more in his behalf but in 
vain. No relief came from Richmond 
except upon one occasion when on ac- 
count of a debt contracted by his 
brother Henry, Edgar was in danger of 
being imprisoned. Mr. Allan sent a 
belated response which was the last that 
Poe ever received from him. Poe is 
known to have paid ardent attention to 
Mary Devereaux, a young girl who lived 
close by. He was refused, and horse- 
whipped the girl’s uncle. At this time 
he also frequented the houses of his rel- 
atives, the Poes, and Herrings, espe- 
cially the latter. It was then, too that 
he was hard at work perfecting his art 
as a writer of short stories, and upon 
his only drama, ‘“Politian.” 

In October, 1833, he competed for a 
prize of $50 offered for the best short 
story submitted to a Baltimore paper, 
The Saturday Visitor. The prize was 
awarded by a committee of well known 
citizens to Poe’s “The Manuscript 
Found in a Bottle.” It was his first 
notable success and marks his emergence 
into fame. The cash was grateful to 
his necessity, but a more important ef- 
fect of the contest was the help given 
to the poverty stricken young poet by 
John P. Kennedy, a gentleman of Balti- 
more of considerable means, a kind 
heart, and a writer of parts himself. 
Mr. Kennedy by various timely acts of 
charity and influence set Poe upon the 
way to fame. He, Kennedy, enabled 
Poe to place some of his stories and 
introduced him to Thomas White, the 
editor of the Southern Literary Mes- 


INTRODUCTION 


senger, published in Richmond, Va. Poe 
now began to contribute reviews, and 
short stories to that periodical and was 
finally invited in 1835 to come to Rich- 
mond as an assistant editor. In the 
meanwhile Mr. Allan had died, in 1834, 
and there was no mention of Poe in his 
will. Two ill-advised trips to Richmond 
by Poe himself between 1832 and 1834 
had only succeeded in further estrang- 
ing his former guardian and the Allan 
family. They remained embittered to 
the last. In July, 1835, Poe left Balti- 
more to take up his new editorial duties 
in Richmond. 

As an editor, considered purely from 
the aspect of the desk and chair, Poe 
was a decided success. Subscriptions 
began to mount for the Southern Lit- 
erary Messenger. Mr. White might well 
have been satisfied. He was a kindly 
man and well disposed. It is significant 
of Poe’s inability to let stimulants alone 
that within a few weeks after arriving 
in Richmond he found himself dis- 
charged. He returned to Baltimore and 
there married secretly on September 22, 
1835, his first cousin Virginia Clemm. 
She was only about thirteen years old 
at the time and the secret marriage was 
caused by the opposition of relatives 
to so early a union. Poe now applied 
again to Mr. White with promises to 
abstain, and was reinstated in his old 
position upon good behavior and with 
a fatherly warning. Mrs. Clemm and 
her daughter Virginia followed Poe to 
Richmond and took up their residence 
with him in a boarding house on Capitol 
Square. 

Poe remained in Richmond as assist- 
ant editor to Mr. White on the Southern 
Literary Messenger from the autumn of 
1835 to January, 1837. During his 


connection with the paper its circula- 
tion increased from 700 to 3500. It 
attracted national attention, and it is 
safe to say it was initially due to Poe 
that it became the most influential 
periodical of the South. Its reputation 
was afterward maintained and increased 
by other men of considerable journalis- 
tic ability. 

The task of the young editor ranged 
from purely hack work of a frankly 
journalistic nature to contributions to 
literature. He wrote poems, book 
reviews, general and particular literary 
criticism, and short stories both serial 
and complete. The book reviews varied 
from comment on Coleridge’s Recollec- 
tions to references about others such as 
Mrs. Sigourney’s Letters to Young 
Ladies, in short from well reasoned and 
often trenchant critiques to mere notices 
with a slight critical comment. Some 
of the poems which had previously 
appeared in the volumes of poetry 
already alluded to were republished con- 
siderably revised. This was following 
out a policy of more or less constant 
revision and republishing in redacted 
form which Poe continued throughout 
his career. Among the most notable 
of the new poems to appear at this time 
were ‘To Helen,” “Irene,” or the 
“Sleeper,” “Israfel,’ and “Zante.” 

The general tone of literary criticism 
in. the United States at the time Poe 
began to write for the Southern Literary 
Messenger was either perfunctory, ful- 
some, or dull. The comment of the 
young man in Richmond was interest- 
ing, disturbing and refreshing. His fre- 
quent severity elicited reply and re- 
mark, and though he aroused antagon- 
ism in some quarters, his presence on 
the scene and the trenchancy of his 


INTRODUCTION 


style became more and more evident. 
A number of the stories which Poe had 
prepared for “Tales of the Folio Club” 
in Baltimore before receiving the Satur- 
day Visitor Prize, he now published in 
the Messenger. Such stories as “Met- 
zengerstein” attracted considerable 
notice, as they well might, and added 
not a little to his reputation. In some 
of them a marked morbidity was even 
then noted and deprecated. Such de- 
precatory comment, however, did not 
prevent their unique fascination from 
being felt. Under the title of “Pina- 
kidia” the young editor also published 
at this time a collection of curious glean- 
ings covering a wide field of interest 
which were taken from his common- 
place book. Many of these he used 
again later in the Demwcratic Review 
under the title of ‘“Marginalia.” 

Poe was described about this time as 
being “graceful, and with dark, curling 
hair and magnificent eyes, wearing a 
Byron collar and looking every inch a 
poet.” The earliest known portrait of 
him dates from his early days on the 
Messenger and shows him with side- 
burns and a slightly sardonic cast of 
countenance for so young a man. Even 
at this date he was evidently somewhat 
fragile and delicate. His complexion 
which later became quite sallow is de- 
scribed as having been olive. 

Of his private affairs the most im- 
portant event of the Richmond epoch 
was his second marriage to his cousin 
Virginia. The reasons for this appear 
to be sufficiently obvious. The first 
matriage in Baltimore had been clande- 
stine with Mrs. Clemm as the only wit- 
ness. It had been opposed by influ- 
ential relatives and had never been made 
public. All explanations were obviated 


by a second marriage in public, nothing 
was said about the first affair, and on 
May 16, 1830, a marriage bond was 
signed in the Hustings Court of the City 
of Richmond which described Virginia 
Clemm as twenty-one years old. She 
was, as a matter of fact, less than four- 
teen years of age at the time, and ap- 
peared to be a child. The wedding took 
place in a boarding house kept by a 
Mrs. Yarrington, in the company of 
friends, a Presbyterian divine by the 
name of Amasa Converse officiating: 
After a simple ceremony the couple lef* 
for their honeymoon which was spent 
at Petersburg, Virginia, at the house of 
a Mr. Hiram Haines, editor of the local 
paper. Poe was back in Richmond be 
fore the end of May, 1836, at his desk 
on the Messenger. Mr. White had 
promised him an increase of salary later 
on. 

After his marriage, indeed for some 
time before, the poet’s correspondence 
with relatives and friends shows that 
he was desirous of setting up house- 
keeping. The plan followed was to 
solicit funds for Mrs. Clemm and Vir- 
ginia in order to establish a boarding 
house. Although some _ small aid, 
“loans,” were obtained, the scheme fell 
through, and the little family moved to 
a cheap tenement on Seventh Street, 
where they seem to have remained 
until the end of their stay in Richmond. 

Poe continued his editorial work and 
from his observation, experience, and 
ambition began to evolve in his mind a 
scheme of which the beginnings can be 
traced back to Baltimore. It was his 
hope to establish and to be the editor 
of a great national literary magazine. 
That Poe was one of the first men in 
America to understand the possibilities 


INTRODUCTION 


of modern journalism from a magazine 
standpoint there can be no doubt. From 
then on until the end of his story it was 
the darling scheme of his life. Misfor- 
tune and his own personality, rather 
than the theories of journalism which 
he entertained, were responsible for his 
failure to realize his ambition. 

He now began to think of going 
North to establish the new publication, 
a move which his growing reputation 
and the constantly increasing friction 
with his editor-in-chief served to hasten. 
Poe was brilliant but unsuited to work 
in a subordinate capacity. Mr. White 
in all justice must be said to have been 
patient. He was, however, patronized 
upon occasions by his versatile young 
editor, and there are also indications 
that in the fall of 1836 Poe had once 
more fallen from grace, and in spite 
ef his well-meant promises to White, 
was again resorting from time to time 
to the bottle. In addition to this he 
seems to have been restless. Taking 
advantage of contacts which he had 
made by correspondence in New York 
with such men as Professor Charles 
Anthon, John K. Paulding, the Harper 
Brothers, and others, he decided to 
remove to that city. 

Consequently in January, 1837, he 
wound up his affairs with the Southern 
Literary Messenger and Mr. White, and 
taking his family with him left for New 
York. They appear to have arrived 
there some time about the end of Febru- 
ary, 1837, and to have taken lodgings 
at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 
Waverly Place, sharing a floor with one 
William Gowans, a bookseller, who was 
of considerable service to Poe. 

Before leaving Richmond, in the sum- 
mer of 1836, Poe had made some at- 


tempt to have the stories comprising 
the “Tales of the Folio Club” published 
in volume form. The manuscripts had 
been left originally with Carey and Lea 
in Philadelphia who kept them for some 
time under consideration but had finally 
returned them, minus one story, to the 
author in February, 1836. Poe then 
mailed to J. K. Paulding in New 
York who submitted them to Harpers. 
The result was another refusal. Pauld- 
ing had written to Poe, however, when 
he returned the stories, suggesting a 
long tale in two volumes, a _ very 
popular format. Out of this suggestion 
had grown a long story of adventure, 
shipwreck, and horrible suffering in the 
then unknown southern hemisphere. It 
was called The Narrative of Arthur 
Gordon Pym and was finally accepted 
by Harpers, who published it in 1838 in 
the United States. Wiley and Putnam 
produced an edition in England where 
it was later pirated. This was Poe’s first 
book of prose although his fourth bound 
volume, three volumes of poetry having 
preceded it. The story appeared serially 
in the Southern Literary Messenger 
even after Poe had severed his editorial 
connection. It purported to be written 
by Arthur Gordon Pym himself and the 
real author was mentioned only in the 
preface. The type of adventure story 
which The Narrative of Arthur Gordon 
Pym closely followed was popular at 
the time. Poe merely allowed his imagi- 
nation to deal with familiar material 
found in such books as The Mutiny of 
the Bounty, Morell’s Narrative of Four 
Voyages to the Pacific, and the like. 
His immediate interest in the Antarctic 
seems to have arisen from the prepara- 
tion then being made by one J. N. Rey- 
nolds for a government expedition to 


INTRODUCTION 


those parts. Nathaniel Hawthorne was 
also interested in the same scheme, 
which, however, came to nothing. The 
success of the book was small and 
brought the author very little fame and 
less cash. 

A short while after arriving in New 
York, Poe, Virginia and Mrs. Clemm 
moved to a small house at 1314 Carmine 
Street, where Mrs. Clemm took boarders 
in order to make a living. Poe was 
receiving near nothing at all. It was a 
period of financial panic and literary 
work was almost impossible to obtain. 
The Poes were accompanied to their 
new domicile by the bookseller Gowans 
who seems to have introduced the poet 
to a number of literary people but with 
small result. The poverty of the family 
was now extreme. Despite this, never- 
theless, Poe continued to write. The 
chief items which can be traced to this 
first rather brief sojourn in New York 
are a review of Arbia Petraea in the 
New York Review, edited by Dr. 
Hawks, ‘‘Siope—a Fable,’ published in 
the Baltimore Book in 1839, and a tale 
called “Von Jung, the Mystic,’ which 
appeared in the American Monthly 
Magazine for June, 1837. 

The plans for starting a magazine of 
his own would at that time, owing to 
the financial depression, have met no 
response. Poe, indeed, was unable to 
obtain even a minor editorial position 
or sufficient hack work to enable him 


to exist. His doings at this time must 
forever remain somewhat obscure. 
Probably through Gowans he was 


thrown into contact with James Pedder, 
an Englishman of almost neglible liter- 
ary ability but a kindly man. Pedder 
about this time was engaged in estab- 
lishing for himself magazine connections 


in Philadelphia, where his sisters re- 
sided. Through him it seems quite 
likely that Poe was induced to leave 
New York and to move to Philadelphia, 
then the great publishing center of the 
United States. At any rate we find 
him in Philadelphia about the end of 
August, 1838, boarding together with his 
family and James Pedder at a lodging 
house kept by the sisters of the Eng- 
lishman on Twelfth Street, a little above 
Mulberry (Arch). Poe was soon defi- 
nitely engaged upon two literary proj- 
ects, the editing of a text book on 
Conchology and the now long deferred 
publication of his collected tales. 
Shortly after the arrival in Philadel- 
phia Poe moved nearer the downtown 
publishing and engraving shops to a 
house at Fourth and Arch (then Mul- 
berry) where he continued to reside 
until September 4, 1838. He was now 
engaged in editing The Conchologists 
First Book, or a System of Testaceous 
Malacology, a school text to which he 
lent his name. It was purely a piece of 
hack work and has nothing to do with 
the creative or artistic writings of Poe. 
Among collectors the volume is now 
much sought after. At least nine edi- 
tions are known to exist, the first was 
published in April, 1837, by Haswell, 
Barrington and Haswell. Poe wrote the 
preface and the introduction, and was 
assisted in his arrangement of the text 
and illustrations by a Mr. Isaac Lee 
and Professor Thomas Wyatt.  Berg- 
man, De Blainville, and Parkinson are 
quoted, and Cuvier heavily drawn upon. 
The beautifully engraved plates of shells 
were pirated from The Conchologists 
Text Book, a work by an Englishman, 
Captain Thomas Brown, to whom no 
credit was given. Poe was afterwards 


INTRODUCTION 


attacked for this and accused of plagiar- 
ism. The truth is that the custom of 
pirating material for school texts was 
then almost universal and very little 
blame can be really laid upon Poe. He 
received $50 for the use of his name 
as editor. In the series of Poe’s bound 
works this is the fifth. 

This school text was merely a finan- 
cial transaction. Poe now turned his 
attention to publishing his short stories. 
Arrangement was made to bring out his 
collected tales under the title of Tales 
of the Grotesque and Arabesque in two 
thin volumes. They were published in 
December, 1839, by Lea and Blanchard 
of Philadelphia. The title page bore 
the date 1840. The author received no 
royalty for his work but only a few 
copies to distribute to his friends. The 
publisher assumed the risk, not a very 
good one, for the volumes sold very 
slowly. There were fourteen stories in 
the first volume and ten in the second, 
which total comprised all the tales pub- 
lished up to that time by the author 
and “Why the Little Frenchman Wears 
His Hand in a Sling,” not appearing till 
later. This was Poe’s sixth venture 
with a bound work, none of which had 
been to any extent successful from a 
financial standpoint. 

In the meantime Poe had secured a 
position with William E. Burton, the 
publisher of Burton’s Gentleman’s 
Magazine. Mr. Burton was an Eng- 
lishman, an actor at his best in broad 
farce, a theatre manager, and a jour- 
nalist. To this magazine Poe con- 
tributed book reviews, articles on sport, 
at least five notable tales and a few 
poems, “To Ianthe in Heaven” being 
the most notable of the latter. It was 
in Burton’s that “The Fall of the House 


of Usher,” ‘William Wilson,’ and 
“Morella” appeared. At the same time 
Poe was in correspondence with several 
literary figures among whom Washing- 
ton Irving was the most prominent. 

Poe’s connection with Burton did not 
last long. There was considerable fric- 
tion between the two. At one time Poe 
withdrew but was prevailed on to re- 
turn. His salary was small, his work 
uncongenial, and somewhat spasmodic. 
He was again in ill health whether due 
in part to the use of stimulants is not 
certain. At any rate he and Mr. Bur- 
ton could not agree. The latter sold 
his magazine to George Rex Graham in 
October, 1840, and Poe was retained by 
the new editor, one of the most able 
journalists of the time. Owing to ill 
health Poe did not assume his duties on 
the new magazine, Graham’s, until Janu- 
ary, 1841, when traces of his pen are 
plainly evident on its pages. 

He was then living in a little brick 
house at the junction of Coates Street 
and Fairmont Drive, Philadelphia, where 
he had moved, probably in the fall of 
1839. It was from this dwelling that 
he issued in the fall of 1840 his “Pros- 
pectus of the Penn Magazine, a Monthly 
Literary Journal to be edited and pub- 
lished in the city of Philadelphia by 
Edgar A. Poe.” In this prospectus Poe’s 
theories of a magazine are made quite 
clear. He hoped to receive enough sub- 
scriptions to provide funds to launch 
the undertaking. A considerable num- 
ber of persons subscribed but the af- 
fairs of the prospective editor were in 
such a condition that he was forced to 
abandon his plan in order to take a 
salaried position with Mr. Graham. The 
Penn Magazine was consequently de- 


INTRODUCTIO}: 


ferred while Poe took a desk with Mr. 
Graham at $800 a year. 

The success of Graham’s Magazine 
was phenomenal. The _ subscriptions 
rose from 5000 to 40,000 in about 
eighteen months, the increase being due 
to Poe’s able editing, to the number of 
articles and poems secured by his solicit- 
ing notable writers to contribute, and 
to the policy of Mr. Graham who was 
lavish in his illustrations and very gen- 
erous in his fees to authors. 

The period of Poe’s association with 
Mr. Graham which lasted from Janu- 
ary, 1841, to April, 1842, was the most 
financially easy period in his life. His 
earnings were small, but sufficient to 
keep him and his family in some com- 
fort. It was at this time that he. de- 
veloped the tale of ratiocination and 
published “The Murders in the Rue 
Morgue” and other stcries of crime and 
its detection. He became also interested 
in cryptograms and their solution, and 
in 1842 published in the Dollar News- 
paper for June 20th of that year his 
story of “The Gold Bug” in which the 
solution of a cipher is a component of 
the plot. For this story he received a 
prize of $100. Some of Poe’s most 
reputed work appeared in Graham’s and 
attracted considerable attention. He 
now began to become widely known as 
an able editor, a brilliant and severe 
critic, a writer of thrilling tales, and a 
poet. His connection with Graham, 
however, was of short duration. He 
was impatient of his subordinate posi- 
tion at a small salary, hopeful of start- 
ing his own magazine, and also given 
to drink. In April, 1842, his “irregu- 
larities”’ caused Mr. Graham to employ 
Rufus Wilmot Griswold, the most noted 
American anthologist of his time, and a 


very able editor, in place of Poe. Find- 
ing Griswold in his chair one day, Poe 
left the offices of the magazine and 
never returned although he continued 
to contribute to it from time to time. 

He soon set up as a free-lance, wrote 
where and when he could, attempted to 
obtain a government position in the 
Customs House at Philadelphia through 
friends in Washington, and again tried 
to launch his own magazine now pro- 
jected as The Stylus. He was almost 
successful, but a visit to Washington 
in March, 1843, when he became un- 
fortunately intoxicated and _ exhibited 
his weakness even at the White House, 
blasted his fondest hopes. Even his 
best friend, F. W. Thomas, a minor 
novelist and politician of the time, could 
do no more for him. Misfortune from 
now on dogged his steps. 

His wife Virginia was dying of tuber- 
culosis and had frequent hemorrhages. 
He himself began to resort to drink 
more than before. There is also some 
evidence of the use of opium. He was 
sent to Saratoga Springs to recuperate 
and returned to Philadelphia where he 
nearly died of heart failure. At this 
time, 1844, the Poes were living at 
234 (now 530) North Seventh Street, 
Philadelphia, in a house still standing. 
Here, although visited by many loyal 
friends, among whom were the novelist 
Captain Mayne Reid, George Rex Gra- 
ham, Sartain the engraver, Louis Godey, 
the editor, F. O. C. Darley, an illus- 
trator, Hirst, the poet, Thomas Clarke, 
the publisher, and others, Poe himself 
experienced the pangs of poverty and 
despair. He was in correspondence with 
James Russell Lowell and other notables 
but unable through various causes, 
largely due to his temperament and his 


INTRODUCTION 


physical condition, to cope with the 
world. Sometime in the fall of 1843 he 
made an abortive attempt -to issue a 
new edition of his tales as The Prose 
Romances of Edgar A. Poe. There was 
a small edition in paper covers to be 
sold at 12% cents, but No. 1 contain- 
ing “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 
and “‘The Man that Was Used Up,” is 
the only one of the series known to 
have appeared, although one copy. con- 
taining the first tale only is known to 
exist. This is the rarest of all Poe 
items from a collector’s standpoint. The 
little paper pamphlet was the seventh 
of Poe’s works. It brought the author 
no returns. 

Reduced to the direst necessity, and 
finding all avenues closed to him in 
Philadelphia, he now determined to re- 
turn to New York. Mrs. Clemm was 
left behind to close up the house, and 
on April 6, 1844, taking his invalid wife 
with him, Poe set out for New York 
City. He arrived there the same eve- 
ning with $4.50 in his pockets and no 
definite prospects. 

Poe and his invalid wife found shelter 
in a humble boarding house at 130 
Greenwich Street. In immediate need 
of funds he turned one of his favorite 
tricks and wrote a false news story for 
the New York Sun, later republished as 
“The Balloon Hoax.” Such hoaxes were 
“popular” at the time and indulged in 
by newspaper editors. The story was 
clever, is notable even now, and fooled 
thousands at that time—much to Poe’s 
delight. The money so earned enabled 
Mrs. Clemm to come over from Phila- 
delphia and join the two in New 
York. Leaving his family at the Green- 
wich Street lodgings, Poe then boarded 
alone for a time with a Mrs. Foster at 


period of peace. 


number 4 Ann Street. During the spring 
and summer of 1844 he managed to 
scrape enough together by hack arti- 
cles, some of which appeared in the 
Columbia (Pa.) Spy, and Godey’s Lady’s 
Book, the Ladies’ Home Journal of the 
day, to exist himself and just barely 
keep his family. 

Virginia’s health grew steadily worse 
and in the early summer of 1844 the 
whole group moved out to the country 
to a farm located on Bloomingdale Road 
at what is now Ejighty-fourth Street and 
Broadway. The farm was owned by a 
kindly Irish couple with a large family, 
the Brennans. Here for a few months 
in what was then a charming rural soli- 
tude in the beautiful Hudson Valley, 
Poe seems to have enjoyed a brief 
During this interval 
he composed “The Raven,’ or rather 
put it into final form, as the poem is 
known to have been in existence in 
earlier versions as far back as 1842. 
The idea of the raven itself was taken 
from Barnaby Rudge. During the sum- 
mer Poe carried on a correspondence: 
with James Russell Lowell who was, 
writing a brief biography of Poe for. 
Graham’s, and with Dr. Thomas Holley. 
Chivers, a Georgia poet whose work 
undoubtedly influenced the Raven’s au- 
thor. 

By autumn the poet was again desti- 
tute and Mrs. Clemm now exerted her- 
self to secure him some salaried work. 
She called on Nathaniel P. Willis, then 
editor of the New York Evening Mirror 
and persuaded him to employ Poe in a 
minor editorial capacity. Sometime in 
the fall of 1844 the family again moved 
to a town lodging at 15 Amity Street, 
New York City, where they occupied a 
few rooms, 


INTRODUCTION 


Poe continued to turn out consider- 
able hack work for Willis and also 
through the columns of the Mirror 
found opportunity to call attention to 
himself, to notice Miss Barrett’s (later 
Mrs. Robert Browning) poetry favor- 
ably, and to. involve himself in an un- 
fortunate attack upon Longfellow 
known as the “Little Longfellow War,” 
with various reverberations. By the end 
of 1844 Poe was ready to sever connec- 
tion with Willis who remained his firm 
friend until the end. Through the good 
offices of Lowell, Poe had been put in 
touch with some minor journalists about 
New York who were ready to launch 
a new weekly to be called The Broad- 
way Journal. Upon this paper Poe was 
retained in a more important editorial 
capacity than Mr. Willis could offer 
him. 

In January, 1845, Poe’s poem “The 
Raven” was published annoymously in 
the Evening Mirror in advance of its 
appearance in the American Whig Re- 
view for February. It created a furor, 
and on Saturday, February 8, 1845, Mr. 
Willis reprinted it over the author’s 
name in the Evening Mirror. Poe’s 
reputation immediately took on the as- 
pects of fame which it never afterward 
lost. It is safe to say that no poem in 
America had ever been so popular. The 
poet continued to edit the Broadway 
Journal in which he carried on the 
Longfellow controversy, reviewed books, 
published and republished his poetry, 
wrote dramatic reviews and _ literary 
criticism, and reprinted many of his 
stories now more eagerly read as com- 
ing from a famous pen. He was also 
preparing to become owner of the 
Broadway Journal and for this purpose 
went into debt, in the meanwhile quar- 


reling with Briggs, one of his partners. 

He now too began for the first time 
since early Richmond days to lead a 
less lonely life and to go about in a 
semi-literary and artistic society. Poe 
was much seen during the winter of 
1845 in the “salons” of various writers 
and minor social lights of New 
York who were known as the literati. 
Through Mr. Willis he met a Mrs. 
Fanny Osgood, the wife of an artist of 
some note and a minor poetess, with 
whom he soon struck up an intimate if 
not tender friendship. He followed her 
about to such an extent that she was 
finally compelled through the scandal 
involved and on account of her own 
tubercular condition to go to Albany. 
Poe pursued her there, then to Boston, 
and thence to Providence, R. I., where 
on a lonely walk late one evening he 
first saw a Mrs. Helen Whitman to 
whom he afterwards became engaged. 
The second poem called “To Helen” 
celebrates this meeting. 

Lowell visited Poe in New York in 
the spring of 1845 and found Poe 
slightly intoxicated in his lodgings at 
195 Broadway, whither he had lately 
moved. In July, Dr. Chivers also 
visited him and saw him at times much 
under the influence but nevertheless 
with the characteristics of genius about 
him. 

Poe’s affairs despite his growing fame 
did not prosper. He contributed a series 
of articles to Godey’s Lady’s Book on 
the literati of New York. They were 
personal sketches combined with the 
obiter dicta of the author and a dash 
of literary criticism that ‘caused con- 
siderable stir at the time and in one or 
two cases involved Poe in undignified 
quarrels. The ‘Literati Papers” do not 


INTRODUCTION 


belong to Poe’s more serious literary 
criticism but are essentially a contem- 
porary and easy comment on persons 
he knew, most of them obscure. 

At the end of 1845 despite his des- 
perate efforts, the Broadway Journal 
failed, leaving its editor and by that 
time sole owner, in debt, despondent, 
and in ill health. Virginia, his wife, 
continued to decline and was nearing 
the grave. Poe was once more without 
means of support. In the meantime he 
had again moved his lodgings to 185 
Amity Street. An unfortunate lecture 
at Boston in the fall of the year had 
provided an opportunity for Poe, then 
in a serious nervous condition, to make 
more or less an exhibition of himself. 
The affair was taken up by his enemies 
in New York and made the most of. 
All this served to add to his depression. 
Despite such, however, he had suc- 
ceeded in bringing out in June, 1845, 
Tales, a collection of his stories selected 
by E. A. Duyckinck, an able editor, and 
published by Wiley and Putnam. This 
was followed in December, 1845, by 
The Raven and Other Poems, a selec- 
tion of his verse produced by the 
same publisher. In the series of Poe’s 
work issued during his life time these 
two constituted the eighth and ninth 
books respectively. The Tales were in 
some cases bound in two volumes, and 
both outputs achieved a minor success. 
At the same time Poe was known to 
have been at work on an anthology of 
various American writers which occupied 
him from time to time for several years. 


It was never published, although some - 


fragments of the manuscript exist. 
Poe’s affairs and Virginia’s health now 

once more necessitated a move to the 

country. While Poe traveled to Balti- 


more to lecture in the spring of 1846, 
Mrs. Clemm and Virginia again went 
to stay at the Bloomingdale farm. A 
few weeks later we find the entire family 
at a farm house on ‘Turtle Bay,’ now 
Forty-seventh Street and East River. 
The stop here was brief. Poe rented a 
little frame cottage at Fordham, then 
a small village about fifteen miles from 
New York, and to this the family moved 
at the end of May, 1846. 

In the puny cottage at Fordham, still 
preserved as a relic in Poe Park, New 
York City, the poet and his benign 
mother-in-law, Mrs. Maria Clemm, ex- 
perienced together the extremes of 
tragedy in poverty, death, and despair. 
The summer of 1846 was embittered by 
a violent quarrel with one T. D. Eng- 
lish whom Poe had attacked acidly in 
the “Literati Papers.” English now 
“replied,” and after a personal encounter 
with Poe, accused the latter of forgery 
in the New York Mirror. Poe sued the 
paper and recovered damages for a 
small amount in February, 1847. 

Poe’s health was exceptionally bad, 
his wife continued to sink rapidly, and 
he himself could neither write much nor 
obtain employment. During much of the 
time Mrs. Clemm by various artifices 
and wiles kept bread in their mouths. 
She both borrowed and begged, and 
was even reduced to the necessity of 
digging vegetables by night in the fields 
of neighboring farmers. With the ar- 
rival of cold weather the visits of 
friends and curious persons from the 
city ceased and the Poes were left alone 
to face the rigors of winter without fuel 
or sufficient clothing or food. Under 
these inflictions Virginia sank rapidly. 
She lay in a bed of straw with her hus- 
band’s cloak wrapped around her anda 


INTRODUCTION 


pet cat on her bosom to help provide 
warmth. In December, 1846, the 
family was visited by a friend from 
New York, Mrs. Mary Louise Shew, 
who found Virginia dying and Poe and 
his “mother” destitute. Through her 
kindness, and a public appeal in the 
papers, the immediate wants of the 
family were relieved and Virginia en- 
abled to pass away in comparative peace 
at the end of January, 1847. She was 
buried at Fordham but afterwards re- 
moved to the side of her husband at 
Baltimore. 

After the death of Virginia, Mrs. 
Clemm continued to nurse Poe, who 
gradually returned to a somewhat better 
state of health. In this Mrs. Shew 
assisted until finally compelled to with- 
draw, due to the emotional demands of 
her patient. Helped by his friends Poe 
once more began to appear among the 
living. At Fordham he had written 
Eureka, a long “prose poem” of a semi- 
scientific and metaphysical cast which 
was published in March, 1848, by Geo. 
B. Putnam of New York. This was the 
tenth and last of the poet’s works pub- 
lished during his life time, although an 
“edition” of his tales dated 1849 is 
known to exist. The nature of Eureka 
- forbade its being popular. Poe now 
took to lecturing after a trip to Phila- 
delphia in the summer of 1847 when 
another lapse in drink almost proved 
fatal. 

The end of his life was marked by 
the publication of some of his most re- 
markable poems. “The Bells,” “Ula- 
lume,” “Annabel Lee,” and others, and 
by his infatuation with several women. 

During various lecture trips to 
Lowell, Mass., and Providence, R. L., 
he became acquainted with Annie Rich- 


mond and Sarah Helen Whitman, the 


former a married woman, and the latter 
a widow of some literary reputation and 
considerable charm. After a visit to 
Richmond, Va., in the summer of 1848 
in which he tried to fight a duel with 
one Daniels, the editor of a Richmond 
newspaper, and again lapsed into drink, 
he began to pay court to Mrs. Whitman, 
making several visits to Providence and 
carrying on a fervid correspondence. 
He finally obtained her reluctant con- 
sent to marry him on his promise of 
refraining from the glass. Poe, how- 
ever, now in a sadly shattered state, 
was also “in love,’ or so dependent 
upon the sympathy of Mrs. Richmond 
that in an attempt to put an end to his 
impossible emotional problems he tried 
suicide by swallowing laudanum in Bos- 
ton in November, 1848. The dose 
proved an emetic and he survived. 

Next day in a state bordering upon 
insanity he appeared in Providence and 
begged Mrs. Whitman to carry out her 
promise. She, it appears, hopeful of 
perhaps saving him from himself was 
about to marry the poet but the opposi- 
tion of relatives and another lapse from 
sobriety on the part of Poe, finally 
brought about his dismissal. Greatly 
chagrined he returned to Fordham the 
same evening to the comforting minis- 
trations of poor Mrs. Clemm who was 
reluctantly preparing to welcome a 
bride. 

Poe attempted to hush the matter up 
and to carry it off with some bravado. 
News of the affair was noised about, 
however, and caused considerable 
scandal. He now threw himself into 
writing with renewed activity, mean- 
while continuing his correspondence 
with Mrs. Richmond. Misfortune con- 


INTRODUCTION 


tinued to dog his steps. Magazines 
which had accepted his work failed, or 
suspended payment, his health again 
gave way, and Mrs. Clemm was com- 
pelled to nurse him through delirium. 
Finally somewhat recovered, but a 
mere ghost of himself, he undertook to 
revive his scheme of a magazine, The 
Stylus, and with funds furnished by a 
western admirer, E. H. N. Patterson, 
he set out for Richmond, Va., in the 
spring of 1849, hoping to obtain help 
there from old friends. Mrs. Clemm 
was left behind in New York at the 
house of a poetess in Brooklyn who was 
under obligations to Poe. 

On the way to Richmond, Poe stopped 
off in Philadelphia where he again came 
to drink and wandered in a distracted 
state. Finally he was rescued from 
prison and the streets by some faithful 
friends who raised sufficient funds to 
send him on his way. 

Warned by what had been a near 
approach to death in Philadelphia, Poe 
strove with all that was in him to re- 
frain from wine, and for some time 
succeeded. In Richmond he was able 
with the help of old friends and others, 
who now recognized both his weakness 
and his genius, to stage a brief “come 
back.” He delivered lectures at both 
Richmond and Norfolk with great suc- 
cess, appeared with applause and dignity 
in society, and was finally, after some 
difficulty, once more able to obtain the 
promise of his youthful flame Elmira 
Royster—now Mrs. A. B. Shelton, a 
widow in good circumstances, to marry 
him. | 

Preparations for the wedding went 
forward; the date was set. For a while 
x looked as if the romance of the poet’s 
youth with Elmira was to be rewarded 


by her hand and a considerable dower 
in middle life. Letters were written to 
Mrs. Clemm announcing the state of 
affairs, and Poe was ready to return to 
New York in order to bring her back 
to Richmond for the wedding. There 
can be very little doubt that in all these 
plans, Poe saw not only the return of 
his “lost Lenore,” but a comfortable 
old age provided for Mrs. Clemm, 
shelter from the world, and escape from 
poverty. At the very last he wrote 
Mrs. Clemm saying that he still loved 
Mrs. Annie Richmond and wished that 
“Mr. R.” would die. With this letter, 
one of the last he wrote, the curious 
story of his affections ends with con- 
tradiction and ambiguity, as it began. 

Taking some little cash which had 
been received from the proceeds of a 
lecture given shortly before his de- 
parture, Poe left Richmond very early 
in the morning of the twenty-third of 
September, 1849. The evening before 
had been spent with Mrs. Shelton and 
the marriage had been set for October 
seventeenth. Poe had not been able to 
refrain entirely from drinking while in 
Richmond and he was undoubtedly in 
an abnormal condition upon his de- 
parture. The testimony shows, how- 
ever, that he was quite sober at that 
particular time. 

He traveled by steamer to Baltimore 
and arrived there on September twenty- 
ninth. Exactly what happened to him 
in that city cannot now be ascer- 
tained. An election was in prog- 
ress, and the preponderance of evidence 
points to the fact that he began to 
drink and fell into the hands of a gang 
of repeaters who probably gave him 
drugged liquor and voted him. On 


INTRODUCTION 


October third he was found by Dr. 
James E. Snodgrass, an old friend, in 
a horrible condition at a low tavern in 
Lombard Street. Summoning a rela- 
tive of Poe, Dr. Snodgrass had the now 
unconscious and dying poet taken in a 
carriage to the Washington Hospital 
and put into the care of Dr. J. J. 
Moran, the resident physician. Several 
days of delirium ensued with only a 
few intervals of partial consciousness. 


He called repeatedly for one “Rey- 
nolds,” and gave vent to every indica~ 
tion of utter despair. Finally on Sun- 
day morning, October 7, 1849, “He be- 
came quiet and seemed to rest for a 
short time. Then, gently moving his 
head, he said, ‘Lord help my poor 
soul.’” As he had lived so he died—in 
great misery and tragedy. 
HERVEY ALLEN. 
August, 1927, 


“ 


NOH 48 9 




















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Table of Contents 
VOLUME I 
POEMS 


emer HN Gis cy te ke 

See ere eee ee ee er ss ARIA OFT. 
HYMN (SEE TALE, MORELLA, PAGE 335) 

A VALENTINE .. . 

TO HELEN 


7 sy ts) ow SF ~«) @ Jee) ‘es “eo. 9 «,.'. 2 6 7EeM, 64 wares bel, s wo. se 
ae x OS ett’ BC Se er? a ee oe ee ek a. ee ee eee oe ee 


©) Sesser ss Of tee 6} Sl Ue)hClUe he) fe «8% (oe oF AE) Se Mars a 2 oe se TS ce Be Ee. os 


GEATOMEr . + SATIS ART. MOAR YMOLTAIZIAST... 
PPE AGIG cn te We Be ee eM On ai Oe AST 
Poel NViA Sf .. .4s LMAO MWOMS SVAN .T-TTUOY. MI. 
Mpa Lei. |... .*. . fagowe-T os sae) MART A. . > 
DN Men tpene Set. 2 ee eh a ba ee 

THE HAUNTED PALACE (SEE TALE, THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, 

PAGE 273). 

THE CONQUEROR WoRM (SEE TALE, LIGEIA, PAGE 324) 

onan, S. AO) er peer era es “STIS SETET TAT 3 ACEI DAIS - 

To ONE IN PARADISE (SEE TALE, THE ASSIGNATION, PAGE 183) 

To IANTHE IN HEAVEN (SAME AS ABOVE) 
THE VALLEY OF UNREST . 
THE CITY IN THE SEA 
THE SLEEPER . 
SILENCE . Owe ee OS, Fe Aa ae ee ae 
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 
Be py CT) Arie Baek eo ae tale ie ee iwale he Fe ies Bs bua? 6 EGE SE 
NSM IEE Ry '.” ie 82s nd pages vite <8. 16 SS 
Se adele aie rar a's 
FEUDORADO® #5*.7.*. ¥ 
ISRAFEL 
FOR ANNIE NR AS Re eee ep Mn i a ee in eae ik ei 
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW) 
TO —— 


. © «© © @ pp o MMos EEF of Je FR) Ohie Fes es"e 
* « « « © e7Fef BH eM Fel Fe oF H 850 eh wT See 0 


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eae Se ee ele ee a i eee il ome! ei Awe Spe Gra me © 


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SE ee oes Sg 8 ES VS BE OS IE 28. eel rer me wk I RL 
PEPER LOREAL PENN eer he yd oo ae es ee ehh oh ol aeia « 
PSEITOM SOL LSEUME ee SRS Te ras 
Nis RNR AT ae ADEN. Ra Nee ee eg ee tee wa a 


Fat he PON eV CUI By AR Sade» Fs ar er arate al mre Pa wes 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 
VOLUME I—POEMS—Continued 


PAGE 
TAMERLANE Y=... . ees «Ci«‘wsti(«‘ 42 
TO THE RIVER~. 3 ., ..'. % ses Acekec: CE 45 
T0--200 0 EV SN eee eee 45 
A. DREAM? 33, 2%. . . . .sepe s 46 
ROMANCE & 4c. t XV AER OS 46 
FAIRVLANDS 3 2 ee, 46 
THE LAKEI@ 2... . 1. ee, 47 
SONG «°F Foz kes 3). «ts Rs eee 47 
TO-HELEN #3 4.: : .. . 7s: 7 ee: eee 48 
SPIRITS OF THE’ DEAD” 40" aeons) ee 48 
EVENINGsSTARS 31% ... . . .>RRBBs 3. eee > See 48 
IMITATION ® Yess: 4.3 3 3 SSR Se C+) ee 49 
“THE HAPPIEST: DAY”- . . . <0 emeee > * eo 2) ee 49 
HYMN. TRANSLATION FROM THE GREEK ......... 49 
DREAMS 4% 94.4.4.5 % 3 + <_<. 5) Ses os *, yt 50 
“IN YOUTH-1.HAVE KNOWN ONE@S.:. -.-.-.>. 4°0™4 <a 50 

A PAN (SAME AS LENORE) 
VOLUME II 
TALES 

THE GOLD: BUG eee Sk fn 53 
THE ‘MURDERS IN “THE RUE MORGUE... ..... . ._. ee 78 
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGE Gee au.) . ee ' 103 
THE PURLOINED EETTER” 7 pee oe 138 
THE OBLONGRBOX®, . 75-05 eee cae ee pW 
“THOU ART THE MAN”... eee te 160 
THE: PIT AND<THE: PENDULUMSaee es. s.r 170 

VOLUME Ill 

TALES : 
THE: ASSIGNATION: ...2.... 2. eS ae 183 
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATHS... . . .cwtaeneee 191 
KING: PEST e eoein! sre 4). I lc, ca ce 196 
THE’ CASK OFS AMONTILLADO PS) es. + meycaue eee 205 
THE BLACKiCAT:; . . . 14. Jee eee + <tc 209 
THE TELL-TALEVHEART (0.9) eee. sn 216 
THE IMP OF THE: PERVERSE 72352)... «peat tag yee 220 
WILLIAM. WILSON. 3: gin oo ae ee ois Gy, 224 
MYSTIFPICATION Fe iio. ac ca este oe ae oe 239 
THE MAN, OF: THE: CROWD: 3 tee dace eee 245 
VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY... ...: 4,ccceeee 251 
THE POWER OF WORDS... .: 2) So) eeeeee tie pee 256 
THE COLLOOUY OF MONOS*AND UNA =.=. . Supe cau 259 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


VOLUME III—TALES—Continued PAGE 
THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION..... . 265 
SHADOW —ASPARABLE. MALIER ANITISISMON 0 DUC GET 269 
SILENCE A PABLE .. (AGH AUOY UVa ART TAS, ASA. 271 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER ........... _ 273 
THEMONTATNVOPMARNHEIM (+2200. 0606.0 hit ee 287 
BANDON S\ COTTAGE WAY AU RALL. LONE) nrc 298 

VOLUME IV 

TALES 
DHBMGHAND: OF THE FAY... YIAIMUM A BTW, 2OAOW AMoe 307 
DiePOVADSPORTRATTS «02... eee as BTAAAL FO, A2OL 311 
BeRENTOM OM. ..~........,..1, diqU.cAW.TAUT VAM AHT. 313 
HEPOMORAAND MARY. GiLQwolke RN. .... WAM padvleva SBT. 319 
DIGeeDING S TAP OF WASHINGTON, 2 1. 3. QVILACIG. 324 
IN 86.5 oes oe oe en se sige ok one oe OISIVIOLL 335 
METZENGERSTEIN | 0¢0. COS UNV INT, 10, 141, YAASAT I. 339 
HOP PROG TON SOM AAIGOOWADAIA A. STIAW, OT. WOH, 345 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 352 


rime LLOON-HOAX » .: .: so on ett es BAMWEAA LA MIA, 386 
Mites. Po TAU ANS he... CAP API GGL IY SHEL, 4.0) Ai ae 2596 
Pilar CRE VELATION «. +. >. <5 tee. te bene a Pete thine eae 406 
THe tCAok-OF°M, VALDEMARMVLA TY TOVN. 0.0... eee 413 
ease PieeNiA DURE BURIAL -.6. 6.9. b eos eer adele ate: 420 
VOLUME V 
TALES 
See rere CLV Ee Oh CORON PV en ae es 431 
VOLUME VI 
TALES 
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM ..... Day eth the Carats BER 
Bee ConA rs NAS BO COM In wee ee ob tte ee ana tae 567 
OL EGIL SPS MINS 5 2 En og tol ie aii er eta ane Poe keine ahr ner rail 574 
ied Pin Ebr RAGE DOMOUNTAING es pice 577 
STEEN 20624 97 eB COS se nes tg hcoeihp ahaa sake pel rr ah a ae tare 585 
a biie La tears UL LDA Yo SLING PWV EU Pe Ta cue Aye iee) 8 pe Sih ea Ae e REA 602 
THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER....... 607 
THE ANGEL OF ‘THE ODD... oo. ce x ir ic yokih Sates eee 620 


rr aE DIL Y maven Some Se ne ys 627 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


VOLUME VI—TALES— Continued PAGE 
BON-BON .. AGIN GARD Vs 205314 TO VOITAZAAVUOSD Fae 633 
THR DUG Drei OMELETTE. oa AMAGDAD A--WOGAHA 644 
NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD . RICAN A~FOW I 647 
WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN ASLING. 654 
VOLUME VII 
TALES 7 
THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE... 659 
A TALE OF JERUSALEM. (A 04) VAAN 4. . . {See 
TOURS BENG BOetN@ONE A, os. ole che sae, . je a ay ee 673 
SOME, WORDS WITH A MUMMY. YA@,. ter .970 co“ ATRE ae 678 
LOSS" OF tBREATH | o.oo. awe). SIAR IO eee 696 
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UPS Aeyes... o)) eee 699 
THE BUSINESS "MAN: teh ws... 2 ee 706 
DEDD BENG 29 ee Ob ed rn ., . oo (a2 
DCIONIZENG? Soe he ee ee el || ne 720 
LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUMBOB ESQ... wticauacieaeree 723 
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE ... . severe 738 
APPREDICAMEND ‘(3 “Gq BSE ZAVALA. (1.19 8A See ee 745 
X-ING.A PARAGRAB. . ...-. 0.) 2... RAO. VO 752 
MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON : -. : stiy ar AeA See 756 
VOLUME VIIl 
ESSAYS | 
LETTER TO MR. B——. ae ee eee 761 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. DAVAO VIAN. « . . 24 4) Se 766 
THESRATIONALECOER- VERSE «2 uu = ate 4k ec) a) nn 780 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION @44.. ... .... eee 812 
RIA CAD chor teem eh eee oe ee ee SE «5 oe 820 
VOLUME 1X 
ESSAYS | 
MAEBEZEU'S CHESS-PUA MIR pervs coed phan UR een: incinees ps cnceeeeee 891 
GCRYPPTOGRAPT WG ese. ie acim dae al ie ia el ee 908 
PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE Ss as at REE GAIL ccs RO stage we age 918 
MAGAZINE* WRITING--RE TER, SNOOK aa oe eres ares oe CU 922 
SOME SECRETS-“OF THE MAGAZINE PRISON. HOUSE. a Oat 
MARGINA TTA oe ne a end ee tee ee ok gal St ee 933 
THIODObFadhh IGELANDER cc cepts ieee Bt eeeracocee We 943 
BULWER AS & NOVELIST © "7 pesthies’. cenctiets aierk «| cae oa 948 


SCOTCH SCHOOL. OF CRITICISM. teesk arcteis set ian bene aan 949 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


VOLUME IX—ESSAYS—Continued PAGE 
MARGINALIA—Continued 
MEMOIRS OF MME. MALIBRAN .. . .trowsk wAdcnwm . . 954 
TPN DINE +. 2 =. . 2. OT RTH GAG TUIMAGITAIS . . 967 
NEYGTERIES-OF PARIS . . 4.2 2. .pINYAGT. Weyer... 968 
fee ee RAMA 2.1... +. -TPAWOW LACYD AV. . 974 
POMNENHAT  .8s.c os ek RU RIID e TOGOTO . 975 
MEE RICAN LETTERS + 2... . KOWMA OF LIA eae o7S 
Met OO DOR o's 2 il hee 8s PATE WIo-1A & ED 
Poe RSeOR MRS: WILKINSON . © spurts pep nests oe BEY 
MmereRIDGES TABLE-TALK ... .<waqngen YOTHOTIAT - (OLE 
ROMANA INDUSTRIA ... ~» TERIA Tiedsranerm. . . 983 
BueweEeS ART. 7}. .s«. . _. «RUGS. A yian. . . 985 
PRGFESSOR WILSON ¢ © / fle Brkt del, oes L.5. 987 
met Ghee a yo dc RTOTEET. Ths OSTIF AT 6 989 
BYRON AND MARY CHAWORTH:.......-.-20.. 990 
PAULDING’'S GIFE’ OF “WASHINGTON 4) eee ak. upcram . 991 
IN cus) se TIAA TEI OS RY LIOGAY os 993 
HUMAN MAGNFTISM .. . Dea ANE bo, oat, FE 995 
PUTER NATIONAL COPY RIGHT OU Re Rot ad 996 
DIGTENS. CURIOSLTY SHOP ror traced. wri tert. eter 999 
YOUN, 2. 6 oa) so atryrad eta’ Te ie ep eS Ae? 1000 
PICHIGRAMMAR 0°. wud Nate Neer a ree - 1002 
eee ie ee rr AS Meet NOT 1004 
GEORGE BALCOMBE 2 4% pests (aries Be raha’ 1006 
PEPE VeOUCGESTIONS. (Uee BE Oe ete a eb og fey It, 1007 
RTT A es PO Ey Rt Boe Gael ed, | 1015 
ANAGTATIC PRINTING. 2°! dahon). hed ehe Peon 8, 1024 
PUA Ye es wre IROFE POLY COMMCRET CNS 0! - 1028 
Pest INEY A ek. re exe x EAN Peat te ast eM LOS 
A CHAPTER OF SUGGESTIONS. . . . 1067 
SOME ACCOUNT OF STONEHENGE, THE GIANT'S DANCE, A 
DRULDICAL RUIN IN ENGYANDTSS AIGAAA [evidh HT2. 1071 
VOLUME X 
CRITICISMS 
Pan BoeRUSSELLA LOWELL: fs et Boar SRY E CAMS | 1075 
THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA'........... 1080 
THE “AMERICAN: DRAMA: » + oso . tS CF Beit G0 | 1085 
LONGPFELLOW’S BALLADS: oo 2 Ch tA Fatt) MARL, 1106 
CRITICS*AND CRITICISM: .*.5.° . SYAAVUE LE WAS, Bava ee, 1116 


SEES ba ID SE TOT BT GES TS SR i a a ee 1121 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


VOLUME X—CRITICISMS—Continued 
THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 
GEORGE: BUSH“ "0 2 Se 2 cS... ee 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
JOEEN? Ws -ERANGIS* "Saar oS... earn 
PNNA CORA MOWAT Tsar... 0 Seb cee 
GEORGE B. CHEEVER . 
CHARLES ANTHON 
RALPH*HOYT.-.* :. 
FREEMAN HUNT.) eee. se er 
LAUGHTON, OSBORN *segeeees ss. 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 
ANN SS, > LEPHENS") Seen 08... (ee 
EVERT A. DUYCKIRCK 
JAMES “ALDRICH oS \eaemmmmnmee.” . °°. °).)Rmeneenese nn 
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 
SARAH MARGARET FULLER 
CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND 
EPES*SARGENT - eee . .. 
LYDIA M. CHILD. 


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LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK 
ANNE: C*LYNCGH:) |) Giese 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
MARY E. HEWITT . 


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VOLUME XI 
CRITICISMS 


STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 
THE QUACKS. OF HEUICO Mier 7. 4. . tempest een 
WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 
ELIZABETH BARRETUBARBECER UC\S\. . | 2 cee ee 
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 
CHARLES DICKENS 
THOMAS HOOD 


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OLD, ENGLISH POETRY (2 2... . Ane Acie] -7e eee eT 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


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Author’s Preface to the Poems 


(The poems which have been omitted from the poetry section will be found where 
they were published in the tales —Ed.) 


These trifles are collected and repub- 
lished chiefly with a view to their 
redemption from the many improve- 
ments to which they have been sub- 
jected while going at random “the 
rounds of the press.” I am naturally 
anxious that what I have written should 
circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at 
all. In defence of my own taste, nev- 
ertheless, it is incumbent upon me to 
say that I think nothing in this volume 
of much value to the public, or very 


creditable to myself. Events not to be 
controlled have prevented me from 
making, at any time, any serious effort 
in what, under happier circumstances, 
would have been the field of my choice. 
With me poetry has been not a purpose, 
but a passion; and the passions should 
be held in reverence; they must not— 
they cannot at will be excited, with an 
eye to the paltry compensations, or the 
more paltry commendations of mankind. 
EAALE. 





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The Raven 


(This poem was first published in the New York Mirror, January, 1845. 


Rev. 


Geo. Gilfillan, a contemporary litterateur of Rev. Rufus Griswold, Poe’s 
literary executor, declares Poe hastened his wife’s death to write the poem. 
The Reverends and Poe waged bitter war with politeness, justice, and truth 


on the side of Poe —Ed.) 


ONcE upon a midnight dreary, while I 
pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious vol- 
ume of forgotten lore— 

- While I nodded, nearly napping, sud- 
denly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping—rap- 
ping at my chamber door. 

“Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, “tap- 
ping at my chamber door— 

Only this and nothing more.” 


Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in 
the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly 
I had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow— 
sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore— 

Nameless here for evermore. 


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic 
terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating 

“°Tis some visitor entreating entrance 
at my chamber door— 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber door ;— 

This it is and nothing more.” 


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesi- 
tating then no longer, 

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your 
forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so 
gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping—tap- 
ping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you”— 
here I opened wide the door:— 
Darkness there and nothing more. 


Deep into that darkness peering, long 
I stood there wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the 
stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was 
the whispered word, “Lenore” 
This I whispered, and an echo mur- 
mured back the word, ‘‘Lenore!”’— 
Merely this and nothing more. 


Then into the chamber turning, all my 
soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping, some- 
thing louder than before. 

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is some- 
thing at my window lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and 
this mystery explore— 

Let my heart be still a moment, and 
this mystery explore ;— 
’Tis the wind and nothing more.” 


4 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Open here I flung the shutter, when, 
with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the 
saintly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he; not 
an instant stopped or stayed he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched 
above my chamber door— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just 
above my chamber door— 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 
fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the 
countenance it wore, 

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wan- 
dering from the Nightly shore— 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 
Night’s Plutonian shore!” 

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” 


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to 
hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning—little 
relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no 
living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird 
above his chamber door— 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 
above his chamber door, 
With such name as “Nevermore.” 


But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 
placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his seul in that 
one word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered; not a 
feather then he fluttered— 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, 
“Other friends have flown before— 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my 


Hopes have flown before.” 
Then the bird said, ““Nevermore.”’ 


Startled at the stillness broken by reply 
so aptly spoken, 

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is 
its only stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master, 
whom unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster til? 
his songs one burden bore— 

Till the dirges of his Hope the melan- 
choly burden bore 

Of ‘“Never—nevermore.” 


But the Raven still beguiling all my 
sad soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 
front of bird and bust and door; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook 
myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this 
ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no 
syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now 
burned into my bosom’s core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my 
head at ease reclining 

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the 
lamp-light gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the 
lamp-light gloating o’er, 
She shall press, ah, nevermore! 


Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 
tinkled on the tufted floor. 

“Wretch,” I cried, ‘thy God hath lent 
thee—by these angels he hath sent 
thee 


POEMS 5 


Respite—respite and nepenthe from 
thy memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and 
forget this lost Lenore!”’ 
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” 


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!— 
prophet still, if bird or devil!— 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tem- 
pest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this des- 
ert land enchanted— - 

On this Home by Horror haunted—tell 
me truly I implore— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead? tell 
me—tell me, I implore!” 
Quoth the Raven, ‘‘Nevermore.”’ 


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil— 
prophet still, if bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us— 
by that God we both adore— 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, 
within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore. 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore.” 
Quoth the Raven, ‘“Nevermore.” 


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird 
or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— 

“Get thee back into the tempest and the 
Night’s Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of 
that lie thy soul hath spoken! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—dquit 
the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
take thy form from off my door!” 
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” 


And the Raven, never flitting, still is 
sitting—still is sitting 


On the pallid bust of Pallas just above 
my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a 
Demon that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming 
throws his shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow 
that lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted—nevermore! 


LENORE 


(‘“Lenore”’ first appeared in The Pio- 
neer, February, 1843.—Ed.) 


Au, broken is the golden bowl! the 
spirit flown for ever! 

Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats 
on the Stygian river. 

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?— 
weep now or never more! 

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low 
lies thy love, Lenore! 

Come! let the burial rite be read—the 
funeral song be sung!— 

An anthem for the queenliest dead that 
ever died so young— 

A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that 
she died so young. 


“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth 
and hated her for her pride, 

And when she fell in feeble health, ye 
blessed: her—that she died! 

How shall the ritual, then, be read?— 
the requiem how be sung 

By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by 
yours, the slanderous tongue 

That did to death the innocence that 
died, and died so young?” 


6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and 
let a Sabbath song 

Go up to God so solemnly the dead 
may feel no wrong! 

The sweet Lenore hath “gone before, 
with Hope, that flew beside, 

Leaving thee wild for the dear child 
that should have been thy bride— 

For her, the fair and debonnaire, that 
now so lowly les, 

The life upon her yellow hair but not 
within her eyes— 

The life still there, upon her hair—the 
death upon her eyes. 


*“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. 
No dirge will I upraise, 

But waft the angel on her flight with 
a pean of old days! 

Let zo bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, 
amid its hallowed mirth, 

Should catch the note, as it doth float 
up from the damned Earth. 

To friends above, from fiends below, 
the indignant ghost is riven— 
From Hell unto a high estate far up 

within the Heaven— 
From grief and groan to a golden throne 
beside the King of Heaven.” 


A VALENTINE* 


(“A Valentine” first appeared in Flag 
of Our Union, 1849.—Ed.) 


For her this rhyme is penned, whose 
_ luminous eyes, 
Brightly expressive as the twins of 
Leda, 


* To find the name referred to in this 
poem, read-consecutively the first letter 
of the first line, the second letter of 
the second line, the third letter of the 
third line, and so on to the end. 


Shall find her own sweet name, that, 
nestling lies 
the page, 
every reader. 
Search narrowly the lines!—they hold 
a treasure 
Diviné—talisman—an amulet 


Upon enwrapped from 


That must be worn at heart. Search 
well the measure— 
The words—the syllables! Do not 


forget 
The trivialest point, or you may lose 
your labour! 
And yet there is in this no Gordian 


knot 
Which one might not undo without a 
sabre, 
If oné ‘could merely comprehend the 
plot. 
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are 
peering 
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie 
perdus 
-Three eldquent words oft uttered in the 
hearing, 
Of poets by poets—as the name is a 
poet’s, too. 


Its. letters, although naturally lying 
Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Fer- 
dinando— 
Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease 
| trying! 
You will not read the riddle, though 
you do the best you can do. 


TO HELEN 


(This poem appeared in The Interna- 
tional Miscellany.—Ed. ) 


I saw thee once—once only—years ago: 

I must not say how many—but not 
many. 

It was a July midnight; and from out 





POEMS 7 


A full-orbed moon, that like thine own 
soul soaring, 

Sought a precipitate pathway up through 
heaven, 

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 

With quietude, and sultriness and 
slumber, 

Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand 

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on 


— tiptoe— 

Fell on the upturn’d faces of these 
roses 

That gave out, in return for the love- 
light, 

Their odorous souls in an _ ecstatic 
death— 

Fell on the upturn’d faces of these 
roses 

That smiled and died in this parterre, 
enchanted 

By thee, and by the poetry of thy 
presence. 


Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 

IT saw thee half-reclining; while the 
moon 

Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses, 

‘And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in 
sorrow! 

Was it not Fate, that, on this July mid- 
night— 

Was it not Fate (whose name is also 
Sorrow), 

That bade me pause before that garden- 
gate, 

To breathe the incense of those slum- 
bering roses? 

No footstep stirred: the hated world 
all slept, 

Save only thee and me. 
looked— 

And in an instant all things disap- 
peared. 


I paused—I 


(Ah, bear in mind this garden was 
enchanted! ) 

The pearly lustre of the moon went 
out: 

The mossy banks and the meandering 
paths, 

The happy flowers and the repining 
trees, 

Were seen no more: the very roses’ 
odours 

Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 

All—all expired save thee—save less 


than thou: 

Save only the divine light in thine 
eyes— 

Save but the soul in thine uplifted 
eyes. 

I saw but them—they were the world 
to me. 

I saw but them—saw only them for 
hours— 

Saw only them until the moon went 
down. 

What wild heart-histories seemed to lie 
enwritten 


Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! 

How dark a woe! yet how sublime a 
hope! 

How silently serene a sea of pride! 

How daring an ambition! yet how 


deep— 
How fathomless a capacity for love! 


But now, at length, dear Dian sank 
from sight, 

Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; 

And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing 
trees 

Didst glide away. 
remained, 

They would not go—they never yet 
have gone. 

Lighting my lonely pathway home that 
night, 


Only thine eyes 


8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


They have not left me (as my hopes 
have) since. 

They follow me—they iead me through 
the years. 

They are my ministers—yet I their 
slave. 

Their office is to illumine and enkindle— 

My duty, to be saved by their bright 
light 

And purified in their electric fire, 

And sanctified in their elysian fire. 

They fill my soul with Beauty (which 
is Hope), 

And are far up in Heaven—the stars 
I kneel to 

In the sad, silent watches of my night; 

While even in the meridian glare of day 

I see them still—two sweetly scintillant 

Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! 


LOMA cs. 


(“To M. L. S.” was first published 
in Home Journal, March, 1847.—Ed.) 


Not long ago, the writer of these lines, 

In the mad pride of intellectuality, 

Maintained “the power of words”’— 
denied that ever 

A thought arose within the human brain 

Beyond the utterance of the human 
tongue: 

And now, as if in mockery of that 
boast, 

Two words—two foreign, soft, dissyl- 
lables— 

Italian tones, made only to be mur- 
mured 

By angels dreaming in the moonlit ‘dew 

That hangs like chains of pearl on Her- 
mon hill,’— 

Have stirred from out the abysses of 
his heart, 

Unthought-like thoughts that are the 
souls of thought, 


Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions 

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, 

(Who has “the sweetest voice of all 
God’s creatures’’), 

Could hope to utter. And I! my spells 
are broken. 

The pen falls powerless from my shiv- 
ering hand. 

With thy dear name as text, though 
bidden by thee, 

I cannot write—I cannot speak or 
think— 

Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling. 


This standing motionless upon the 
golden 

Threshold of the wide-open gate ct 
dreams, 

Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous 
vista 


And thrilling as I see, upon the right, 

Upon the left, and all the way along, 

Amid empurpled vapours, far away 

To where the prospect terminates— 
thee only. 


ULALUME 


(Colton’s American Review for De- 
cember, 1847, published this poem, 
signed N. P. Willis. It was also pub- 
lished in Willis’ Home Journal.—Ed.) 


Tue skies they were ashen and sober; 
The leaves they were crisped and 
sere— 
The leaves they were withering and 
sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 
Of my most immemorial year; 
In the misty mid region of Weir— 
It was down by the dank tarn ot 
Auber; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir, 


POEMS 9 


Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was 

volcanic 
As the scoriac rivers that roll— 
As the lavas that restlessly roll 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
In the ultimate climes of the pole— 

That groan as they roll down Mount 

Yaanek 
In the realms of the boreal pole. 


Our talk had been serious and sober, 
But our thoughts they were palsied 
and sere— 
Our memories were treacherous and 
sere— 
For we knew not the month was 
October, 
And we marked not the night of the 
year— 
- (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber— 
(Though once we had journeyed 
down here)— 
Remembered not the dank tarn of 
Auber, 
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir. 


And now, as the night was senescent 
And star-dials pointed to morn— 
As the star-dials hinted of morn— 

At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born, 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn— 

Astarte’s bediamonded crescent 
Distinct with its duplicate horn. 


And I said—“She is warmer than Dian: 
She rolls through an ether of sighs— 
She revels in a region of sighs: 

She has seen that the tears are not 

dry on 


These cheeks, where the worm never 
dies 
And has come past the stars of the 
Lion 
To point us the path to the skies— 
To the Lethean peace of the skies— 
Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
To shine on us with her bright eyes— 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes.” 


But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
Said—‘“‘Sadly this star I mistrust— 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust :— 

Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger! 

Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.” 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
Wings till they trailed in the dust— 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Plumes till they trailed in the dust— 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the 

dust. 


I replied—‘‘This is nothing but dream- 
ing: 
Let us on by this tremulous light! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light! 
Its Sibyllic splendour is beaming 
With Hope and in Beauty to-night :— 
See!—it flickers up the sky through 
the night! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
And be sure it will lead us aright— 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 
Since it flickers up to Heaven through 
the night.” 


Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, ~ 
And tempted her out of her gloom— 
And conquered her scruples and 

gloom, 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 
But were stopped by the door of a 

tomb— 
By the door of a legended tomb; 


10 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And I said—“What is written, sweet 
sister, 
On the door of this legended tomb?” 
She replied—‘‘Ulalume—Ulalume— 
"Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!” 


Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and 
sere— . 
As the leaves that were withering and 
/ Sasere; 
And I cried—‘‘It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed—I journeyed down 
here— 

That I brought a dread burden down 
here! 

On this night of all nights in the 
year, 

Ah, what demon has tempted me 
here? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of 

Auber— 
This misty mid region of Weir— 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of 


Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir.” 
THE BELLS 


(“The Bells” was published in Sar- 
tain’s Union Magazine, October, 1849. 
—Ed.) . 

I 


Hear the sledges with the bells— 
Silver bells! 
What a world of merriment their mel- 
ody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
In the icy air of night! 
While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 


With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musi- 
cally wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of 
the bells. 


II 


Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their har- 
mony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten golden-notes, 
And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while 
she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the future! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rhyming and the chiming of 
the bells! 


Tir 


Hear the loud alarum bells— 
Brazen bells! 
What a tale of terror now their turbu- 
lency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 


POEMS 11 


Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy 
of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavour 
Now—now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and 
roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 


How the danger ebbs and 
flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling, 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and 
swells, 


By the sinking or the swelling in the 
anger of the bells— 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamour and the clangour of 
the bells! 


IV 


Hear the tolling of the bells— 
Tron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 


At the melancholy menace of their 


tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their 
throats 
Is a groan. 


And the people—ah, the people— 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All alone, 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
‘In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone— 
They are neither man nor woman— 
They are neither brute nor human— 
They are Ghouls: 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 
A pean from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the pean of the bells! 
And he dances and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic thyme, 
To the pean of the bells— 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the throbbing of the 
bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 
To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 
To the rolling of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the moaning and the groaning of 
the bells. 


12 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


AN ENIGMA* 
“SELDOM we find,” says Solomon Don 
Dunce 
“Half an idea in the profoundest 
sonnet. 
Through all the flimsy things we see 
at once 
As easily as through a Naples bon- 
net=—— 
Trash of all trash!—how can a lady 
don it?” 
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan 
stuff— 
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest 
puff 
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you 
con it.” 


And, veritably, Sol is right enough. 
The general tuckermanities are arrant 


Bubbles—ephemeral and _ so __ trans- 
parent— 

But this is, now—you may depend 
upon it— 


Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint 
Of the dear names that lie concealed 
within’t. 


ANNABEL LEE 


(This poem appeared in The Jnter- 
national Miscellany. ‘Annabel Lee” is 
generally credited to represent Poe’s 
young wife, Virginia Clemm.—Ed.) 


It was many and many a year ago, 
In a kingdom by the sea, 


* The name Sarah Anna Lewis will 
be found in the above sonnet by read- 
ing consecutively the first letter of the 
first line, second letter of second line, 
and so to the ena. 


That a maiden there lived whom you 
may know . 
By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 


I was a child and she was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea: 
But we loved with a love that was more 
than love— 
I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 
Coveted her and me. 


And this was the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee; 

So that her highborn kinsman came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 


The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me— 
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men 
know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud 
by night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee, 


But our love it was stronger by far 
than the love 
Of those who were older than we— 
Of many far wiser than we— 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 
Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the 
soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 


POEMS 13 


For the moon never beams without 
bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise but I see the 
bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Anuabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down 
by the side 
Of my darling‘ my darling, my life and 
my bride, 
In her sepulchre there by the sea— 
In her tomb by the side of the sea. 


TO MY MOTHER 


_ (This poem appeared in the Leaflets 
of Memory, a magazine of 1850.—Ed.) 


Because I feel that, in the Heavens 
above, 
The angels, whispering to one an- 
other, 
Can find, among their burning terms of 
love, 
None so _ devotional as 
“Mother,” 
Therefore by that dear name I long 
have called you— 
You who are more than mother unto 
me, 
And fill my heart of hearts, where 
Death installed you, 
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. 
My mother—my own mother, who died 
early, 
Was but the mothez of inyself; but 
you 


that of 


Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, 


And thus are dearer than the mother 
I knew 
By that infinity with which my wife 
Was dearer to my soul than its soul 
life. 





To F S. S. O——D* 
Tuovu wouldst be loved?—then let thy 
heart 

From its present pathway part not! 

Being everything which now thou art 
Be nothing which thou art not. 

So with the world thy gentle ways, 
Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 

Shall be an endless theme of praise, 
And love—a simple duty. 


THE VALLEY OF UNREST 


(“The Valley of Unrest’? was pub- 
lished in an edition of 1831 under the 
title, “Valley of Nis.”—Ed.) 


ONCE it smiled a silent dell 
Where the people did not dwell; 
They had gone unto the wars, 
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
Nightly, from their azure towers, 
To keep watch above the flowers, 
In the midst of which all day 
The red sun-light lazily lay. 
Literati 


*See Contents of New 


York.—Ed. 


14 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Now each visitor shall confess 

The sad valley’s restlessness. 

Nothing there is motionless— 

Nothing save the airs that brood 

Over the magic solitude. 

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 

That palpitate like the chill seas 

Around the misty Hebrides! 

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 

Unceasingly, from morn till even, 

Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye— 

Over the lilies there that wave 

And weep above a nameless grave! 

They wave:—from out their fragrant 
tops 

Eternal dews come down in drops. 

They weep:—from off their delicate 
stems 

Perennial tears descend in gems. 


THE CITY IN THE SEA 


(Under the title of “The Doomed 
City,” this poem appeared in an edition 
of 1831—Ed.) 


Lo! Death has reared himself a throne 

In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad, and the 
worst and the best, 

Have gone to their eternal rest. 

There shrines and palaces and towers 

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 

Resemble nothing that is ours. 

Around, by lifting winds forgot, 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 


No rays from the Holy Heaven come 
down 
On the long night-time of that town; 


But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently— 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— 
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— 
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— 

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 

The viol, the violet, and the vine. 


Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seemed pendulous in air, 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 


There open fanes and gaping graves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves; 
But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol’s diamond eye— 

Not the gaily jewelled dead 

Tempt the waters from their bed; 
For no ripples curl alas! 

Along that wilderness of glass— 

No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off happier sea— 

No heavings hint that winds have been 
On seas less hideously serene. 


But lo, a stir is in the air! 

The wave—there is a movement there! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide— 

As if their tops had feebly given 

A void within the filmy Heaven. 

The waves have now a redder glow— 
The hours are breathing faint and low~ 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 


Down, down that town shall settle 


hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence, 











POEMS 15 


THE SLEEPER 


(This poem was published in an edi- 
tion of 1831 under the name, “Irene.” 
—Ed.) 


At midnight, in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain top, 

Steals drowsily and musically 

Into the universal valley. 

The rosemary nods upon the grave; 
The lily lolls upon the wave; 
Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
The ruin moulders into rest; 
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake 

A conscious slumber seems to take, 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies 
(Her casement open to the skies) 
Irene, with her Destinies! 


Oh, lady bright! can it be right— 

This window open to the night? 

The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 

Laughingly through the lattice drop— 

_ The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 

-Flit through thy chamber in and out, 

And wave the curtain canopy 

So fitfully—so fearfully— 

Above the closed and fringed lid 

"Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies 
hid, 7 

That, o’er the floor and down the wall, 

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! 

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? 

Why and what art thou dreaming here? 

Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, 

A wonder to these garden trees! 

_ Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! 

_ Strange, above all. thy length of tress, 


And this all-solemn silentness! 

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, 

Which is enduring, so be deep! 

Heaven have her in its sacred keep! 

This chamber changed for one more 
holy, 

This bed for one more melancholy, 

I pray to God that she may lie 

For ever with unopened eye, 

While the dim sheeted ghosts go by! 

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her 
sleep, 

As it is lasting, so be deep! 

Soft may the worms about her creep! 

Far in the forest, dim and old, 

For her may some tall vault unfold-~ 

Some vault that oft hath flung its black 

And winged panels fiuttering back, 

Triumphant, o’er the crested palls, 

Of her grand family funerals— 

Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 

Against whose portal she hath thrown, 

In childhood many an idle stone— 

Some tomb from out whose soundtog 
door 

She ne’er shall force an echo more, 

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! 

It was the dead who groaned within. 


SILENCE 


(“Silence” first appeared in April, 
1840, in Burton’s Gentleman’s Maga- 
zine, of which Poe was co-editor.—Ed.) 


THERE are some qualities—some incor- 
porate things, 
That have a double life, which thus 
is made 
A type of that twin entity which springs 
From matter and light, evinced in 
solid and shade 


16 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


There is a two-fold Silence—sea and 
shore— 
Body and soul. 
places, 
Newly with grass o’ergrown; some 
solemn graces, 
Some human memories and tearful lore, 
Render him terrorless: his name’s “No 


One dwells in lonely 


More.” 
He is the corporate Silence: dread him 
not! 
No power hath he of evi in him- 
self; 
But should some urgent fate (untimely 
lot)! 
Bring thee to meet his shadow (name- 
less elf, 
That haunteth the lone regions where 
hath trod 
No foot of man), commend thyself to 
God! 


A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 


TAKE this kiss upon the brow! 
And, in parting from you now, 
Thus much let me avow— 

You are not wrong, who deem 
That my days have been a dream; 
Yet if hope has flown away 

In a night, or in a day, 

In a vision, or in none, 

Is it therefore the less gone! 
All that we sce or seem 

Is but a dream within a dream. 
I stand amid the roar 

Of a surf-tormented shore, 

And I hold within my hand 
Grains of the golden sand— 
How few! yet how they creep 
Through my fingers to the deep, 
While I weep—while I weep! 
© God! can I not grasp 


Them with a tighter clasp? 
O God! can I not save 

One from the pitiless wave? 
Is all that we see or seem 
But a dream within a dream? 


DREAMLAND 


(In June, 1844, “Dreamland” was 
published in Graham’s Magazine, of 
which Poe had been editor—Ed.) 


By a route obscure and lonely, 

Haunted by ill angels only, 

Where an Eidolon, named Night, 

On a black throne reigns upright, 

T have reached these lands but newly 

From an ultimate dim Thule— 

From a wild weird clime that lieth, 
sublime, 

Out of Space—out of Time. 


Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 

And chasms, and caves, and Titan 
woods, 

With forms that no man can discover 

For the dews that drip all over; 

Mountains toppling evermore 

Into seas without a shore; 

Seas that restlessly aspire, 

Surging, unto skies of fire; 

Lakes that endlessly outspread 

Their lone waters—lone and dead, 

Their still waters—still and chilly 

With the snows of the lolling lily. 


By the lakes that thus outspread 
Their lone waters, lone and dead— 
Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily— 
By the mountains—near the river 
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— 


POEMS 17 


- By the grey woods,—by the swamp 
Where the toad and the newt encamp, 
By the dismal tarns and pools 
Where dwell the Ghouls, — 


By each spot the most unholy— 
In each nook most melancholy,— 
There the traveller meets aghast 
Sheeted Memories of the Past— 
Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
As they pass the wanderer by— 
White-robed forms of friends 
given, 
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. 


long 


For the heart whose woes are legion 
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region— 

For the spirit that walks in shadow 
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado! 

But the traveller, travelling through it, 
May not—dare not openly view it; 
Never its mysteries are exposed 

To the weak human eyes unclosed; 

So wills its King, who hath forbid 
The uplifting of the fringed lid; 

And thus the sad Soul that here passes 
Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 


By a route obscure and lonely, 
Haunted by ill angels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have wandered home but newly 
From this ultimate dim Thule. 


TO ZANTE 


(Publisned in January, 
Southern Literary Messenger, 
Poe edited.—Ed.) 


Farr isle, that from the fairest of all 
flowers, 
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost 
take! 


TOS 7 ein) 
which 


How many memories of what radiant 


hours 
At sight of thee and thine at once 
awake! 
How many scenes of what departed 
bliss! 


How many thoughts of what en- 
tombed hopes! 
How many visions of a maiden that ig 
No more—no more upon thy verdant 
slopes! 
No more! alas, that magical sad sound 
' Transforming all! Thy charms will 
shall please 20 more— 
Thy memory zo more! 
ground 
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enam- 
elled shore, 
O hyacinthine isle! 


Accursed 


O purple Zante! 


“Tsola d’oro! Fior di Levante!” 
EULALIE 
(‘“Eulalie’ was published in the 


Broadway Journal, vol. 2:5; 1845. Poe 


also edited this magazine.—Ed.) 


I pwELT alone 
In a world of moan, 

And my soul was a stagnant tide, 
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became 
my blushing bride— 

Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie 

became my smiling bride. 


Ah, less—less bright 
The stars of the night 
Than the eyes of the radiant girl! 
And never a flake 
That the vapour can make 
With the moon-tints of purple and 
pearl. 


18 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most 
unregarded curl— 

Can. compare with the bright-eyed Eula- 
lie’s most humble and careless 
curl. 


Now Doubt—now Pain 
Come never again, 
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, 
And all day long 
Shines, bright and strong, 
Astarte within the sky, 
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns 
her matron eye— 
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns 
her violet eye. 


ELDORADO 


(This poem was published in The 
Flag of Our Union, 1849.—Ed.) 


Gatty bedight, 
A gallant knight, 

In sunshine and in shadow, 
Had journeyed long, 
Singing a song, | 

In search of Eldorado. 


But he grew old— 

This knight so bold— 
And o’er his heart a shadow 

Fell as he found 

No spot of ground 
That looked like Eldorado. 


And as his strength 
Failed him at length, 
He met a pilgrim shadow— 
“Shadow,” said he, 
“Where can it be— 
This land of Eldorado?” 


“Over the Mountains 
Of the Moon, 
Down the Valley of the Shadow, 
Ride, boldly ride,” 
The shade replied,— 
“Tf you seek for Eldorado!” 


ISRAFEL* 


(This poem was published in The 
Ladies’ Pearl.—Ed.) 


IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

“Whose heart-strings are a lute;” 

None sing so wildly well 

As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 


Tottering above 
In her highest noon, 
The enamoured Moon 

Blushes with love, 
While, to listen, the red levin 
(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 
Which were seven), 
Pauses in Heaven. 


And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 
That Israfeli’s fire 
Is owing to that lyre 
By which he sits and sings— 
The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 





* And the angel Israfel, whose heart- 
strings are a lute, and who has the 
sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.— 
Koran. 


POEMS 


But the skies that angel trod, 

Where deep thoughts are a duty— 
Where Love’s a grown-up God— 

Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 


Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 
Best bard, because the wisest! 
Merrily live and long! 


The ecstasies above 
With thy burning measures suit— 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervour of thy lute— 
Well may the stars be mute! 


Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours; 
Our flowers—are merely flowers, 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 


If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 
Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 
A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might 
swell 
From my lyre within the sky. 


FOR ANNIE 


(“For Annie” was published in Flag 
of Our Union, 1849.—Ed.) 


THANK Heaven! the crisis— 
The danger is past, 

And the lingering illness 
Is over at last— 

And the fever called ‘Living” 
Is conquered at last. 


Sadly, I know, 

I am shorn of my strength; 
And no muscle I move 

As I lie at full length— 
But no matter!—I feel 

I am better at length. 


And I rest so composedly, 
Now in my bed, 

That any beholder 
Might fancy me dead— 

Might start at beholding me, 
Thinking me dead. 


The moaning and groaning, 
The sighing and sobbing, 
Are quieted now, 
With that horrbile throbbing 
At heart:—ah, that horrible, 
Horrible throbbing! 


The sickness—the nausea— 
The pitiless pain— 

Have ceased, with the fever 
That maddened my brain 
With the fever called “Living” 
That burned in my brain. 


And oh! of all tortures 
That torture the worst 
Has abated—-the terrible 
Torture of thirst, 
For the napthaline river 
Of Passion accurst: 
I have drunk of a water 
That quenches all thirst:— 


Of a water that flows, 
With a lullaby sound, 

From a spring but a very few 
Feet under ground— 

From a cavern not very far 
Down under ground. 


19 


20 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And ah! let it never 
Be foolishly said 

That my room it is gloomy 
And narrow my bed; 

For man never slept 
In a different bed— 

And, to sleep, you must slumber 
In just such a bed. 


My tantalised spirit 
Here blandly reposes, 
Forgetting, or never 
Regretting its roses— 
Its old agitations 
Of myrtles and roses: 


For now, while so quietly 
Lying, it fancies 

A holier odour 
About it, of pansies— 

A rosemary odour, 
Commingled with pansies— 

With rue and the beautiful 
Puritan pansies. 


And so it lies happily, 
Bathing in many 
A dream of the truth 
And the beauty of Annie— 
Drowned in a bath 
Of the tresses of Annie. 


She tenderly kissed me, 

She fondly caressed, 
And then I fell gently 

To sleep on her breast. 
Deeply to sleep 

From the heaven of her breast. 


When the light was extinguished. 


She covered me warm, 
And she prayed to the angels 
To keep me from harm— 
To the queen of the angels 
To shield me from harm. 


And I lie so composedly 
Now in my bed, 

(Knowing her love) 
That you fancy me dead— 

And I rest so contentedly, 
Now in my bed, 

(With her love at my breast) 
That you fancy me dead— 


That you shudder to look at me, 
Thinking me dead. 
But my heart it is brighter 
Than all of the many 
Stars in the sky, 
For it sparkles with Annie— 
It glows with the light 
Of the love of my Annie— 
With the thought of the light 
Of the eyes of my Annie. 


TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW) 


(This lady at one time, by her kind 
nursing, saved Poe’s life——Ed.) 


Of all who hail thy presence as the 
morning— 

Of all to whom thine absence is the 
night— 

The blotting utterly from out high 
heaven 

The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, 
bless thee 

Hourly for hope—for life—ah, above 
all, 

For the resurrection of deep buried 
faith ; 

In truth, in virtue, in humanity— 

Of all who, on despairs unhallowed bed 

Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen 

At thy soft-murmured words, “Let 
there be light!” : 

At thy soft-murmured words that were 
fulfilled | 





POEMS z= 


In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes— 

Of all who owe thee most, whose grati- 
tude 

Nearest resembles worship,—oh, re- 
member 

The truest, the most fervently devoted, 

And think that these weak lines are 
written by him— 

By him who, as he pens them, thrills to 

- think 
His spirit is communing with an angel’s. 


sXe) 





I HEED not that my early lot 
Hath little of Earth in it— 

That years of love have been forgot 
In the hatred of a minute:— 

I mourn not that the desolate 
Are happier, sweet, than I, 

But that you sorrow for my fate 
Who am a passer by. 


BRIDAL BALLAD 


(A somewhat similar poem to the 
“Bridal Ballad” appears in a book of 
selections called ‘“Amaranth.”—Ed.) 


THE ring is on my hand, 
And the wreath is on my brow; 
Satins and jewels grand 
Are all at my command, 
And many a rood of land 
And I am happy now. 


And my lord he loves me well; 
But, when first he breathed his vow, 
I felt my bosom swell— 
And the voice seemed his who fell 
In the battle down the dell, 
And who is happy now. 


But he spoke to re-assure me, 
And he kissed my pallid brow, 
While a reverie came o’er me, 
And to the churchyard bore me, 
And I sighed to him before me, 


999 


“Oh, I am happy now! 


And thus the words were spoken, 
And thus the plighted vow, 
And, though my faith be broken, 
And, though my heart be broken, 
Behold the golden token 
That proves me happy now! 


Would God I could awaken! 
For I dream I know not how, 

And my soul is sorely shaken 

Lest an evil step be taken— 

Lest the dead who is forsaken 
May not be happy now. 


TO F—. 


(“To F—” has also been published 
under the title “To One Departed.”— 
Ed.) 


BELoveD! amid the earnest woes 

That crowd around my earthly path— 
(Drear path, alas! where grows 
Not even one lonely rose)— 

My soul at least a solace hath 
In dreams of thee, and therein knows 
An Eden of bland repose. 


And thus thy memory is to me 
Like some enchanted far-off isle 
In some tumultuous sea— 
Some ocean throbbing far and free 
With storms—but where meanwhile 
Serenest skies continually 
Just o’er that one bright island smile. 


22 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


FROM “POLITIAN” 


An Unpublished Drama 
THE CoLIsEUM 
Typr of the antique Rome! Rich 
reliquary 
Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
By buried centuries of pomp and power! 
At length—at length—after so many 
days 
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst 
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in 
thee lie), 
T kneel, an altered and an humble man, 
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and 
glory! 


Vastness! and Age! and Memories of 
Eld! 


Silence! and Desolation! and dim 
Night! 

I feel ye now—I feel ye in your 
strength— 

O spells more sure than e’er Judzan 
king 


Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! 

O charms more potent than the rapt 
Chaldee 

Ever drew down from out the quiet 
stars! 


Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! 

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in 
gold, 

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! 

Here, where the dames of Rome their 
gilded hair 

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed 
and thistle! 

Here, where on golden throne the mon- 
arch lolled, 


Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble 


home, 

Lit by the wan light of the horned 
moon, 

The swift and silent lizard of the 
stones! 


But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad 
arcades— 
These mouldering plinths—these sad 
and blackened shafts— 
These vague entablatures—this crum- 
bling frieze— 

These shattered cornices,—this wreck,— 
this ruin— 

These stones,—alas! these grey stones,— 
are they all,— 

All of the famed, and the colossal left 

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and 
me? 


“Not all’—the Echoes answer me— 


“not all!” 

Prophetic sounds and loud, arise for 
ever 

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the 
wise, 


As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 


We rule the hearts of mightiest men— © 


we rule 
With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
We are not impotent—we pallid stones. 
Not all our power is gone—not all our 
fame— 


Not all the magic of our high renown— | 
Not all the wonder that encircles us— © 
Not all the mysteries that in us lie— — 


Not all the memories that hang upon 


And cling around about us as a gar- | 


ment, 


Clothing us in a robe ef more than | 


glory.” 








POEMS 23 


SCENE I 
Rome.—A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra 
and Castiglione. 


Alessandra. 
lione. 
Castiglione. Sad! not I. 
Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in 


Rome! 

A few days more, thou knowest, my 
Alessandra, 

Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very 
‘happy! 


Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular 
way of showing 
Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin 
of mine? 
Why didst thou sigh so deeply? 
Cas. Did I sigh? 
I was not conscious of it. 
fashion, 
A silly—a most silly fashion I have 
When I am very happy. Did I sigh? 
(sighing.) 
Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. 
Thou hast indulged 
Too much of late, and I am vexed to 


Itseis 8a 


see it. 

Late hours and wine, Castiglione,— 
these 

Will ruin thee! thou art already 
altered— 

Thy looks are haggard—nothing so 


wears away 
The constitution as late hours and wine. 
Cas. (musing) Nothing, fair cousin, 
nothing—not even deep sorrow— 
Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
I will amend. 
Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop 
Thy riotous company, too--fellows low 
born 
Tll suit the like of old Di Broglio’s heir 


Thou art sad, Castig-— 


And Alessandra’s husband. 
Cas. I will drop them. 
Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. 

thou also more 

To thy dress and equipage—they are 

over plain 

For thy lofty rank and fashion—much 

depends . 
Upon appearances. 
Cas. I'll see to it. 
Aless. Then see to it!—pay more at- 
tention, sir, 

To a becoming carriage—much thou 

wantest 

In dignity. 

Cas. Much, much, oh, much I want 

In proper dignity. 

Aless. (haughtily) Thou mockest me, 
sir! 
(abstractedly) Sweet, 

Lalage! 

Aless. Heard I aright? 
I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage! 
Sir Count! (places her hand on his 
shoulder) what art thou dreaming? 
He’s not well! 

What ails thee, sir? 

Cas. (starting) Cousin! fair cousin! 


Attend 


Cas. gentle 


—madam! 

I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not 
well— 

Your hand from off my shoulder, if you 
please. 


This air is most oppressive!—Madam 
the Duke! 
Enter Di Broglio 
Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for 
thee !—hey?—what’s the matter? 
(observing Alessandra). 
IT’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! 
kiss her, 
You dog! and make it uv, I say, this 
minute! 


24 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I’ve news for you both. Politian is ex- 
pected 
Hourly in Rome—Politian, 
Leicester! 
We'll have him at the wedding. 
his first visit 
To the imperial city. 
Aless. What!  Politian 
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? 
Di Brog. The same, my love. 
We'll have him at the wedding. A man 
quite young 


Earl of 


aLyS 


In years, but grey in fame. I have not 
seen him, 

But Rumour speaks of him as of a 
prodigy 

Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and 
wealth, 


And high descent. 
the wedding. 
Aless. I have heard much of this 

Politian. 
Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not, 
And little given to thinking? 
Di Brog. Far from it, love, 

No branch, they say, of all philosophy 

So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. 

Learned as few are learned. 

Aless. ’Tis very strange! 

I have known men have seen Politian 

And sought his company. They speak 

of him 

As of one who entered madly into life, 

Drinking the cup of pleasure to the 

dregs. 
Cas. Ridiculous! 
Politian 

And know him well—nor learned nor 

mirthful he. 

He is a dreamer, and a man shut out 

From common passions. 

Di Brog. Children, we disagree. 

Let us go forth and taste the fragrant 

air 


We'll have him at 


Now J have seen 


Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I 
hear 
Politian was a melancholy man? 


(Exeunt.) 
SCENE II 


Rome.—A lady’s apartment, with a win- 
dow open and looking into a garden. 
Lalage, in deep mourning, reading 
at a table on which lie some books 
and a hand-mirror. In the back- 
ground Jacinta (a servant-maid) 
leans carelessly upon a chair. 


_ Lal. Jacinta! is it thou? 

Jac. (pertly). Yes, Ma’am, I’m here. 
Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you 
were in waiting. 

Sit down!—let not my presence trouble 
you— 

Sit down!—for I am humble. most 
humble. 

Jac. (aside) ’Tis time. 

(Jacinta seats herself in a_ side-long 
manner upon the chair, resting her 
elbows upon the back, and regard- 
ing her mistress with a contemptu- 


ous look. Lalage continues to 

read.) ; 

Lal. “It in another climate,’ so he 
said, 


“Bore a bright golden flower, but not 3’ 
this soil! (pauses—turns over some 
leaves, and resumes.) 

No lingering winters there, nor snow, — 
nor shower— 

But Ocean ever to refresh mankind 

Breathes the shrill spirit of the western — 
wind.” : 

Oh beautiful!—most beautiful!—how — 
like ¢ | 

To what my fevered soul doth dream 
of Heaven! 





POEMS 25 


O happy land! (pauses.) She died!— 
the maiden died! 
O still more happy maiden who couldst 
die! 
Jacinta! 
‘Jacinta returns no answer and Lalage 
presently resumes.) 
Again a similar tale 
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the 
sea! 
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the 
words of the play— 
“She died full young”—one Bossola an- 
swers him— 
“T think not so—her infelicity 
Seemed to have years too many’—Ah 
luckless lady! 
Jacinta! (still no answer). 
Here’s a far sterner story— 
But like—oh, very like in its despair— 
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so 
easily 
A thousand hearts—losing at length her 
own. 
She died. Thus ended the history— 
and her maids 
Lean over her and weep—two gentle 
maids 
With gentle names—Eiros and Char- 
mion! 
Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta! 
Jac. (pettishly). Madam what is it? 
Lal. Wilt thou, my goed Jacinta, be 
so kind 
As go down in the library and bring me 
The Holy Evangelists. 






Jac. Pshaw! (exit.) 
Lal. If there be balm 
For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is 
there! 
Dew in the night time of my bitter 
| trouble 
‘Will there be found—“dew sweeter far 
than that 


Which hangs like chains of pearl on 
Hermon hill.” 
(Re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume 
on the table.) 


_ There, Ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she 


is very troublesome (aside. ) 
Lal. (astonished) What didst thou 
say, Jacinta? Have I done aught 
To grieve thee or to vex theer—I am 
sorry. 
For thou hast served me long and ever 
been 
Trustworthy and respectful. (resumes 
her reading.) 
Jac. I can’t believe 
She has any more jewels—no—no— 
she gave me all (aside.) 
Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? 
Now I bethink me 
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy 
wedding. 
How fares good Ugo?—and when is it 
to be? 
Can I do aught?—is there no further 
aid 
Thou needest, Jacinta? 
Jac. Is there no further aid! 
That’s meant for me. (aside.) 
sure, Madam, you need not 
Be always throwing those jewels in my 
teeth. 
Lal. Jewels! Jacintax—now indeed, 
Jacinta, thought not of the jewels. 
Jac. Oh! perhaps not! 
But then I might have sworn it. After 
all 
There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste, 
For he’s sure the Count Castiglione 
never 
Would have given a real diamond to 
such as you; 
And at the best I’m certain, Madam, 
you cannot 


I’m 


26 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Have use for jewels now. But I might 
have sworn it. ( Exit.) 

(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her 
head upon the table—after a short 
pause raises it.) 

Lal. Poor Lalage!—and is it come to 

this? 

Thy servant maid!—but courage!—'tis 
but a viper 

Whom thou hast cherished to sting 
thee to the soul! (taking up the 


mirror.) 

Ha! here at least’s a friend—too much 
a friend 

In earlier days—a friend will not de- 
ceive thee. 


Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for 
thou canst) 
A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou 
not 
Though it be rife with woe. 
me. 
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted 
cheeks, 
And Beauty long deceased—remembers 
me 
Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph 
Hope, 
TInurned and entombed!—now, in a tone 
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, 
Whispers of early grave untimely yawn- 
ing 
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true! 
—thou liest not! 
Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to 
break— 
Castiglione lied who said he loved— 
Thou true—he false!—false!—false! 
(While she speaks, a monk enters 
_her apartment and approaches 
unobserved.) 
Monk. Refuge thou hast, 
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. 
eternal things! 


It answers 


Think of 


Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! 
Lal. (arising hurriedly) 1 cannot 

pray!—My soul is at war with 
God! 

The frightful sounds of merriment be- 
low 

Disturb my sense—go! I cannot pray— 

The sweet airs from the garden worry 
me! 

Thy presence grieves 
priestly raiment 
Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix 

With horror and awe! 
‘Monk. Think of thy precious soul! 
Lal. Think of my early days!—think 
of my father 
And mother in Heaven! think of our 


me—go!—-thy 


quiet home, 

And the rivulet that ran before the 
door! 

Think of my little sisters!—think of 
them! 

And think of me!—think of my trust- 
ing love 


And confidence—his vows—my ruin— 
think—think 
Of my unspeakable misery! begone! 
Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou 
saidst of prayer 
And penitence? Didst thou not speak 
of faith 
And vows before the throne? 
Monk. I did. 
Lal. ’Tis well. 
There zs a vow ’twere fitting should be 
made— 

A sacred vow, inperative, and urgent, 
A solemn vow! | 
Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well! 

Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but 
well! 
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? 
A crucifix whereon to register 









| 





POEMS 27 


This sacred vow? (he hands her his 
own.) 

Not that—Oh, no!—no!—no! (shudder- 
ing.) 

Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy 
man. 

Thy raiments and they ebony cross 
affright me! ais) 
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,— 
ZI have a crucifix! Methinks ’twere fit- 

. ting 
The deed—the vow—the symbol of the 
deed— 
And the deed’s register should tally, 
father! 
(draws a cross-handled dagger 
and raises it on high.) 
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like 
mine 
Is written in Heaven! 
Monk. Thy words 
daughter, 
And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips 
are livid— 
Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the 
wrath divine! 
Pause ere too late—oh, be not—be not 
rash! 
Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not! 
Lal, ’Tis sworn! 


are madness 


SCENE III 


An apartment in a palace. Politian and 
Baldazzar. 


Baldazzar. Arouse thee now, Politian! 
Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, 
thou shalt not 
Give way unto these humours. Be 
thyself! 
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 
And live, for now thou diest! 
Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! 


Surely I live. 
Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me 
To see thee thus. 
Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
To give thee cause for grief, my 
honoured friend. 
Command me, sir! for what wouldst 
thou have me do? 
At thy behest I will shake off that 
nature 
Which from my forefathers I did in- 
herit, 
Which with my mother’s milk I did 
imbibe, 
And be no more Politian, but some 
other. 
Command me, sir! 
Bal. To the field then—to the field— 
To the senate or the field. 
Pol. Alas! alas! 
There is an imp would follow me even 


there! 

There is an imp kath followed me even 
there! 

There is what voice is that? 





Bal. I heard it not. 
I heard not any voice except thine own. 
And the echo of thine own. 
Pol. Then I but dreamed. 
Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the 
camp—the court 
Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory 
calls— 
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt 
not hear 
In hearkening to imaginary sounds 
And phantom voices, 
Pol. It 1s a phantom voice! 
Didst thou not hear it then? 
Bal. I heard it not. 
Pol. Thou heardst it not!——-Baldaz- 
zar, speak no more. 
To me, Politian, of thy camps and 
courts. 


28 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Oh! 1 am sick, sick, sick, even unto 
death, 

Of the hollow and high-sounding vani- 
ties 

Of the populous Earth! 
yet awhile! 

We have been boys together—school- 
fellows— 

And now are friends—yet shall not be 
so long— 

For in the eternal city thou shalt do me 

A kind and gentle office, and a Power— 


Bear with me 


A Power august, benignant, and 
supreme— 

Shall then absolve thee of all further 
duties 


Unto thy friend. 
Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle 
I will not understand. 
_ Pol. Yet now as Fate 
Approaches, and the Hours are breath- 
ing low 
The sands of Time are changed to 
golden grains, 
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas! 
I cannot die, having within my heart 
So keen a relish for the beautiful 
As hath been kindled within it. 
thinks the air 
Is balmier now than it was wont to be— 
Rich melodies are floating in_ the 
winds— 
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth— 
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon 
Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou 
canst not say 
Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar? 
Bal. Indeed I hear not. 
Pol. Not hear it!—listen now— 
listen!—the faintest sound 
And vet the sweetest that ear ever 
heard! 
A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone! 
Baldazzar, it opvresses me like a spell! 


Me- 


Again!—again!—how solemnly if falls 
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent 
voice 
Surely I never heard—yet it were well 
Had I but heard it with its thrilling 
tones 
In earlier days! 
Bal. I myself hear it now. 
Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not 
greatly, 
Proceeds from yonder lattice—which 
you may see 
Very plainly through the window—it 
belongs, 
Does it not? unto this palace of the 
Duke. 
The singer is undoubtedly beneath 
The roof of his Excellency—and per- 
haps 
Is even that Alessandra of whom he 
spoke 
As the betrothed of Castiglione, 
His son and heir. 
Pol. Be still!—it comes again! 
Voice (very faintly). “And is thy 
heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus, 
Who have loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus? 
Say nay—say nay!” 
Bal. The song is English, and I oft | 
have heard it 
In merry England—never so _ plain- © 
tively— 
Hist! hist it comes again! 
Voice (more loudly). “Is it so strong 
As for to leave me thus | 
Who have loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among?» 
And is thy: heart so strong. =: ...” 
As for to leave me thus?s..! is 
Say nay—say. nay!” 











POEMS 


Bal. ’Tis hushed and all is still! 
Pol. All is not still. 

Bal. Let us go down. 

Pol. Go down Baldazzar, go! 

Bal. The hour is growing late—the 


Duke awaits us,— 
Thy presence is expected in the hall 
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian? 
Voice (distinctly). “Who have loved 
thee so long 
in wealth and woe among, 
And is thy heart so strong? 
Say nay—say nay!” 
Bal. Let us descend!—it is time. 
Politian give 
These fancies to the wind. Remem- 


ber, pray, 

Your bearing lately savoured much of 
rudeness 

Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and re- 
member! 

Pol. Remember? I do. Lead on! 
I do remember 
(going.) 
Let us descend. Believe me, I would 


give, 
Freely would give the broad lands of 
my earldom 


To look upon the face hidden by yon 


lattice— 
“To gaze upon that veiled face, and 
hear 
Once more that silent tongue.” 
Bal. Let me beg you, sir, 
Descend with me—the Duke may be 
offended— 


_ Let us go down, I pray you. 


Voice (loudly) Say nay!—say nay! 
Pol. (aside). ’Tis strange!—’tis very 
strange—methought the voice 
Chimed in with my desires, and bade 
me stay! 
(approaching the window.) 


Will madden me. 


29 


Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will 
surely stay. 
Now be this fancy, by Heaven, or be 
it Fate, 
Still I will not descend. 
make 
Apology unto the Duke for me; 
I go not down to-night. 
Bal. Your lordship’s pleasure 
Shall be attended to. Good-night, 
Politian. 
Pol. Good-night, my friend, good- 
night. 


Baldazzar, 


SCENE IV 


The gardens of a palace—Moonlight. 
Lalage and Politian. 


Lalage. And dost thou speak of love 
To me, Politian?—dost thou speak of 
love : 

To LalagePp—ah woe—ah woe is me! 

This mockery is most cruel—most cruel 
indeed! 

Politian. Weep not! oh, sob not thus! 

—thy bitter tears 

Oh mourn not, La- 
lage— 

Be comforted! I know—I know it all, 


And still I speak of love. Look at me, 
brightest, 

And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine 
eyes! 


Thou askest me if I could speak of love, 
Knowing what I know, and seeing what 
_ I have seen. 
Thou askest me that—and thus I an- 
swer thee— 
Thus on my bended knee I answer 
thee (kneeling.) 


Sweet Lalage, J love thee—love thee— 
love thee; 


30 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and woe 


I love thee. 

Not mother, with her first-born on her 
knee, 

Thrilis with intenser love than I for 
thee. 

Not on God’s altar, in any time or 
clime, 

Burned there a holier fire than burneth 
now 


Within my spirit for thee. And do I 


love? (arising.) 


Even for thy woes I love thee—even 
for thy woes— 
Thy beauty and thy woes. 


Lal. Alas, proud Earl, 
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering 
me! 
How, in thy father’s halls, among the 
maidens 
Pure and reproachless of thy princely 
line, 


Could the dishonoured Lalage abide? 

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory— 

My seared and blighted name, how 
would it tally 

With the ancestral honours of thy 
house, 

And with thy glory? 

Pol. Speak not to me of glory! 

I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor 

The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 

Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian? 

Do I not love—art thou not beautiful— 

What need we more? Ha! glory!— 
now speak not of it: 

By all I hold most sacred and abet 
solemn— 

By all my wishes now—my fears here- 
after— 

By all I scorn on earth and hope in 
heaven— 

There is no deed I would more glory in. 


Than in thy cause to scoff at this same 
glory 
And trample it underfoot. 
ters it— 
What matters it, my fairest, and my 
best, 
That we go down unhonoured and for- 
gotten 
Into the dust—so we descend together. 
Descend together—and then—and then 
perchance— 
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian? 
Pol. And then perchance 
Arise together, Lalage, and roam 
The starry and quiet dwellings of the 
blest, 
And still— 
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian? 
Pol. And still together—together. 
Lal. Now, Earl of Leicester! 
Thou lovest me, and in my heart of 
hearts 
I feel thou lovest me truly. 
Pol. Oh, Lalage! (throwing himself 
upon his knee). 
And lovest thou me? 
Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom 
Of yonder trees methought a figure 
passed— 
A spectral figure, solemn and slow, and 
noiseless— 
Like the green shadow conscience, sol- 
emn and noiseless. 
(walks across the returns). 
I was mistaken—’twas but a giant 
bough 
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian! 
Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art 
thou moved? 
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not con- 
science’ self, 
Far less a shadow which Purge likenest 
LODAL, 


What mat- 





POEMS 


Should shake the firm spirit thus. But 
the night wind 

Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs 

‘Throw over all things a gloom. 

Lal. Politian! 

Thou speakest to me of love. 
est thou the land 

With which all tongues are busy—a 
land new found— 

Miraculously found by one of Genoa— 

A thousand leagues within the golden 


Know- 


west? 

A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and 
sunshine, 

And crystal lakes, and over-arching 
forests, 


And mountains, around whose towering 
summits the winds 

Of heaven untrammelled flow—which 
air to breathe 

Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom 
hereafter 

In days that are to come? 

Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou 

Fly thither with me? There Care shall 
be forgotten, 

And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros 
be all. 

And life shall then be mine, for I will 
live 

For thee—and in thine eyes—and thou 
shalt be 

No more a mourner—but the radiant 
Joys 

Shall wait upon thee, and the angel 
Hope 

Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to 
thee 

And worship thee, and call thee my be- 
loved, 

My own, my beautiful, my love, my 
wife, | 

My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, La- 
lage, 


31 
Fly thither with me? 
Lal. A deed is to be done— 
Castiglione lives! 
Poi. And he shall die! ( Exit.) 


Lal. (after a pause). And—he—shalli 
—die! alas! 

Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? 

Where am I?—what was it he said?— 





Politian! 

Thou art not gone—-thou art not gone, 
Politian! 

I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not 
look, 

Lest I behold thee not—thou couldst 
not go 


With those words upon thy lips—O, 
speak to me! 
And let me hear thy voice—one word 


—one word, 

To say thou art not gone,—one little 
sentence, 

To say how thou dost scorn—how thou 
dost hate 


My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou 
art not gone— 

O, speak to me! I knew thou wouldst 
not go! 

I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, 
durst not go. 


Villain, thou art not pone HiOe mock- 








est me! 

And thus I clutch thee—thus! He is 
gone, he is gone— 

Gone—gone. Where am I? tis well 


—'tis very well! 

So that the blade be keen—the blow be 
sure, 

Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas! 


SCENE V. 


The Suburbs. Politian alone. 


Politian. This weakness grows upon 
me. I am faint, 


ae WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And much I fear me ill—it will not do 

To die ere I have lived!—Stay—stay 
thy hand, 

O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the 
Powers 

Of Darkness and the Tomb, O, pity me! 

O, pity me! let me not perish now, 

In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! 

Give me to live yet—yet a little while: 

’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late 

Demanded bvt to die!—what sayeth 
the Count? 


Enter Baldazzar. 


Baldazzar. That, knowing no cause of 
quarrel or of feud 
Between the Earl Politian and himself, 
He doth decline your cartel. 
Pol. What didst thou say? 
What answer was it you brought me, 
good Baldazzar? 
With what excessive fragrance the 
zephyr comes 
Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer 
day, 
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks 
No mortal eyes have seen!—what said 
the Count? 
Bal. That he, Castiglione, not being 
aware 
Of any feud existing, or any cause 
Of quarrel between your lordship and 
himself, 
Cannot accept the challenge. 
Pol. It is most true— 
All this is very true. When saw you, 
sir, 
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the 
frigid 
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, 
A heaven so calm as this—s0 utterly 
free 
From the evil taint of clouds?p—and he 
did say! 


Bal. No more, my lord, than I have 
told you, 
The Count Castiglione will not fight, 
Having no cause for quarrel. 


Pol. Now this is true— 

All very true. Thou art my friend, 
Baldazzar, 

And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do 
me 

A piece of service; wilt thou go back 
and say 

Unto this man, that’ I, the Earl of 
Leicester, 


Hold him a villian?p—thus much, I 
prythee, say 
Unto the Count—it is exceeding just 
He should have cause for quarrel. 
Bal. My lord!—my friend! 
Pol, (aside) ’Tis he—he comes him- 
self! (aloud). Thou reasonest well. 
I know what thou wouldst say—not 
send the message— 
Well!—I will think of it—I will not 
send: itis. 
Now prythee, leave me—hither doth 
come a person 
With whom affairs of a most private 
nature 
I would adjust. 
Bal. 1 go—to-morrow we meet, 
Do we not?—at the Vatican. 
Pol. At the Vatican. (Exit Bal.) 





Enter Castiglione. 


Cas. The Earl of Leicester here! 
Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and 
thou seest, 
Dost thou not, that I am here? 
Cas. My Lord, some strange, 
Some singular mistake—misunderstand- 
ing— 
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast 
been urged 





POEMS 33 


Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 
Some words most unaccountable. in 
writing, 
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being 
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am 
aware 
Of nothing which might warrant thee 
in this thing, 
Having given thee no offence. 
am i right? 
’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all 
Do err at times. 
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more! 
Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have 
at thee then at once, 
Proud Earl! (Draws.) 
Pol. (drawing). Thus to the expiatory 
tomb, 
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee 
In the name of Lalage! 

Cas. (letting fall his sword and re- 
coiling to the extremity of the 
stage) Of Lalage! 

Hold offi—thy sacred hand!—avaunt I 
say! . 

Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed 
I dare not. 

Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst 
say, Sir Count? 

Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is 
well; 
Didst say thou darest not? Ha! 

Cas. I dare not—dare not—! 

Hold off thy hand—with that beloved 
name 

So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight 
thee— 

I cannot—dare not. 

Pol. Now by my halidom 

I do believe thee!—coward, I do be- 
lieve thee! 

Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be! 
(clutches his sword and staggers 


Ha!— 


towards Politian, but his pur- 
pose 1s changed before reaching 
him, and he falls upon his knee 
at the feet of the Earl.) 
Alas, my lord. 
It is—it is—most true. ‘In such a cause 
I am the veriest coward. O pity me! 
Pol. (greatly softened). Alas!—I do 
indeed, I pity thee. 
Cas. And Lalage 
Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die! 
Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus— 
O let me die 
Thus on my bended knee. It were most 
fitting 
That in this deep humiliation I perish. 
For in the fight I will not raise a hand 
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike 
thou home— (baring his bosom). 
Here is no let or hindrance to thy 
weapon— 
Strike home. I will not fight thee. 
Pol. Now’s Death and Hell! 
Am I not—am I not sorely—greviously 





tempted 

To take thee at thy word? But mark 
me, sir: 

Think not to fly me thus. Do thou pre- 
pare 


For public insult in the streets—before 

The eyes of the citizens. Ill follow 
thee— 

Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee 

Even unto death. Before those whom 
thou lovest— 

Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain, 
—TI’ll taunt thee, 

Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt 
not fight me? 

Thou liest! thou shalt! (Exit.) 

Cas. Now this indeed is just! 

Most righteous, and most just, aveng- 

ing Heaven! 


34 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


SONNET—TO SCIENCE 


Private reasons—some of which 
have reference to the sin of plagiarism, 
and others to the date of Tennyson’s 
first poems—hdve induced me, after 
some hesitation, to re-publish these, the 
crude compositions of my earliest boy- 
hood. They are printed verbatim— 
without alteration from the original ed- 
ition—the date of which is too remote 
to be judiciously acknowledged. E. A. P. 


(The Sonnet to Science headed the 
edition prefaced by the above remark. 
At the age of 14, Poe was a poet.—Ed.) 


ScIENCE! true daughter of Old Time 


thou art! 
Who alterest all things with thy peer- 
ing eyes. 
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s 
heart, 
Vulture, whose wings are dull reali- 
ties? 
How should he love thee? or how deem 
thee wise, 
Who wouldst not leave him in his 
wandering 
To seek for treasure in the jewelled 
skies, 
Albeit he soared with an undaunted 
wing? 
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her 
carp 
And driven the Hamadryad from the 
wood 


To seek a shelter in some happier star? 
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from 


her flood, 
The Elfin from the green grass, and 
from me 
The summer dream beneath the tama- 
rind tree? 


AL AARAAF* 
PART I. 


O! NOTHING earthly save the ray 

(Thrown back from flowers) of Beau- 
ty’s eye, 

As in those gardens where the day 

Springs from the gems of Circassy— 

O! nothing earthly save the thrill 

Of melody in woodland rill— 

Or (music of the passion-hearted) 

Joy’s voice so peacefully departed, 

That, like the murmur in the shell, 

Its echo dwelleth and will dwell— 

Oh, nothing of the dross of ours— 

Yet all the beauty—all the flowers 

That list our Love, and deck our bcw- 
ers— 

Adorn yon world afar, afar— 

The wandering star. 


"Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for 
there 
Her world lay lolling on the golden air, 
Near four bright suns—a temporary 
rest 
An oasis in desert of the blest. 
Away—away—’mid seas of rays that 
roll 
Empyrean splendour o’er th’ unchained 
soul— 
The soul that scarce (the billows are so 
dense) 
Can struggle to its destined eminence— 


* A star was discovered by Tycho 
Brahe which appeared suddenly in the 
heavens—attained, in a few days, a bril- 
liancy surpassing that of Jupiter—then 
as suddenly disappeared, and has never 
been seen since.—E. A. P. 

(This and subsequent notes wer? 
written by Poe himself.—Ed.) 


POEMS 35 


& 

To distant spheres, from time to time, 
she rode, 

And late to ours, the favoured one of 
God— 


But, now, the ruler of an anchored 
realm, 

She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the 
helm, 

And, amid incense and high spiritual 
hymns, 

Laves in quadruple light her angel 
limbs. 


Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely 

Earth, 

Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” 
into birth. 

(Falling in wreaths 
startled star, 

Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until 
afar, 

It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) 

She looked into Infinity—and knelt. 

Rich clouds, for canopies, about her 
curled— 

Fit emblems of the model of her 
world— 

Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight 

Of other beauty glittering through the 
light— 

A wreath that twined each starry form 
around, 

And all the opalled air in colour bound. 


thro’? many a 


All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed 

Of flowers; of lilies such as reared the 
head 

On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang 

So eagerly around about to hang 

Upon the flying footsteps of—deep 
pride— 

Of her who loved a mortal—and so died. 

The Sephalica, budding with young bees, 


Upreared its purple stem around her 


knees: 

And gemmy flower, of Trebizond mis- 
named 

Inmate of highest stars, where erst it 
shamed 


All other loveliness; its honied dew 

(The fabled nectar that the heathen 
knew) ; 

Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from 
Heaven, 

And fell on gardens of the unforgiven 

In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower 

So like its own above, that, to this hour, 

It still remaineth, torturing the bee 

With madness, and unwonted reverie: 

In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf 

And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief 

Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs 
her head, 

Repenting follies that full long have fled, 

Heaving her white breast on the balmy 
air, 

Like guilty beauty, chastened, and more 
fair: 

Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light 

She fears to perfume, perfuming the 
night : 

And Clytia* pondering between many a 
sun, 

While pettish tears adown her petals 
run; 

And that aspiring flowert that sprang 
on Earth— 

And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, 

Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to 
wing 





* Clytia—The Chrysanthemum Peru- 
vianum. 

+ There is cultivated in the king’s 
garden at Paris a species of serpentine 
aloes without prickles. 


36 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Its way to Heaven, from garden of a 
king: 
And Valisnerian lotus* thither flown 
From struggling with the waters of the 
Rhone: 
And thy most lovely purple perfume,t 
Zante! 
Isola d’oro!—Fior-di-Levante! 
And the Nelumbo bud¢ that floats for 
ever 
With Indian Cupid down the holy 
river— 
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is 
given 
To bear the goddess’ song, in odours, up 
to Heaven: 
“Spirit! that dwellest where, 
In the deep sky, 
The terrible and fair, 
In beauty vie! 
Beyond the line of blue— 
The boundary of the star 
Which turneth at the view 
Of thy barrier and thy bar— 
Of the barrier overgone 
By the comets who were cast 
From their pride, and from their throne, 
To be drudges till the last— 
To be carriers of fire 
(The red fire of their heart) 
With speed that may not tire, 
And with pain that shall not ’part— 
Who livest—that we know— 
In Eternity—we feel— 
But the shadow of whose brow 
What spirit shall reveal? 
Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace, 
Thy messenger, hath known 





* There is found in the Rhone a beau- 
tiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. 

+ The Hyacinth. 

tA fiction of the Indians. 


Have dream’d for thy Infinity 
A model of their own— 
Thy will is done, Oh, God! 
The star hath ridden high 
Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode 
Beneath thy burning eye; 
And here, in thought, to thee— 
In thought that can alone 
Ascend thy empire, and to be 
A partner of thy throne— 
By winged fantasy 
My embassy is given, 
Till secrecy shall knowledge be 
In the environs of Heaven.” 
She ceased—and buried then her burn- 
ing cheek 
Abashed, amid the lilies there, to seek 
A shelter from the fervour of his eye; 
For the stars trembled at the Deity. 
She stirred not—breathed not—for a 
voice was there 
How solemnly pervading the calm air! 
A sound of silence on the startled ear 
Which dreamy poets name ‘the music 
of the sphere.” 
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call 
“‘Silence”—which is the merest word of 
onsall 
All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things 
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary 
wings— 
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on 
high 
The eternal voice of God is passing by, 
And the red winds are withering in the 
sky! 


“What tho’ in worlds which sightless 
cycles run, 
Link’d to a little system, and one sun— 
Where all my love is folly and the 
crowd 
Still think my terrors but the thunder 
cloud, 





POEMS 37 


The storm, the earthquake, and the 
ocean-wrath— 

(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier 
path?) 

What tho’ in worlds which own a single 
sun 

The sands of Time grow dimmer as they 
run, 

Yet thine is my resplendency, so given 

To bear my secrets thro’ the upper 
Heaven. 

Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and 

_- Uy; 

With all thy train, athwart the moony 
sky— 

Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,* 

And wing to other worlds another light! 

Divulge the secrets of thy embassy 

To the proud orps that twinkle—and 
to be 

To every heart a barrier and a ban 

Lest the stacs totter in the guilt of 
man!” 


Up rose the maiden in the yellow 
night, 
The single-mooned eve!—on Earth we 
plight 
Our faith to one love—and one moon 
adore— 
The birthplace of young Beauty had 
no more. 
As sprang that yellow star from downy 
hours 
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of 
* flowers, 
And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim 
plain. 


*I have ofte: noticed a peculiar 

movement of the Sre-flies;—they will 
_ collect in a body and fly off, from a 
_ common centre, into innumerable radii. 


Her way—but left not yet her Ther- 
asaean reign.* 


PART II. 


HicH on a mountain of enamelled 
head— 

Such as the drowsy shepherd on his 
bed 

Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, 

Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and 


sees 

With many a muttered “hope to be for- 
given,” 

What time the moon is quadrated in 
Heaven— 


Of rosy head, that towering far away 

Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray 

Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of 
night, 

While the moon danced with the fair 
stranger light— 

Upreared upon such height arose a pile 

Or gorgeous columns on th’ unburth- 
ened air, 

Flashing from Parian marble that twin 
smile 

Far down upon the wave that sparkled 
there, 

And nursled the young mountain in its 
lair. 

Of molten stars their pavement, such 
as fall 

Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall 

Of their own dissolution, while they 
die— 

Adorning then the dwellings of the 


sky. 
A dome—by linked light from Heaven 
let down, 


* Theraszea, or Therasea, the island 


_ mentioned by Seneca, which in a mo- 


ment arose from the sea to the eyes of 
astonished mariners. 


38 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Sat gently on these columns as a 
crown— 

A window of one circular diamond, 
there, 


Looked out above into the purple air, 
And rays from God shot down that 
meteor chain 


And hallowed all the beauty twice 


again, 

Save when, between th’ Empyrean and 
that ring, 

Some eager spirit flapped his dusky 
wing. 

But on the pillars Seraph eyes have 
seen 

The dimness of this world: that grey- 
ish green 

That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s 
grave 

Lurked in each cornice, round each 
architrave— 

And every sculptured cherub there- 
about 

That from this marble dwelling peered 
out, 

Seemed earthly in the shadow of his 
niche— 


Achaian statues in a world so rich! 

Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis— 

From Baalbec, and the stilly, clear 
abyss 

Of beautiful Gomorrha! O, the wave 

Is now upon thee—but too late to 


save! 

Sound loves to revel in a summer 
night: 

Witness the murmur of the grey 
twilight 


That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco* 
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago— 


That stealeth ever on the ear of him 


* Eyraco—Chaldea. 


Who, musing, gazeth on the distance 
dim, 

And sees the darkness coming as a 
cloud— 

Is not its form—its voice—most pal- 
pable and loud?* 


But what is this!—it cometh—and it 


hrings 

A music with it—’tis the rush of 
wings— : 

A pause—and then a sweeping, falling 
strain 


And Nesace is in her halls again. 
From the wild energy of wanton haste 
Her cheeks were flushing, and her 


lips apart; 

The zone that clung around her gentle 
waist 

Had burst beneath the heaving of 

her heart. 

Within the centre of that hall to 
breathe 

She paused and panted, Zanthe! all 
beneath 

The fairy light that kissed her golden 
hair, 


And longed to rest, yet could but 
sparkle there! 


Young flowers were whispering in 
melody 


To happy flowers that night—and tree 
TORLLeE., 

Fountains were gushing music as they 
fell ‘ 

In many a star-lit grave, or moon-lit 
dell; 

Yet silence came upon material things— 


*T have often thought I could dis- 
tinctly hear the sound of the darkness 
as it stole over the horizon. 





POEMS 39 


Fair flowers, bright waterfalls, 
angel wings— 

And sound alone that from the spirit 
sprang 

Bore burden to the charm the maiden 
sang: 


“Neath blue-bell or streamer— 
Of tufted wild spray 
That keeps, from the dreamer, 
The moonbeam away— 
Bright beings! that ponder, 
With half closing eyes, 
On the stars which your wonder 
Hath drawn from the skies, 
Till they glance thro’ the shade, and 
Come down to your brow 
Like eyes of the maiden 
Who calls on you now— 
Arise! from your dreaming 
In violet bowers, 
To duty beseeming 
These star-litten hours— 
And shake from your tresses 
Encumbered with dew 
The breath of those kisses 
That cumber them too— 
(O! how, without you, Love! 
Could angels be blest?) 
Those kisses of true love 
That lulled ye to rest! 
Up! shake from your wing 
Each hindering thing: 
The dew of the night— 
It would weigh down your flight; 
And true love caresses— 
O! leave them apart! 
They are light on the tresses, 
But lead on the heart. 





Ligeia! Ligeia! 
My beautiful one! 
Whose harshest idea 
Will to melody run, 


and O! is it thy will 


On the breezes to toss? 
Or, capriciously still, 

Like the lone Albatross,* 
Incumbent on night 

(As she on the air) 
To keep watch with delight 

On the harmony there? 


Ligeia! wherever 
Thy image may be, 
No magic shall sever 
Thy music from thee. 
Thou hast bound many eyes 
In a dreamy sleep— 
But the strains still arise 
Which thy vigilance keep— 
The sound of the rain, 
Which leaps down to the flower 
And dances again 
In the rhythm of the shower— 
The murmur that springs 
From the growing of grass— 
Are the music of things— 
But are modelled, alas!— 
Away, then, my dearest, 
O! hie thee away 
To springs that lie clearest 
Beneath the moon-ray— 
To lone lake that smiles, 
In its dream of deep rest, 
At the many star-isles 
That enjewel its breast— 
Where wild flowers, creeping, 
Have mingled their shade, 
On its margin is sleeping 
Full many a maid— 
Some have left the cool glade, and 
Have slept with the bee— 
Arouse them, my maiden, 
On moorland and lea— 





* The Albatross is said to sleep on 
the wing. 


40 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Go! breathe on their slumber, 
All softly in ear 

The musical number 
They slumbered to hear— 

For what can awaken 
An angel so soon 

Whose sleep hath been taken 
Beneath the cold moon, 

As the spell which no slumber 
Of witchery may test, 

The rhythmical number 
Which lulled him to rest?” 


Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, 

A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean 
thro’, 

Young dreams still hovering on their 
drowsy flight— 

Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the 
keen light 

That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, 


afar, 
O Death! from the eye of God upon 
that star: 


Sweet was that error—sweeter still that 
death— 
Sweet was that error—ev’n with us the 


breath » 

Of Science dims the mirror of our 
J0Y= 

To them ’twere the Simoom, and would 
destroy— 


For what (to them) availeth it to know 

That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss 
is Woe? 

Sweet was their death—with them to 
die was rife 

With the last ecstasy of satiate life— 

Beyond that death no immortality— 

But sleep that ‘pondereth and is “not 
to be’— | 

And there—oh! may my weary spirit 
dwell— 


Apart from Heaven’s eternity—and 
yet how far from Hell! 


What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery 
dim, 

Heard not the stirring summons of that 
hymn? 

But two: they fell: for Heaven no 
grace imparts 

To those who hear not for their beat- 
ing hearts. 

A maiden angel and her seraph-lover— 

O! where (and ye may seek the wide 
skies over) 

Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty 
known? 

Unguided Love hath  fallen—’mid 
“tears of perfect moan.” 


He was a goodly spirit—he who fell: 
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well— 
A gazer on the lights that shine above~ 
A dreamer in the moon-beam by his 


love: 

What wonder? for each star is eye-like 
there, 

And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s 
hair— 

And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were 
holy 

To his love-haunted heart and melan- 
choly. 

The night had found (to him a night 
of woe) 


Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo— 

Beetling it bends athwart the solemn 
sky, 

And scowls on starry worlds that dowr. 
beneath it lie. 

Here sate he with his love—his dark 
eye bent | 

With eagle gaze along the firmament: 

Now turned it upon her—but ever then 

It trembled to the orb of Earth again. 








POEMS 41 


“Janthe, dearest, see! how dim that 
ray! 

How lovely ’tis to look so far away! 

She seemed not thus upon that autumn 


eve 

I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourned 
to leave. 

That eve—that eve—I should remem- 
ber well— 7 

The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos, with 
a spell 


On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded 
hall 
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied 


wall— 

And on my eye-lids—O, the heavy 
light! | 

How drowsily it weighed them into 
night! 

On flowers, before, and mist, and love 
they ran 

With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: 

But O, that light!—I slumbered— 


Death, the while, 
Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle 
So softly that no single silken hair 
Awoke that slept—or knew that he was 
there. 


“The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod 
upon | 

Was a proud temple called the Parthe- 
non; 

More beauty clung around her col- 
umned wall 

Than even thy glowing bosom beats 


withal, 

And when old Time my wing did dis- 
enthral 

Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his 
tower, 


And years I left behind me in an hour. 
What time upon her airy bounds I 
hung 


One half the garden of her globe was 
flung 

Unrolling as a chart unto my view— 

Tenantless cities of the desert too! 

Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, 

And half I wished to be again of men.” 


“My Angelo! and why of them to be? 
A brighter dwelling-place is here for 


thee— 

And greener fields than in yon world 
above, 

And woman’s loveliness—and_ passion- 
ate love.” 


“But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft 

Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt 
aloft, 

Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the 
world 

I left so late was into chaos hurled, 

Sprang from her station, on the winds 
apart, 

And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven 
athwart. 

Methought, my sweet one, 
ceased to soar, 

And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, 

But with a downward, tremulous 
motion thro’ 

Light, brazen rays, this golden star 
unto! 

Nor long the measure of my falling 
hours, 

For nearest of all stars was thine to 
ours— 

Dread star! that came, amid a night 
of mirth, 

A red Dedalion on the timid Earth.” 


then I 


“We came—and to thy Earth—but not 
to us 

Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss: 

We came, my love; around, above, 
below, 


42 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Gay fire-fly of the night we come and 
go, 

Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod 

She grants to us as granted by her 

~ God— 

But, Angelo, than thine grey Time un- 
furled 

Never his fair wing o’er fairer world! 

Dim was its little disc, and angel eyes 

Alone could see the phantom in the 
skies, 

When first Al Aaraaf knew her course 
to be 

Headlong thitherward o’er the starry 
sea— 

But when its glory swelled upon the 
sky, 

As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s 
eye, 

We paused before the heritage of men, 

And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty 
then!” 


Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled 
away 

The night that waned and waned and 
brought no day. 

They fell: for Heaven to them no hope 
imparts 

Who hear not for the beating of their 
hearts. 


TAMERLANE 


(“Tamerlane” was the first poem 
ever published by Poe. It headed a 
Boston edition of 1827.—Ed.) 


Kinp solace in a dying hour! 
Such, Father, is not (now) my 
theme— 
I will not madly deem that power 
Of Earth may shrive me of the 
sin 
Unearthy pride hath revelled in— 


I have no time to dote or dream: 
You call it hope—that fire of fire! 
It is but agony of desire: 

If I can hope—O God! I can— 

Its fount is holier—more divine— 
I would not call thee fool, old man, 

But such is not a gift of thine. 


Know thou the secret of a spirit 

Bowed from its wild pride 
shame. 

O yearning heart! I did inherit 
Thy withering portion with the fame, 

The searing glory which hath shone 

Amid the jewels of my throne, 

Halo of Hell! and with a pain 

Not Hell shall make me fear again— 


into 


O craving heart, for the lost flowers 
And sunshine of my summer hours! 
The undying voice of that dead time, 
With its interminable chime, 

Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 

Upon thy emptiness—a knell. 


I have not always been as now: 

The fevered diadem on my brow 
I claimed and won usurpingly— 

Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Cesar—this to me? 
The heritage of a kingly mind, 

And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 


On mountain soil I first drew life: 
The mists of the Tagley have shea 
Nightly their dews upon my head, 

And, I believe, the winged strife 

And tumult of the headlong air 

Have nestled in my very hair. 


So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell 
(Mid dreams of an unholy night) 

Upon me with the touch of Hell, 
While the red flashing of the light 





POEMS 43 


From clouds that hung, like banners, 
o’er, 
Appeared to my half-closing eye 
The pageantry of monarchy; 
And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar 
Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
Of human battle where my voice, 
My own voice, silly child!—was 
swelling 
(O! how my spirit would rejoice, 
And leap within me at the cry) 
The battle-cry of Victory! 


The rain came down upon my head 
Unsheltered—and the heavy wind 
Rendered me mad and deaf and 

blind. 

It was but man, I thought, who shed 
Laurels upon me: and the rush— 

The torrent of the chilly air 
Gurgled within ear the crush 
Of empires—with the  captive’s 

prayer— 

The hum of suitors—and the tone 

Of flattery ’round a sovereign’s throne. 

My passion, from that hapless hour, 
Usurped a tyranny which men 

Have deemed since I have reached to 

power, 
My innate nature—be it so; 

But, father, there lived one who, 
then, 

Then—in my boyhood—when their fire 
Burned with a still intenser giow 

(For passion must, with youth, expire) 
E’en then who knew this iron heart 
In woman’s weakness had a part. 


I have no words—alas!—to tell 

The loveliness of loving weli! 

Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 
Are——shadows on th’ unstable wind: 


Thus I remember having dwelt 
Some page of early lore upon, 
With loitering eye, till I have felt 
The letters—with their meaning—melt 
To fantasies—with none. 


O, she was worthy of all love! 
Love as in infancy was mine— 
’Twas such an angel minds above 
Might envy; her young heart the 
shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 
Were incense—then a goodly gift, 
For they were childish and up- 
right— | 
Pure as her young example taught: 
Why did I leave it, and, adrift, 
Trust to the fire within, for light? 


We grew in age—and love—together— 
Roaming the forest, and the wild; 


My breast her shield in wintry 
weather— 

And, when the friendly sunshine 
smiled. 


And she would mark the opening skies, 
I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes, 





Young Love’s first lesson is the 
heart; 

For ’mid that sunshine, and those 
smiles, 


When, from our little cares apart, 
And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, 
And pour my spirit out in tears— 
There was no need to speak the rest— 

No need to quiet any fears 
Of her—who asked no reason why, 
But turned on me her quiet eye! 


Yet more than worthy of the love 

My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
When, on the mountain peak, alone, 
Ambition lent it. a new tone— 


44 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I had no being—but in thee: 
The world, and all it did contain 
In the earth—the air—the sea— 
Its joy—its little lot of pain 
That was new pleasure—the ideal, 
Dim vanities of dreams by night— 
And dimmer nothings which were real— 
(Shadows—and a more _ shadowy 
light!) 
Parted upon their. misty wings, 
And, so, confusedly, became 


Thine image and—a name—a 
name! 

Two separate—yet most intimate 
things. 


I was ambitious—have you known 
The passion, father? You have 
not: 
A cottager, I marked a throne 
Of half the world as all my own, 
And murmured at such a lowly 
lot— 
But, just like any other dream, 
Upon the vapour of the dew 
My own had past, did not the beam 
Of beauty which did while it thro’ 
minute—the hour—the day— 
oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 


The 


We walked together on the crown 

Of a high mountain which looked down 

Afar from its proud natural towers 
Of rock and forest, on the hills— 

The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers 
And shouting with a thousand rills. 


I spoke to her of power and pride, 
But mystically—in such guise 
That she might deem it nought beside 
The moment’s converse; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too carelessly— 
A mingled feeling with my own— 


The flush on her bright cheek to me 
Seemed to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be 
Light in the wilderness alone. 


I wrapped myself in grandeur then, 
And donned a visionary crown— 
Yet it was not that Fantasy 

Had thrown her mantle over me—~ 
But that, among the rabble—men, 
Lion ambition is chained down— 
And crouches to a keeper’s hand— 
Not so in deserts where the grand— 
The wild—the terrible conspire 
With their own breath to fan his fire. 


Look ’round thee now on Samarcand!— 
Is she not queen of Earth? her pride 
Above all cities? in her hand 
Their destinies? in all beside 
Of glory which the world hath known 
Stands she not nobly and alone? 
Falling—her veriest stepping-stone 
Shall form the pedestal of a throne— 
And who her sovereign? Timour—he 
Whom the astonished people saw 
Striding o’er empires haughtily 
A diademed outlaw! 


O, human love! thou spirit given, 

On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! 
Which fall’st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-withered plain, 

And failing in thy power to bless, 
But leav’st the heart a wilderness! 
Idea! which bindest life around 
With music of so strange a sound 
And beauty of so wild a birth— 
Farewell! for I have now the Earth. 


When Hope, the eagle that towered, 
could see 
No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
His pinions were bent droopingly— 
And homeward turned his softened 
eye. 





POEMS 45 


*Twas sunset: when the sun will part 

There comes a sullenness of heart 

To him who still would look upon 

The glory of the summer sun. 

That soul will hate the ev’ning mist 

So often lovely, and will list 

To the sound of the coming darkness 
(known 

To those whose spirits harken) as one 

Who, in a dream of night, would fly, 

But cannot, from a danger nigh. 


What tho’ the moon—tho’ the white 
moon 

Shed all the splendor of her noon, 

Her smile is chilly—and her beam, 

In that time of dreariness, will seem 

(So like you gather in your breath) 

A portrait taken after death. 

And boyhood is a summer sun 

Whose waning is the dreariest one— 

For all we live to know is known 

And for all we seek to keep hath 
flown— 

Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 

With the noon-day beauty—which is 
all. 


I reached my home—my home no 
more 
For all had flown who made it so. 
I passed from out its mossy door, 
And, tho’ my tread was soft and 
low, 
A voice came from the threshold stone 
_ Of one whom I had earlier known— 
O I defy thee, Hell, to show 
On beds of fire that burn below, 
An humbler heart—a deeper woe. 


_ Father, I firmly do believe— 
I know—for Death who comes for 
me 
From regions of the blest afar, 


Where there is nothing to deceive, 
Hath left his iron gate ajar 

And rays of truth you cannot see 
Are flashing thro’ Eternity 

I do believe that Eblis hath 

A snare in every human path— 

Else how, when in the holy grove 

I wandered of the idol, Love — 

Who daily scents his snowy wings 

With incense of burnt-offerings 

From the most unpolluted things, 

Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 

Above with trellised rays from Heaven 

No mote may shun—no tiniest fly— 

The light’ning of his eagle eye— 

How was it that Ambition crept, 
Unseen, amid the revels there, 

Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 
In the tangles of Love’s very hair? 





TO THE RIVER —— 


Farr river; in thy bright clear flow 
Of crystal, wandering water, 
Thou art an emblem of the glow 
Of beauty—the unhidden heart— 
The playful maziness of art 
In old Alberto’s daughter; 


But when within. they wave she looks— 
Which glistens then, and trembles— 

Why, then, the prettiest of brooks 
Her worshipper resembles; 

For in his heart, as in thy stream, 
Her image deeply les— 

His heart which trembles at the beam 
Of her soul-searching eyes. 


TO —— 


Tue bowers whereat, in dreams, I see 
The wantonest singing birds, 

Are lips—and all thy melody 
Of lip-begotten words— 


46 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart en- 
shrined 
Then desolately fall, 
O God! on my funereal mind 
Like starlight on a pall— 


Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and 
sigh 
And sleep to dream till day 
Of the truth that gold can never buy— 
Of the baubles that it may. 


A DREAM 


IN visions of the dark night 
I have dreamed of joy departed— 
But a waking dream of life and light 
Hath left me broken-hearted. 


Ah! what is not a dream by day 
To him whose eyes are cast 
On things around him with a ray 
Turned back upon the past? 


That holy dream—that holy dream, 
While all the world were chiding, 

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam, 
A lonely spirit guiding. 


What though that light, thro’ storm 
and night, 
So trembled from afar— 
What could there be more purely 
bright 
In Truth’s day-star? 


ROMANCE 


RomANCE, who loves to nod and sing, 
With drowsy head and folded wing, 
Among the green leaves as they shake 
Far down within some shadowy lake, 
To me a painted paroquet 

Hath been—a most familiar bird— 


Taught me my alphabet to say— 
To lisp my very earliest word 
While in the wild wood I did lie, 
A child—with a most knowing eye. 


Of late, eternal Condor years 

So shake the very Heaven on high 
With tumult as they thunder by, 

I have no time for idle cares 

Through gazing on the unquiet sky. 
And when an hour with calmer wings 
Its down upon my spirit flings— 
That little time with lyre and rhyme 
To while away—forbidden thing! 

My heart would feel to be a crime 
Unless it trembled with the strings. 


FAIRYLAND 


(A portion of “Fairyland” appeared 
separately in the Yankee Literary Ge- 
zette, 1829.—Ed.) 


Dim vales—and shadowy floods~ 
And cloudy-looking woods, 

Whose forms we can’t discover 
For the tears that drip all over 
Huge moons there wax and wane— 
Again—again—again— 

Every moment of the night— 
Forever changing places— 

And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale faces. 
About twelve by the moon-dial 
One more filmy than the rest 

(A kind which, upon trial, 

They have found to be the best) 
Comes down—still down—and down 
With its centre on the crown 

Of a mountain’s eminence, 

While its wide circumference 

In easy drapery falls 

Over hamlets, over halls, 
Wherever they may be— 


POEMS 47 


O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea — 
Over spirits on the wing— 
Over every drowsy thing— 
And buries them up quite 

In a labyrinth of light— 

And then, how deep!—O, deep! 
Is the passion of their sleep. 
In the morning they arise, 
And their moony covering 

Is soaring in the skies, 

With the tempests as they toss, 
Like almost any thing— 
Or a yellow Albatross. 

They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before— 
Videlicet a tent— 

Which I think extravagant: 
Its atomies, however, 

Into a shower dissever, 

Of which those butterflies, 

Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again 
(Never-contented things!) 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quavering wings. 





THE LAKE 


In spring of youth it was my lot 

To haunt of the wide world a spot 
The which I could not love the less— 
So lovely was the loneliness 

Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
And the tall pines that towered around. 


But when the Night had thrown her 
pall 

Upon that spot, as upon all, 

And the mystic wind went by 

Murmuring in melody— 

Then—ah, then, I would awake 

To the terror of the lone lake. 


Yet that terror was not fright, - 

But a tremulous delight— 

A feeling not the jewelled mine 

Could teach or bribe me to define— 

Nor Love—although the Love were 
thine. 


Death was in that poisonous wave, 
And in its gulf a fitting grave 

For him who thence could solace bring 
To his lone imagining— 

Whose solitary soul could make 

An Eden of that dim lake. 


SONG 


I saw thee on thy bridal day— 
When a burning blush came o’er 
thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay, 
The world all love before thee: 


And in thine eye a kindly light 
(Whatever it might be) 

Was all on Earth my aching sight 
Of loveliness could see. 


That blush, 
shame— 
As such it well may pass— 
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer 
flame 
In the breast of him, alas! 


perhaps, was maiden 


Who saw thee on that bridal day, 
When that deep blush would come 
o’er thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay, 
The world all love before thee. 


48 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


TO HELEN 


HELEN, thy beauty is to me 
Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 


On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece, 

To the grandeur that was Rome. 


Lo! in yon brilliant window niche, 
How statue-like I see thee stand, 
The agate lamp within thy hand! 

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are the Holy Land! 


SPIRITS OF THE. DEAD, 


(This poem is also called “Visit of the 
Dead.”—Ed.) 


Tuy soul shall find itself alone 
’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb- 
stone— 

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry 
Into thine hour of secrecy. 
Be silent in that solitude 

Which is not loneliness—for then 
The spirits of the dead who stood 

In life before thee are again 
In death around thee—and their will 
Shall overshadow thee: be still. 
The night—tho’ clear—shall frown— 
And the stars shall not look down 
From their high thrones in the Heaven, 
With light like Hope to mortals given— 
But their red orbs, without beam, 
To thy weariness shall seem 


As a burning and a fever 

Which could cling to thee for ever. 

Now are thoughts thou shalt not ban- 
ish— 

Now are visions ne’er to vanish— 

From thy spirit shall they pass 

No more—like dew-drops from the 
grass. 

The breeze—the breath of God—is 
still— | 

And the mist upon the hill 

Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken, 

Is a symbol and a token— 

How it hangs upon the trees, 

A mystery of mysteries! 





EVENING STAR. 


’Twas noontide of summer, 
And midtime of night, 
And stars, in their orbits, 
Shone pale, through the light 
Of the brighter, cold moon. 
"Mid planets her slaves, 
Herself in the Heavens, 
Her beam on the waves. 


I gazed awhile 
On her cold smile; 

Too cold—too cold for me— 
There passed, as a shroud, 
A fleecy cloud, 

And I turned away to thee, 
Proud Evening Star, 

In thy glory afar 

And dearer thy beam shall be; 
For joy to my heart 
Is the proud part 

Thou bearest in Heaven at 
And more I admire 
Thy distant fire, 

Than that colder, lowly light. 








night, | 


POEMS 49 


IMITATION. 


A DARK unfathomed tide 

Of interminable pride— 

A mystery, and a dream, 

Should my early life seem; 

I say that dream was fraught 
With a wild and waking thought 
Of beings that have been, 
Which my spirit hath not seen, 
Had I let them pass me by, 
With a dreaming eye! 

Let none of earth inherit 

That vision on my spirit; 

Those thoughts I would control, 
As a spell upon his soul: 

For that bright hope at last 
And that light time have past, 
And my worldly rest hath gone 
With a sigh as it passed on: 

I care not though it perish 
With a thought I then did cherish. 


Siti APPIEST DAY” 


i: 


THE happiest day—the happiest hour 
-My seared and blighted heart hath 
known, 
The highest hope of pride and power, 
I feel hath flown. 


II. 


Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween 

But they have vanished long, alas! 
The visions of my youth have been— 
But let them pass. 


TIT . 


And pride, what have I now with thee? 
Another brow may ev’n inherit 

The venom that hast poured on me— 
Be still my spirit! 


IV. 


The happiest day—the happiest hour 
Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen 

The brightest glance of pride and power 
I feel have been: 


V. 


But were that hope of pride and power 
Now offered with the pain 

Ev’n then I felt—that brightest hour 
I would not live again: 


VI. 


For on its wing was dark alloy 
And as it fluttered—fell 

An essence—powerful to destroy 
A soul that knew it well. 


Translation from the Greek. 


HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND 
HARMODIUS 
ck 
WREATHED in myrtle, my sword I'll 
conceal 
Like those champions devoted and 
brave, 
When they plunged in the tyrant their 
steel, 


And to Athens deliverance gave. 
La 


Beloved heroes! your deathless souls 


roam 
In the joy breathing isles of the 
blest; 
Where the mighty of old have their 
home— 


Where Achilles and Diomed rest. 


50 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


III. 
In tresh myrtle my blade I’ll entwine, 
Like Harmodius, the gallant and 
good, 


When he made at the tutelar shrine 
A libation of Tyranny’s blood. 


IV... 


Ye deliverers of Athens from shame! 
Ye avengers of Liberty’s wrongs! 
Endless ages shall cherish your fame 
Embalmed in their echoing songs! 


DREAMS. 


On! that my young life were a lasting 
dream! 

My spirit not awakening, till the beam 

Of an Eternity should bring the mor- 
row. 

Yes! though that long dream were of 
hopeless sorrow, 

’Twere better than the cold reality 

Of waking life, to him whose heart 
must be, 

And hath been still, upon the lovely 
earth, 

A chaos of deep passion, from his birth. 

But should it be—that dream eternally 

Continuing—as dreams have been to me 

In my young boyhood—should it thus 
be given, 

‘Twere folly still to hope for higher 
Heaven. 

For I have revelled when the sun was 
bright 

TY’ the summer sky, in dreams of living 
light 

And loveliness——have left my very 
heart 

Inclines of my imaginary apart 


From mine own home, with beings that 
have been | 

Of mine own thought—what more could 
I have seen? 

*Twas once—and only once—and_ the 
wild hour 

From my remembrance shall not pass 
some power 

Or spell had bound me—’twas the chilly 
wind 

Came o’er me in the night, and left 
behind 

Its image on my spirit—or the moon 

Shone on my slumbers in her lofty 


noon 
Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it 
was 
That dream was as that night-wind— 
let it pass. 


I have been happy, though in a dream. 

I have been happy—and I love the 
theme: 

Dreams! in their vivid colouring of 
life | 

As in that fleeting, 
strife 

Of semblance with reality which brings 

To the delirious eve, more lovely things 

Of Paradise and Love—and all my 
own !— 

Than young Hope in his sunniest hour 
hath known. 


shadowy, misty 





“IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN 
ONE” 


How often we forget all time, when 
lone 

Admiring Nature’s universal throne; 

Her woods—her winds—her mountains — 
—the intense 

Reply of Hers to Our intelligence! 











POEMS Si 


I. 


In youth I have known one with whom 
the Earth 
In secret communing held—as_ he 
with it, 
In daylight, and in beauty, from his 
birth: 
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life 
was lit 
From the sun and stars, whence he had 
drawn forth 
A passionate light—such for his spirit 


was fit— 

And yet that spirit knew—not in the 
hour 

Of its own fervour—what had o’er it 
power. 


sO t- 


Perhaps it may be that my mind is 


wrought 
To a fever by the moonbeam that 
hangs o’er, 
But I will half believe that wild light 
fraught 


With more of 
ancient lore 
Hath ever told—or is it of a thought 


sovereignty than 


The unembodied essence, and no 
more 
That with a quickening spell doth o’er 
us pass 


As dew of the night time, o’er the sum- 
mer grass? 


Tit. 


Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expand- 
ing eye 
To the loved object—so the tear to 
the lid 
Will start, which lately slept in apathy? 
And yet it need not be—(that 
object) hid 
From us in life—but common—which 
doth lie 
Each hour before us—but then only 
bid 
With a strange sound, as of a harp- 
string broken 
T’ awake us—’Tis a symbol and a 
token— 


IV. 


Of what in other worlds shall be—and 
given 
In beauty by our God, to those alone 
Who otherwise would fall from life and 
Heaven 
Drawn by their heart’s passion, and 
that tone, 
That high tone of the spirit which hath 
striven 
Though not with Faith—with god- 
liness—whose throne 
With desperate energy ’t hath beaten 
down; 
Wearing its own deep feeling as a 
crown. 







































12 ; ¢ “AN vs 


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- res ‘ ; ; ng vite . % sip ¥ Bes f 


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bay oti Hort Us Bt bhidy saiweiedio, odvi s +3 tte L? 19'0. BR ; 
: } im TAYE ah Pau fa) availad ita \ dt, 
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earthy movinie f r ot Af 2.11 2k 20-blo 
-hoae sri dimoudorordgueth Od Bae eancees bsibodnysr 
-. But sheuid igrionelt naoc-—eanmibe, mY.) — 
pan thi 4 eek 3 Ren l Ds sgaaaaab ncaa My 
> ny young hoyhoeud=shoempbe- 4 
6 26 pallaah, ,qaeb ‘wa aii annie 
> twee’ falls gh AR ice ie, 


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Kor I have reveled aad the cate) mf | 
er " ere: the ; aie Gee 
oOo the, suuntntr, ky, pen | 


ir) Loa? 


an ai Tight i he i ele 71 = nie 

i mp 
is ene Leena: Rey ven 
ee eae 













. 











Bing Hoe inhi 


b OTS: a 







Ve) 







VOLUME II 











Lhe Gold Bug 


(First published in The Dollar Newspaper, Philadelphia, June, 1843, as a 
Prize-winner.—Ed.) 


_ What ho! what ko! this fellow is danc- a dense undergrowth of the sweet 


ing mad! 
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula. 
—All in the Wrong. 


Many years ago, I contracted an in- 
timacy with a Mr. William Legrand. 
He was of an ancient Huguenot family, 
and had once been wealthy; but a 
series of misfortunes had reduced him 
to want. To avoid the mortification 
consequent upon his disasters, he left 
New Orleans, the city of his fore- 
fathers, and took up his residence at 
Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, 
South Carolina. 

This island is a very singular one. It 
consists of little else than the sea sand, 
and is about three miles long. Its 
breadth at no point exceeds a quarter 
of a mile. It is separated from the 
mainland by a scarcely perceptible 
creek, oozing its way through a wilder- 
ness of reeds and slime, a favorite re- 
sort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation, 
as might be supposed, is scant, or at 
least dwarfish. No trees of any mag- 
nitude are to be seen. Near the west- 
ern extremity, where Fort Moultrie 
stands, and where are some miserable 
frame buildings, tenanted, during sum- 
mer, by the fugitives from Charleston 
dust and fever, may be found, indeed, 
the bristly palmetto; but the whole 
island, with the exception of this west- 
ern point, and a line of hard, white 
beach on the sea-coast, is covered with 






















myrtle so much prized by the horticul- 
turists of England. The shrub here 
often attains the height of fifteen or 
twenty feet, and forms an almost im- 
penetrable coppice, burdening the air 
with its fragrance. 

In the inmost recesses of this cop- 
pice, not far from the eastern or more 
remote end of the island, Legrand had 
built himself a small hut, which he oc- 
cupied when I first, by mere accident, 
made his acquaintance. This soon rip- 
ened into friendship—for there was 
much in the recluse to excite interest 
and esteem. I found him well edu- 
cated, with unusual powers of mind, 
but infected with misanthropy, and sub- 
ject to perverse moods of alternate en- 
thusiaasm and melancholy. He had 
with him many books, but rarely em- 
ployed them. His chief amusements 
were gunning and fishing, or sauntering 
along the beach and through the myr- 
tles, in quest of shells or entomological 
specimens—his collection of the latter 
might have been envied by a Swam- 
merdamm. In these excursions he was 
usually accompanied by an old negro, 
called Jupiter, who had been manu- 
mitted before the reverses of the fam- 
ily, but who could be induced, neither 
by threats nor by promises, to abandon 
what he considered his right of attend- 
ance upon the footsteps of his young 
“Massa Will.” It is not improbable 
that the relatives of Legrand, conceiv- 


54 


ing him to be somewhat unsettled in 
intellect, had contrived to instil this 
obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to 
the supervision and guardianship of the 
wanderer. 

The winters in the latitude of Sulli- 
van’s Island are seldom very severe, 
and in the fall of the year it is a rare 
event indeed when a fire is considered 
necessary. About the middle of Octo- 


ber, 18—, there occurred, however, a 
day of remarkable chilliness. Just be- 
fore sunset I scrambled my way 


through the evergreens to the hut of my 
friend, whom I had not visited for 
several weeks—my residence being, at 
that time, in Charleston, a distance of 
nine miles from the island, while the 
facilities of passage and re-passage were 
very far behind those of the present 
day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, 
as was my custom, and getting no reply, 
sougi't for the key where I knew it 
was secreted, unlocked the door, and 
went in. A fine fire was blazing upon 
the hearth. It was a novelty, and by 
no means an ungrateful one. I threw 
off an overcoat, took an arm-chair by 
the crackling logs, and awaited pat- 
iently the arrival of my hosts. 

Soon after dark they arrived, and 
gave me a most cordial welcome. Jup- 
iter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled 
about to prepare some marsh-hens for 
supper. Legrand was in one of his 
fits—how else shall I term them?—of 
enthusiasm. He had found an unknown 
bivalve, forming a new genus, and, 
more than this, he had hunted down 
and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, 
a scarabeus which he believed to be 
totally new, but in respect to which he 
wished to have my opinion on the 
morrow. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“And why not to-night?” I asked, 
rubbing my hands over the blaze, and 
wishing the whole tribe of scaraba@i at 
the devil. 

“Ah, if I had only known you were 
here!” said Legrand, “but it’s so long 
since I saw you; and how could I fore- 
see that you would pay me a visit this 
very night of all others? As I was 
coming home I met Lieutenant G : 
from the fort, and, very foolishly, I 
lent him the bug; so it will be impos- 
sible for you to see it until the morning. 
Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup 
down for it at sunrise. It is the love- 
liest thing in creation!” 

““What?—sunrise?”’ 

“Nonsense! no!—the bug. 
a brilliant gold color—about the size 
of a large hickory-nut—with two jet 
black spots near one extremity of the 
back, and another, somewhat longer, at 
the other. The antenne are—” 

“Dey ain't no tin in him, Massa 
Will, I keep a tellin’ on you,” here in- 
terrupted Jupiter; ‘de bug is a goole- 
bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and 
all, sep him wing—neber feel half so 
hebby a bug in my life.” 

“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied 
Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it 
seemed to me, than the case demanded; 
“is that any reason for your letting the 
birds burn? The 





to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never 
saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than 


the scales emit—but of this you cannot 
judge till to-morrow. In the meantime 


I can give you some idea of the shape.” 


Saying this, he seated himself at a 


It is of% 


color’—here he 
turned to me—‘is really almost enough > 








small table, on which were a pen and 


ink, but no paper. 
in a drawer, but found none. 


He looked for some — 








THE GOLD BUG 55 


“Never mind,” he said at length, “this 
will answer;” and he drew from his 
waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I 
took to be very dirty foolscap, and 
made upon it a rough drawing with the 
pen. While he did this, I retained my 
seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. 
When the design was complete, he 
handed it to me without rising. As I 
received it, a loud growl was heard, 
succeeded by a scratching at the door. 
Jupiter opened it, and a large New- 
foundland, belonging to Legrand, 
rushed in, leaped upon my shoulders, 
and loaded me with caresses; for J had 
shown him much attention during prev- 
ious visits. When his gambols were 
over, I looked at the paper, and, to 
speak the truth, found myself not a 
little puzzled at what my friend had 
depicted. 

_ “Well!” I said, after contemplating 
it for some minutes, “This zs a strange 
_ scarabeus, I must confess; new to me; 
_mever saw anything like it before—un- 
less it was a skull, or a death’s-head, 
which it more nearly resembles than 
anything else that has come under my 
_ observation.” 

_ “A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. 
“Oh—yes—well, it has something of 
that appearance upon paper, no doubt. 
The two upper black spcets look like 
eyes, eh? and the longer -one at the 
bottom like a mouth—and then the 
shape of the whole is oval.” 

“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, 
I fear you are no artist. I must wait 
yntil I see the beetle itself, if I am 
to form any idea of its personal appear- 
ance.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little 
—nettled, “I draw tolerably—should do it 
at least—have had good masters, and 


flatter myself that I am not quite a 
blockhead.” 

“But, my dear fellow, you are jok- 
ing, then,” said I, “this is a very pass- 
able skull—indeed, I may say that it is 
a very excellent skull, according to the 
vulgar notions about such specimens of 
physiology—and your scarabeus must 
be the queerest scarabeus in the world 
if it resembles it. Why, we may get 
up a very thrilling bit of superstition 
upon this hint. I presume you will call 
the bug scarabeus caput hominis, or 
something of that kind—there are 
many similar titles in the Naturai His- 
tories. But where are the antenne you 
spoke of?” 

“The antenne!’” said Legrand, who 
seemed to be getting unaccountably 
warm upon the subject; “I am sure 
you must see the antenne. I made 
them as distinct as they are in the 
original insect, and I presume that is 
sufficient.” 

“Well, well,’ I said, “perhaps you 
have—still I don’t see them;” and I 
handed him the paper without addi- 
tional remark, not wishing to ruffle his 
temper; but I was much surprised at 
the turn affairs had taken; his ill humor 
puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of 
the beetle, there were positively no an- 
tenne visible, and the whole did bear 
a very close resemblance to the ordi- 
nary cuts of a death’s-head. 

He received the paper very peevishly, 
and was about to crumple it, apparently 
to throw it in the fire, when a casual 
glance at the design seemed suddenly 
to rivet his attention. In an instant 
his face grew violently red—in another 
excessively pale. For some minutes he 
continued to scrutinize the drawing 
minutely where he sat. At length he 


56 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


arose, took a candle from the table, © 


and proceeded to seat himself upon a 
sea-chest in the farthest corner of the 
room. Here again he made an anxious 
examination of the paper; turning it in 
all directions. He said nothing, how- 
ever, and his conduct greatly aston- 
ished me; yet I thought it prudent not 
to exacerbate the growing moodiness of 
his temper by any comment. Presently 
he took from his coat-pocket a wallet, 
placed the paper carefully in it, and de- 
posited both in a writing-desk, which he 
locked. He now grew more composed 
in his demeanor; but his original air of 
enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet 
he seemed not so much sulky as ab- 
stracted. As the evening wore away he 
became more and more absorbed in 
revery, from which no sallies of mine 
could arouse him. It had been my in- 
tention to pass the night at the hut, 
as I had frequently done before, but, 
seeing my host in this mood, I deemed 
it proper to take leave. He did not 
press me to remain, but, as I departed, 
he shook my hand with even more than 
his usual cordiality. 

It was about a month after this (and 
during the interval I had seen nothing 
of Legrand) when I received a visit, at 
Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I 
had never seen the good old negro look 
so dispirited, and I feared that some 
serious disaster had befallen my friend. 

“Well, Jup,” said I, ‘what is the 
matter now?—how is your master?” 

“Why, to speak the troof, massa, him 
not so berry well as mought be.” 

“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear 
it. What does he complain of?” 

“Dar! dats it!—him neber ’plain of 
notin’-—but him berry sick for all dat.” 

“Very sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you 


say so at once? Is he confined to 
bed?” 

“No, dat he ain’t!—he aint ’find’d 
nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe pinch 
—my mind is got to be berry hebby 
*bout poor Massa Will.” 

“Jupiter, I should like to understand 
what it is you are talking about. You 
say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told 
you what ails him?” 

“Why, massa, “taint wof while for 
to git mad about de matter—Massa 
Will say noffin at all aint de matter 
wid him—but den what make him go 
about looking dis here way, wid he head 
down and he soldiers up, and as white 
as a goose? And den he keep a syphon 
all de time a 

“Keeps a what, Jupiter?” 

“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on 
de slate—de queerest figgurs I ebber 
did see. Ise gittin’ to be skeered, I 
tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight 
eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day 
he gib me slip ’fore de sun up and was 
gone de whole ob de blessed day. I 
had a big stick ready cut for to gib 
him deuced good beating when he did 
come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t 
de heart arter all—he looked so berry 
poorly.” 

“Ehr—what?—ah yes!—upon the 
whole I think you *had better not be 
too severe’ with the poor fellow—don’t 
flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very well 
stand it—but can you form no idea 
of what has occasioned this illness, or 
rather this change of conduct? Has 
anything unpleasant happened since I 
saw youP” | 

“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin on- 
pleasant since den—’twas ’fore den I’m 
feared—’twas be berry day you was 
dare.” 

















THE GOLD BUG 57 


“How? what do you mean?” 

“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare 
now.” 

“That what?” 

“De bug—lI’m berry sartin dat Massa 
Will bin bit somewhere *bout he head 
by dat goole-bug.”’ 

“And what cause have you, Jupiter, 
for such a supposition?” 

“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff, too. 
I never did see sich a deuced bug—he 
kick and he bite ebery ting what cum 
near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, 
but had for to let him go ’gin mighty 
quick, I tell you—den was de time he 
must ha’ got de bite. I didn’t like de 
look ob de bug mouff, myself, nohow, 
so I wouldn’t take hold ob him wid my 
finger, but I cotch him wid a piece of 
| paper dat I found. I rap him up in de 
. paper and stuff a piece of it in he mouff 
—dat was de way.” 

“Ana you think then, that your mas- 
ter was really bitten by the beetle, and 
that the bite made him sick?” 

“T don’t think noffin about it—I nose 
it. What make him dream ’bout de 
goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit 
by the goole-bug? Ise heered ’bout 
dem goole-bugs ’fore dis.” 

“But how do you know he dreams 
about gold?” ‘ 

“How I know? why, ’cause he talk 
about it in he sleep—dat’s how I nose.” 

“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; 
but to what fortunate circumstance am 
I to attribute the honor of a visit from 
you to-day?” 

“What de matter, massa?” 

“Did you bring any message from 
Mr. Legrand?” 

“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” 
and here Jupiter handed me a note 
which ran thus: 


“My DEAR 

“Why have I not seen you for so 
long a time? I hope you have not been 
so foolish as to take offence at any 
little brusquerie of mine; but no, that 
is improbable. 

“Since I saw you I have had great 
cause for anxiety. I have something 
to tell you, yet scarcely know how to 
tell it, or whether I should tell it at 
all. 

“T have not been quite well for some 
days past, and poor old Jup annoys 
me, almost beyond endurance, by his 
well-meant attentions. Would you be- 
lieve it?-—he had prepared a huge stick, 
the other day, with which to chastise 
me for giving him the slip, and spend- 
ing the day, solus, among the hills on 
the mainland. I verily believe that my 
ill looks alone saved me a flogging. 

“T have made no addition to my 
cabinet since we met. 

“Tf you can, in any way, make it 
convenient, come over with Jupiter. 
Do come. I wish to see you to-night, 
upon business of importance. I assure 
you that it is of the highest importance. 

“Ever yours, 
“WILLIAM LEGRAND.” 





There was something ‘n the tone of 
this note which gave me great uneasi- 
ness. Its whole style differed mate- 
rially from that of Legrand. What 
could he be dreaming of? What new 
crotchet possessed his excitable brain? 
What “business of the highest impor- 
tance” could he possibly have to trans- 
act? Jupiter’s account of him bodea 
no good. I dreaded lest the continued 
pressure of misfortune had, at length, 
fairly unsettled the reascn of my friend. 
Without a moment’s hesitation, there: 


58 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fore, I prepared to accompany the 
negro. 

Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed 
a scythe and three spades, all appar- 
ently new, lying in the bottom of the 
boat in which we were to embark. 

“What is the meaning of all this, 
Jup?” I inquired. 

“Him syfe, massa, and spade.” 

“Very true; but what are they doing 
here?” 

“Him de syfe and de spade what 
Massa Will sis *pon my buying for him 
in de town, and de debbil’s own lot of 
money I had to gib for ’em.” 

“But what, in the name of all that 
is mysterious, is your ‘Massa Will’ 
going to do with scythes and spades?” 

“Dat’s more dan J know, and debbil 
take me if I don’t b’lieve ’tis more dan 
he know too. But it’s all cum ob de 
bug.” 

Finding that no satisfaction was to 
be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole 
intellect seemed to be absorbed by ‘de 
bug,” I now stepped into the boat, and 
made sail. With a fair and strong 
breeze we soon ran into the little cove 
to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and 
a walk of some two miles brought us 
to the hut. It was about three in the 
afternoon when we arrived. Legrand 
had been awaiting us in eager expecta- 
tion. He grasped my hand with a ner- 
vous empressement which alarmed me 
and strengthened the suspicions already 
entertained. His countenance was pale 
even to ghastliness, and his deep-set 
eyes glared with unnatural lustre. After 
some inquiries respecting his health, I 
asked him, not knowing what better to 
say, if he had yet obtained the scara- 
beus from Lieutenant G ; 

“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring vio- 





lently, “I got it from him the next 
morning. Nothing should tempt me to 
part with that scarabeus. Do you know 
that Jupiter is quite right about it?” 

“In what way?” I asked, with a sad 
foreboding at heart. 

“In supposing it to be a bug of real 
gold.” He said this with an air of 
profound seriousness, and I felt inex- 
pressibly shocked. 

“This bug is to make my fortune,” 
he continued, with a triumphant smile; 
“to reinstate me in my family posses- 
sions. Is it any wonder, then, that I 
prize it? Since Fortune has thought 
fit to bestow it upon me, I have only 
to use it properly, and I shall arrive at 
the gold of which it is the index. Jupi- 
ter, bring me that scarabeus!” 

“What! de bug, massa? Id rudder 
not go fer trubble dat bug; you mus’ git 
him for your own self.” Hereupon— 
Legrand arose, with a grave and stately 
air, and brought me the beetle from a 
glass case in which it was enclosed. ~ 
It was a beautiful scarabeus, and, at 
that time, unknown to naturalists—of 
course a great prize in a scientific point 
of view. There were two round black 
spots near one extremity of the back, 
and a long one near the other. The 
scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, 
with all the appearance of burnished 
gold. The weight of the insect was 
very remarkable, and, taking all things 
into consideration, I could hardly blame 
Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; 
but what to make of Legrand’s con- 
cordance with that opinion, I could not, 
for the life of me, tell. 

“T sent for you,” said he, in a gran- 
diloquent tone, when I had completed 
my examination of the beetle, “I sent 
for you that I might have your counsel 





THE GOLD BUG 59 


and assistance in furthering the views 
of Fate and of the bug—” 

“My dear Legrand,” I cried, inter- 
 rupting him, “you are certainly unwell, 
and had better use some little precau- 
tions. You shall go to bed, and I will 
remain with you a few days, until you 
get over this. You are feverish and—” 
“Feel my pulse,” said he. 

I felt it, and, to say the truth, found 
not the slightest indication of fever. 
“But you may be ill and yet have 


no fever. Allow me this once to pre- 
scribe for you. In the first place go 
to bed. In the next—” 


“You are mistaken,’ he interposed, 
“Tam as well as I can expect to be 
undef the excitement which I suffer. 
If you really wish me well, you will 
relieve this excitement.” 

“And how is this to be done?” 

“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are 
going upon an expedition into the hills, 
upon the main land, and, in this expe- 
dition, we shall need the aid of some 
person in whom we can confide. You 
are the only one we can trust. Whether 
we succeed or fail, the excitement which 
you now perceive in me will be equally 
allayed.” 

“T am anxious to oblige you in any 
way,” I replied; “but do you mean to 
say that this infernal beetle has any 
connection with your expedition into 
the hills?” 

“Tt has.” 

“Then, Legrand, I can become a 
party to no such absurd proceeding.” 

“T am sorry—very sorry—for we 
shall have to try it by ourselves.” 

_ “Try it by yourselves! The man is 
surely mad!—but stay!—how long do 
you propose to be absent?” 

“Probably all night. We shall start 


immediately, and be back, at all events, 
by. sunrise.” 

“And will you promise me, upon 
your honor, that when this freak of 
yours is over, and the bug business 
(good God!) settled to your satisfac- 
tion, you will then return home and 
follow my advice implicitly, as that of 
your physician.” 

“Yes; I promise; and now let us be 
off, for we have no time to lose.” 

With a heavy heart I accompanied 
my friend. We started about four 
o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and 
myself. Jupiter had with him the 
scythe and spades—the whole of which 
he insisted upon | carrying — more 
through fear, it seemed to me, of trust- 
ing either of the implements within 
reach of his master, than from any 
excess of industry or complaisance. His 
demeanor was dogged in the extreme, 
and “dat deuced bug” were the sole 
words which escaped his lips during the 
journey. For my own part, I had 
charge of a couple of dark lanterns, 
while Legrand contented himself with 
the scarabeus, which he carried at- 
tached to the end of a bit of whip- 
cord: twirling it to and fro, with the 
air of a conjuror, as he went. When I 
observed this last, plain evidence of my 
friend’s aberration of mind, I could 
scarcely refrain from tears. I thought 
it best, however, to humor his fancy, 
at least for the present, or until I could 
adopt some more energetic measures 
with a chance of success. In the mean- 
time I endeavored, but all in vain, to 
sound him in regard to the object of 
the expedition. Having succeeded in 
inducing me to accompany him, he 
seemed unwilling to hold conversation 
upon any topic of minor importance, 


60 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and to all my questions vouchsafed no 
other reply than ‘‘we shall see!” 

We crossed the creek at the head of 
the island by means of a skiff, and, 
ascending the high grounds on the shore 
of the main land, proceeded in a north- 
westerly direction, through a tract of 
country excessively wild and desolate, 
where no trace of a human footstep was 
to be seen. Legrand led the way with 
decision; pausing only for an instant, 
here. and there, to consult what ap- 
peared to be certain landmarks of his 
own contrivance upon a former occa- 
sion. 

In this manner we journeyed for 
about two hours, and the sun was just 
setting when we entered a region infi- 
nitely more dreary than any yet seen. 
It was a species of tableland, near the 
summit of an almost inaccessible hill, 
densely wooded from base to pinnacle, 
and interspersed with huge crags that 
appeared to lie loosely upon the soil, 
and in many cases were prevented from 
precipitating themselves into the valleys 
below, merely by the support of the 
trees against which they reclined. Deep 
ravines, in various directions, gave an 
air of still sterner solemnity to the 
scene. 

The natural platform to which we 
had clambered was thickly overgrown 
with brambles, through which we soon 
discovered that it would have been 
impossible to force our way but for 
the scythe; and Jupiter, by direction 
of his master, proceeded to clear for 
us a path to the foot of an enormously 
tall tulip-tree, which stood, with some 
eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and 
far surpassed them all, and all other 
trees which I had then ever seen, in 
the beauty of its foliage and form, in 


the wide spread of its branches, and in 
the general majesty of its appearance. 
When we reached this tree, Legrand 
turned to Jupiter, and asked him if he 
thought he could climb it. The old man 
seemed a little staggered by the ques- 
tion, and for some moments made no 
reply. At length he approached the 
huge trunk, walked slowly around it, 
and examined it with minute attention. 
When he had completed his scrutiny, 
he merely said: 

“Ves, massa, Jup climb any tree he 
ebber see in he life.” 

“Then up with you as soon as pos- 
sible, for it will soon be too dark to 
see what we are about.” 

“How far mus’ go up, massa?” in- 
quired Jupiter. 

“Get up the main trunk first, and 
then I will tell you which way to go— 
and sere svept take this beetle with 
you.’ 

“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole- 
bug!” cried the negro, drawing back in 
dismay—‘“what for mus tote de bug 
way up de tree?—d—n if I do!” 

“Tf you are afraid, Jup, a great big 
negro like you, to take hold of a harm- 
less little dead beetle, why you can 
carry it up by this string—but, if you 
do not take it up with you in some 
way, I shail be under the necessity of 
breaking your head with this shovel.” 

“What de matter now, massa?” said 
Jup, evidently shamed into compliance: 
“always want for to raise fuss wid old 
nigger. Was only funnin anyhow. Me — 
feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?” 
Here he took cautiously hold of the 
extreme end of the string, and, main- 
taining the insect as far from his person 
as circumstances would permit, -pre- 
pared to ascend the tree. 








THE GOLD BUG 61 


In youth, the tulip-tree, or Lirioden- 
dron Tulipiferum, the most magnificent 
of American foresters, has a_ trunk 
peculiarly smooth, and often rises to 
a great height without lateral branches; 
but, in its riper age, the bark becomes 
gnarled and uneven, while many short 
limbs make their appearance on the 
stem. Thus the difficulty of ascension, 
in the present case, lay more in sem- 
blance than in reality. Embracing the 
huge cylinder, as closely as possible, 
with his arms and knees, seizing with 
his hands some projections, and resting 
his naked toes upon others, Jupiter, 
after one or two narrow escapes from 
falling, at length wriggled himself into 
the first great fork, and seemed to 
consider the whole business as virtually 
accomplished. ‘The risk of the achieve- 
ment was, in fact, now over, although 
the climber was some sixty or seventy 
feet from the ground. 

“Which way mus go now, 
Will?” he asked. 

“Keep up the largest branch—the 
one on this side,” said Legrand. The 
negro obeyed him promptly, and ap- 
parently with but little trouble; ascend- 
ing higher and higher, until no glimpse 
of his squat figure could be obtained 
through the dense foliage which envel- 
oped it. Presently his voice was heard 
in a sort of halloo. 

“How much fudder is got for go?” 

“How high up are you?” asked 
Legrand. 

“Ebber so fur,’ replied the negro; 
“can see de sky fru de top ob de tree.” 

“Never mind the sky, but attend to 
what I say. Look down the trunk and 
count the limbs below you on this side. 
How many limbs have you passed?” 

“One. two, tree. four, fibe—I done 


Massa 


pass fibe big limb, massa, ’pon dis side.” 

“Then go one limb higher.” 

In a few minutes the voice was heard 
again, announcing that the seventh limb 
was attained. 

“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently 
much excited, “I want you to work 
your way out upon that limb as far as 
you can. If you see anything strange 
let me know.” 

By this time what little doubt I 
might have entertained of my poor 
friend’s insanity was put finally at rest. 
I had no alternative but to conclude 
him stricken with lunacy, and I became 
seriously anxious about getting him 
home. While I was pondering upon 
what was best to be done, Jupiter’s 
voice was again heard. 

“Mos feered for to ventur pon dis 
limb berry far—’tis dead limb putty 
much all de way.” 

“Did you say it was a dead limb, 
Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a quavering 
voice. 

“Ves, massa, him dead as de door- 
nail—done up for sartin—done departed 
dis here life.” 

“What in the name of heaven shall 
I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in the 
greatest distress. 

“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity 
to interpose a word, “why come home 
and go to bed. Come now!—that’s a 
fine fellow. It’s getting late, and, be- 
sides, you remember your promise.” 

“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding 
me in the least, “do you hear me?” 

“Ves, Massa Will, hear you ebber so 
plain.” | 

“Try the wood well, then, with your 
knife, and see if you think it very 
rotten.” 

“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” ree 


) 


62 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


plied the negro in a few moments, “‘but 
not so berry rotten as mought be. 
Mought venture out leetle way pon de 
limb by myself, dat’s true.” 

“By yourself!—what do you mean?” 

“Why, I mean de bug. “Tis berry 
hebby bug. Spose I drop him down 
fuss, and den de limb won’t break wid 
just de weight of one nigger.” . 

“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Le- 
grand, apparently much relieved, ‘‘what 
do you mean by telling me such non- 
sense as that? As sure as you drop 
that beetle Ill break your neck. Look 
here, Jupiter, do you hear me?” 

“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor 
nigger dat style.” 

“Well! now listen!—if you will ven- 
ture out on the limb as far as you think 
safe, and not let go the beetle, I’ll make 
you a present of a silver dollar as soon 
as you get down.” 

“Ym gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” 
replied the negro very promptly—‘mos 
out to the eend now.” 

“Out to the end!” here fairly 
screamed Legrand; “do you say you 
are out to the end of that limb?” 

“Soon be. to de eend, massa— 
0-0-0-0-oh! Lor-gol-a-marcy! what is 
dis here pon de tree?” 

“Well!” cried Legrand, highly de- 
lighted, “what is it?” 

“Why “taint noffin but a skull— 
somebody bin lef him head up de tree, 
and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob 
de meat off.” 

“A skull, you say!—very well,—how 
is it fastened to the limb?—what holds 
it on?” 

“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why 
dis berry curious sarcumstance, pon my 
word—dare’s a great big nail in de 
skull, what fastens ob it on to de tree.” 


“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I 
tell you—do you hear?” 

“Yes, massa.” 

“Pay attention, then—find the left 
eye of the skull.” 

“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why dey 
ain't no eye lef at all.” 

“Curse your stupidity! do you know 
your right hands from your left?” 

“Ves, I knows dat—knows all about 
dat—’tis my lef hand what I chops de 
wood wid.” 

“To be sure! you are left-handed; 
and your left eye is on the same side 
as your left hand. Now, I suppose, 
you can find the left eye of the skull, 
or the place where the left eye has 
been. Have you found it?” 

Here was a long pause. 
the negro asked. 

“Ts de lef eye of de skull pon de 


At length 


same side as de lef hand of de skull 


too?—cause de skull aint got not a bit 
ob a hand at all—nebber mind! TI got, 
de lef eye now—here de lef eye! what 
mus do wid it?” 

“Let the beetle drop through it, as 
far as the string will reach—but be 
careful and not let go vour hold of the 
string.” 

“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty 
easy ting for to put de bug fru de 
hole—look out for him dare below!” 

During this colloquy no portion of 
Jupiter’s person could be seen; but the 
beetle, which he had suffered to de- 
scend, was now visible at the end of 
the string, and glistened, like a globe 
of burnished gold, in the last rays of 
the setting sun, some of which still 
faintly illumined the eminence upon 
which we stood. The scarabeus hung 
quite clear of any branches, and, if 
allowed to fall, would have fallen at 




















THE GOLD BUG 63 


our feet. Legrand immediately took 
the scythe, and cleared with it a cir- 
cular space, three or four yards in 
diameter, just beneath the insect, and, 
having accomplished this, ordered Jupi- 
ter to let go the string and come down 
from the tree. 

Driving a peg, with great nicety, into 
the ground, at the precise spot where 
the beetle fell, my friend now pro- 
duced from his pocket a tape-measure. 
Fastening one end of this at that point 
of the trunk of the tree which was 
nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it 
reached the peg and thence further 
unrolled it, in the direction already 
established by the two points of the 
tree and the peg, for the distance of 
fifty feet—Jupiter clearing away the 
brambles with the scythe. At the spot 
_ thus attained a second peg was driven, 
and about this, as a centre, a rude cir- 
cle, about four feet in diameter, de- 
scribed. Taking now a spade himself, 
and giving one to Jupiter and one to 
me, Legrand begged us to set about 
digging as quickly as possible. 

To speak the truth, I had no especial 
relish for such amusement at any time, 
and, at that particular moment, would 
willingly have declined it; for the night 
was coming on, and I felt much fatigued 
with the exercise already taken; but I 
saw no mode of escape, and was fearful 
_ of disturbing my poor friend’s equanim- 
ity by a refusal. Could I have de- 
pended, indeed upon Jupiter’s aid, I 
would have had no hesitation in at- 
_ tempting to get the lunatic home by 
_ force; but I was too well assured of 
_ the old negro’s disposition, to hope that 
_ he would assist me, under any circum- 
_ stances, in a personal contest with his 
master. I made no doubt that the lat- 


ter had been infected with some of the 
innumerable Southern superstitions 
about money buried, and that his phan- 
tasy had received confirmation by the 
finding of the, scarabeus, or, perhaps, 
by Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining it 
to be “a bug of real gold.’ A mind 
disposed to lunacy would readily be led 
away by such suggestions—especially if 
chiming in with favorite preconceived 
ideas—and then I called to mind the 
poor fellow’s speech about the beetle’s 
being ‘“‘the index of his fortune.’”’ Upon 
the whole, I was sadly vexed and puz- 
zled, but, at length, I concluded to make 
a virtue of necessity—to dig with a 
good will, and thus the sooner to con- 
vince the visionary, by ocular demon- 
stration, of the fallacy of the opinion 
he entertained. 

The lanterns having been lit, we alt 
fell to work with a zeal worthy a more 
rational cause; and, as the glare fell 
upon our persons and implements, I 
could not help thinking how picturesque 
a group we composed, and how strange 
and suspicious our labors must have 
appeared to any interloper who, by 
chance, mighty have stumbled upon our 
whereabouts. : 

We dug very steadily for two hours. 
Little was said; and our chief embar- 
rassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, 
who took exceeding interest in our pro- 
ceedings. He, at length, became so 
obstreperous that we grew fearful of 
his giving the alarm to some stragglers 
in the vicinity,—or, rather, this was 
the apprehension of Legrand;—for my- 
self, I should have rejoiced at any 
interruption which might have enabled 
me to get the wanderer home. The 
noise was, at length, very effectually 
silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out 


64 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the hole with a dogged air of delib- 
eration, tied the brute’s mouth up with 
one of his suspenders, and ‘then re- 
turned, with a grave chuckle, to his 
task. 

When the time mentioned had ex- 
pired, we had reached a depth of five 
feet, and yet no sign of any treasure 
became manifest. A general pause en- 
sued, and I began to hope that the 
farce was at an end. Legrand, how- 
ever, although evidently much discon- 
certed, wiped his brow thoughtfully and 
recommenced. We had excavated the 
entire circle of four feet diameter, and 
now we slightly enlarged the limit, and 
went to the farther depth of two feet. 
Still nothing appeared. The _ gold- 
seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at 
length clambered from the pit, with the 
bitterest disappointment imprinted upon 
every feature, and proceeded, slowly 
and reluctantly, to put on his coat, 
which he had thrown off at the begin- 
ning of his labor. In the meantime I 
made no remark. Jupiter, at a signal 
from his master, began to gather up 
his tools. This done, and the dog hav- 
ing been unmuzzled, we turned in 
profound silence toward home. 

We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps 
in this direction, when, with a loud 
oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and 
seized him by the collar. The aston- 
ished negro opened his eyes and mouth 
to the fullest extent, let fall the spades, 
and fell upon his knees. 

“Vou scoundrel!” said Legrand, hiss- 
ing out the syllables from between his 
clenched teeth—‘‘you infernal black 
villain!—speak, I tell you!—answer me 
this instant, without prevarication!— 
which—which is your left eye?” 

“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis 


here my lef eye for sartain?” roared 
the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand 
upon his right organ of vision, and 
holding it there with a desperate per- 
tinacity, as if in immediate dread of 
his master’s attempt at a gouge. 

“T thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” 
vociferated Legrand, letting the negro 
go and executing a series of curvets 
and caracols, much to the astonish- 
ment of his valet, who, arising from 
his knees, looked, mutely, from his 
master to myself, and then from myself 
to his master. 

“Come! me must go back,” said the 
latter, “the game’s not up yet”; and 
he again led the way to the tulip-tree. 

“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached 
its foot, “come here! Was the skull 
nailed to the limb with the face out- 
ward, or with the face to the limb?” 

“De face was out, massa, so dat de 
crows could get at de eyes good, without 
any trouble.” | 

“Well, then, was it this eye or that 
through which you dropped the beetle?” 
here Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s 
eyes. 

“Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eve— 
jis as you tell me,’ and here it was 
his right eye that the negro indicated. 

“That will do—we must try it again.” 

Here my friend, about whose mad: 
ness I now saw, or fancied that I saw, 
certain indications of method, removed 
the peg which marked the spot where 
the beetle fell, to a spot about three 
inches to the westward of its former 
position. Taking, now, the tape meas- 
ure from the nearest point of the trunk 
to the peg, as before, and continuing 
the extension in a straight line to the 
distance of fifty feet, a spot was indi- 








THE GOLD BUG 65 


cated, removed, by several yards, from 
the point at which we had been digging. 

Around the new position a circle, 
somewhat larger than in the former 
instance, was now described, and we 
again set to work with the spade. I 
was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely 
understanding what had occasioned the 
change in my thoughts, I felt no longer 
any great aversion from the labor im- 
posed. I had become most unaccount- 
ably interested—nay, even excited. 
Perhaps there was something, amid all 
the extravagant demeanor of Legrand— 
some air of forethought, or of delibera- 
tion, which impressed. I dug eagerly, 
and now and then caught myself actu- 
ally looking, with something that very 
much resembled expectation, for the 
fancied treasure, the vision of which 
had demented my unfortunate com- 
panion. At a period when such vaga- 
ries of thought most fully possessed 
me, and when we had been at work 
perhaps an hour and a half, we were 
again interrupted by the violent howl- 
ings of the dog. MHis uneasiness, in 
the first instance, had been, evidently, 
but the result of playfulness or caprice, 
but he now assumed a bitter and serious 
tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting 
to muzzle him, he made furious resist- 
ance, and, leaping into the hole, tore 
up the mould frantically with his claws. 
in a few seconds he had uncovered a 
mass of human bones, forming two 
complete skeletons, intermingled with 
several buttons of metal, and what ap- 
peared to be the dust of decayed 
woolen. One or two strokes of a spade 
upturned the blade of a largé Spanish 
knife, and, as we dug farther, three or 
four loose pieces of gold and silver coin 
came to light. 


At sight of these the joy of Jupiter 
could scarcely be restrained, but the 
countenance of his master wore an air 
of extreme disappointment. He urged 
us, however, to continue our exertions, 
and the words were hardly uttered when 
I stumbled and fell forward, having 
caught the toe of my boot in a large 
ring of iron that lay half buried in the 
loose earth. 

We now worked in earnest, and never 


‘did I pass ten minutes of more intense 


excitement. During this interval we 
had fairly unearthed an oblong chest 
of wood, which, from its perfect preser- 
vation and wonderful hardness, had 
plainly been subjected to some miner- 
alizing process—perhaps that of the 
bi-chloride of mercury. This box was 
three feet and a half long, three feet 
broad, and two and a half feet deep. 
It was firmly secured by bands of 
wrought iron, riveted, and forming a 
kind of open trellis-work over the 
whole. On each side of the chest, near 
the top, were three rings of iron—six 
in all—by means of which a firm hold 
could be obtained by six persons. Our 
utmost united endeavors served only to 


disturb the coffer very slightly in its 


bed. We at once saw the impossibility 
of removing so great a weight. Luckily, 
the sole fastenings of the lid consisted 
of two sliding bolts. These we drew 
back—trembling and panting with anx- 
iety. In an instant, a treasure of incal- 
culable value lay gleaming before us. 
As the rays of the lanterns fell within 
the pit, there flashed upward a glow 
and a glare, from a confused heap of 
gold and jewels, that absolutely dazzled 
our eyes. 

I shall not pretend to describe the 
feelings with which I gazed. Amaze- 


66 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLEN POE 


ment was, of course, predominant. 
Legrand appeared exhausted with ex- 
citement, and spoke very few words. 
Jupiter’s countenance wore, for some 
minutes, as deadly a pailor as it is 
possible, in the nature of things, for any 
negro’s visage to assume. He seemed 
stupefied — thunderstricken. Presently 
he fell upon his knees in the pit, and 
burying his naked arms up to the 
elbows in gold, let them there remain, 
as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. 
At length, with a deep sigh, he ex- 
claimed, as if in a soliloquy: 

“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! 
de putty goole-bug! de poor little goole- 
bug, what I boosed in that sabage kind 
ob style! Aint you shamed ob your- 
self, niggerP—answer me dat!” 

It became necessary, at last, that I 
should arouse both master and valet 
to the expediency of removing the 
treasure. It was growing late, and it 
behooved us to make exertion, that we 
might get every thing housed before 
daylight. It was difficult to say what 
should be done, and much time was 
spent in deliberation—so confused were 
the ideas of all. We, finally, lightened 


the box by removing two-thirds of its. 


contents, when we were enabled, with 
some trouble to raise it from the hole. 
The articles taken out were deposited 
among the brambles, and the dog left 
to guard them, with strict orders from 
Jupiter neither, upon any pretence, to 
stir from the spot, nor to open his 
mouth until our return. We then hur- 
riedly made for home with the chest; 
reaching the hut in safety, but after 
excessive toil, at one o’clock in the 
morning. Worn out as we were, it was 
not in human nature to do more imme- 
diately. We rested until two, and had 


supper; starting for the hills immedi- 
ately afterward, armed with three stout. 
sacks, which, by good luck, were upon 
the premises. A little before four we 
arrived at the pit, divided the remainder 
of the booty, as equally as might be, 
among us, and, leaving the holes un- 
filled, again set out for the hut, at 
which, for the second time, we depos- 
ited our golden burdens, just as the 
first faint streaks of the dawn gleamed 
from over the tree-tops in the East. 

We were now thoroughly broken 
down; but the intense excitement of 
the time denied us repose. After an 
unquiet slumber of some three or four 
hours’ duration, we arose, as if by 
pre-concert, to make examination of our 
treasure. 

The chest had been full to the brim, 
and we spent the whole day, and the 
greater part of the next night, in a 
scrutiny of its contents. There had 
been nothing like order or arrangement. 
Everything had been heaped in promis- 
cuously. Having assorted all with care, 
we found ourselves possessed of even 
vaster wealth than we had at first sup< 
posed. In coin there was rather more 
than four hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars—estimating the value of the 
pieces, as accurately as we could, by 
the tables of the period. There was 
not a particle of silver. All was gold 
of antique date and of great variety— 
French, Spanish, and German money, 
with a few English guineas, and some 
counters, of which we had never seen 
specimens before. There were several 
very large and heavy coins, so worn 
that we could make nothing of their 
inscriptions. ‘There was no American 
money. The value of the jewels we 
found more difficulty in estimating. 





‘THE GOLD BUG 67, 


There were diamonds—some of them 
exceedingly large and fine—a hundred 
and ten in all, and not one of them 
small; eighteen rubies of remarkable 
brilliancy;—three hundred and_ ten 
emeralds, all very beautiful; and 
twenty-one sapphires, with an _ opal. 
These stones had all been broken from 
their settings and thrown loose in the 
chest. The settings themselves, which 
we picked out from among the other 
gold, appeared to have been beaten up 
with hammers, as if to prevent identi- 
fication. Besides all this, there was a 
vast quantity of solid gold ornaments; 
nearly two hundred massive finger and 
ear-rings; rich chains—thirty of these, 
if I remember; eighty-three very large 
and heavy crucifixes; five gold censers 
of great value; a prodigious golden 
punch-bowl, ornamented with richly 
chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian 
figures; with two sword-handled exqui- 
sitely embossed, and many _ other 
smaller articles which I cannot recol- 
lect. The weight of these valuables 
exceeded three hundred and “fifty 
pounds avoirdupois; and in this esti- 
mate I have not included one hundred 
and ninety-seven superb gold watches; 
three of the number being worth each 
five hundred dollars, if one. Many of 
them were very old, and as timekeepers 
valueless; the works having suffered, 
more or less, from corrosion—but all 
were richly jewelled and in cases of 
great worth. We estimated the entire 
contents of the chest, that night, at a 
' million and a half of dollars; and upon 
the subsequent disposal of the trinkets 
and jewels (a few being retained for 
our own use), it was found that we 
had greatly under-valued the treasure. 
When, at length, we had concluded 


our examination, and the intense ex- 
citement of the time had, in some 
measure, subsided, Legrand, who saw 
that I was dying with impatience for 
a solution of this most extraordinary 
riddle, entered into a full detail of all 
the circumstances connected with it. 

“You remember,” said he, “the night 
when I handed you the rough sketch I 
had made of the scarabeus. You recol- 
lect also, that I became quite vexed at 
you for insisting that my drawing 
resembled a death’s head. When you 
first made this assertion I thought you 
were jesting; but afterward I called to 
mind the peculiar spots on the back 
of the insect, and admitted to myself 
that your remark had some little foun- 
dation in fact. Still, the sneer at my 
graphic powers irritated me—for I am 
considered a good artist—and, there- 
fore, when you handed me the scrap 
of parchment, I was about to crumple 
it up and throw it angrily into the fire.” 

“The scrap of paper, you mean,” 
said I. 

“No; it had much of the appearance 
of paper, and at first I supposed it to 
be such, but when I came to draw upon 
it, I discovered it at once to be a piece 
of very thin parchment. It was quite 
dirty, you remember. Well, as I was 
in the very act of crumpling it up, my 
glance fell upon the sketch at which 
you had been looking, and you may 
imagine my astonishment when I per- 
ceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s- 
head just where, it seemed to me, I 
had made the drawing of the beetle. 
For a moment I was too much amazed 
to think with accuracy. I knew that 
my design was very different in detail 
from this—although there was a certain 
similarity in general outline. Presently 


68 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I took a candle, and seating myself at 
the other end of the room, proceeded 
to scrutinize the parchment more 
closely. Upon turning it over, I saw 
my own sketch upon the reverse, just 
as I had made it. My first idea, now, 
was mere surprise at the really remark- 
able similarity of outline—at the singu- 
lar coincidence involved in the fact 
that, unknown to me, there should have 
been a skull upon the other side of the 
parchment, immediately beneath my 
figure of the scarabeus, and that this 
skull, not only in outline, but in size, 
should so closely resemble my drawing. 
I say the singularity of this coincidence 
absolutely stupefied me for a _ time. 
This is the usual effect of such coinci- 
dences. The mind struggles to estab- 
lish a connection—a sequence of cause 
and effect—and, being unable to do so, 
suffers a species of temporary paralysis. 
But, when I recovered from this stupor, 
there dawned upon me gradually a con- 
viction which startled me even far more 
than the coincidence. I began dis- 
tinctly, positively, to remember that 
there had been no drawing upon the 
parchment, when I made my sketch of 
the scarabeus. I became perfectly cer- 
tain of this; for I recollected turning 
up first one side and then the other, in 
search of the cleanest spot. Had the 
skull been then there, of course I could 
not have failed to notice it. Here was 
indeed a mystery which I felt it impos- 
sible to explain; but, even at that early 
moment, there seemed to glimmer, 
faintly, within the most remote and 
secret chambers of my intellect, a glow- 
worm-like conception of that truth 
which last night’s adventure brought to 
so magnificent a demonstration. I 
arose at once, and putting the parch- 


ment securely away, dismissed all fur- 
ther reflection until I should be alone. 

“When you had gone, and when Jupi- 
ter was fast asleep, I betook myself to 
a more methodical investigation of the 
affair. In the first place I considered 
the manner in which the parchment had 
come into my possession. The spot 
where we discovered the scarabeus was 
on the coast of the main-land, about a 
mile eastward of the island, and but a 
short distance above high-water mark. 
Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me 
a sharp bite, which caused me to let it 
drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed 
caution, before seizing the insect, which 
had flown toward him, looked about 
him for a leaf, or something of that 
nature, by which to take hold of it. It 
was at this moment that his eyes, and 
mine also, fell upon the scrap of parch- 
ment, which I then supposed to be 
paper. It was lying half buried in the 
sand, a corner sticking up. Near the 
spot where we found it, I observed the 
remnants of the hull of what appeared 
to have been a ship’s long-boat. The 
wreck seemed to have been there for 
a very great while; for the resemblance 
to boat timbers could scarcely be 
traced. 

“Well, Jupiter picked up the parch- 
ment, wrapped the beetle in it, and 
gave it to me. Soon afterward we 
turned to go home, and on the way 
met Lieutenant G I showed him 
the insect, and he begged me to let him 
take it to the fort. Upon my consent- 
ing, he thrust it forthwith into his 
waistcoat pocket, without the parch- 
ment in which it had been wrapped, 
and which I had continued to hold in 
my hand during his inspection. Per- 
haps he dreaded my changing my mind, 








THE GOLD BUG 69 


and thought it best to make sure of 
the prize at once—you know how en- 
thusiastic he is on all subjects connected 
with Natural History. At the same 
time, without being conscious of it, I 
must have deposited the parchment in 
my own pocket. 

“You remember that when I went 
to the table, for the purpose of making 
a sketch of the beetle, I found no paper 
where it was usually kept. I looked 
in the drawer, and found none there. 
I searched my pockets, hoping to find 
an old letter, when my hand fell upon 
the parchment. I thus detail the pre- 
cise mode in which it came into my 
possession; for the circumstances im- 
pressed me with peculiar force. 

“No doubt you will think me fanci- 
ful—but I had already established a 
kind of connection. I had put together 
two links of a great chain. There was 
a boat lying upon a sea-coast, and not 
far from the boat was a parchment— 
| not a paper—with a skull depicted upon 
it. You will, of course, ask ‘where is 
| the connection?’ I reply that the skull, 
or death’s-head, is the well-known em- 
_blem of the pirate. The flag of the 
_ death’s-head is hoisted in all engage- 
| ments. 

_ “T have said that the scrap was parch- 
'ment, and not paper. Parchment is 
_ durable—almost imperishable. Matters 
of little moment are rarely consigned 
_ to parchment; since, for the mere ordi- 
_mary purposes of drawing or writing, 
| it is not nearly so well adapted as paper. 
| This reflection suggested some meaning 
' —some relevancy—in the death’s-head. 
I did not fail to observe, also, the form 
_ of the parchment. Although one of its 
corners had been, by some accident, 
destroyed, it could be seen that the 


original form was oblong. It was just 
such a slip, indeed, as might have been 
chosen for a memorandum—for a 
record of something to be long remem- 
bered and carefully preserved.” 

“But,” I interposed, ‘you say that 
the skull was not upon the parchment 
when you made the drawing of the 
beetle. How then do you trace any 
connection between the boat and the 
skull—since this latter, according to 
your own admission, must have been 
designed (God only knows how or by 
whom) at some period subsequent to 
your sketching the scarabeus?” 

“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mys- 
tery; although the secret, at this point, 
I had comparatively little difficulty in 
solving. My steps were sure, and could 
afford but a single result. I reasoned, 
for example, thus: When I drew the 
scarabeus, there was no skull apparent 
upon the parchment. When I had com- 
pleted the drawing I gave it to you, 
and observed you narrowly until you 
returned it. You, therefore, did not 
design the skull, and no one else was 
present to do it. Then it was not done 
by human agency. And nevertheless it 
was done. 

“At this stage of my reflections I 
endeavored to remember, and did re- 
member, with entire distinctness, every 
incident which occurred about the 
period in question. ‘The weather was 
chilly (oh, rare and happy accident!), 
and a fire was blazing upon the hearth. 
I was heated with exercise and sat near 
the table. You, however, had drawn a 
chair close to the chimney. Just as I 
placed the parchment in your hand, and 
as you were in the act of inspecting it, 
Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and 
zeaped upon your shoulders, With your 


70 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


left hand you caressed him and kept 
him off, while your right, holding the 
parchment, was permitted to fall list- 
lessly between your knees, and in close 
proximity to the fire. At one moment 
I thought the blaze had caught it, and 
was about to caution you, but, before 
I could speak, you had withdrawn it, 
and were engaged in its examination. 
When I considered all these particu- 
lars, I doubted not for a moment that 
heat had been the agent in bringing to 
light, upon the parchment, the skull 
which I saw designed upon it. You 
are well aware that chemical prepara- 
tions exist, and have existed time out 
of mind, by means of which it is pos- 
sible to write upon either paper or 
vellum, so that the characters shall be- 
come visible only when subjected to 
the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in 
aqua regia, and diluted with four times 
its weight of water, is sometimes em- 
ployed; a green tint results. The regu- 
lus of cobalt, dissolved in spirit of nitre, 
gives a red. These colors disappear at 
longer or shorter intervals after the 
material written upon cools, but again 
become apparent upon the re-applica- 
tion of heat. 

“T now scrutinized the death’s-head 
with care. Its outer edges—the edges 
of the drawing nearest the edge of the 
vellum—were far more distinct than the 
others. It was clear that the action 
of the caloric had been imperfect or 
unequal. I immediately kindled a fire, 
and subjected every portion of the 
parchment to a glowing heat. At first, 
the only effect was the strengthening 
of the faint lines in the skull; but, 
upon persevering in the experiment, 
there became visible, at the corner of 
the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot 


in which the death’s-head was deline- 
ated, the figure of what I at first sup- 
posed to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, 
however, satisfied me that it was in- 
tended for a kid.” 

“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have 
no right to laugh at you—a million 
and a half of money is too serious a 
matter for mirth—but you are not 
about to establish a third link in your 
chain—you will not find any especial 
connection between your pirates and a 
goat—pirates, you know, have nothing 
to do with goats; they appertain to the 
farming interest.” 

“But I have just said that the figure 
was not that of a goat.” 

“Well, a kid then—pretty much the 
same thing.” 

“Pretty much, but not altogether,” 
said Legrand. ‘You may have heard 
of one Captain Kidd. I at once looked 
upon the figure of the animal as a kind 
of punning or hieroglyphical signature. 
I say signature; because its position 
upon the vellum suggested this idea. 
The death’s-head at the corner dia- 
gonally opposite, had, in the same man- 
ner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But 
I was sorely put out by the absence of 
all else—of the body to my imagined 
instrument—of the text for my con- 
text.” 

“T presume you expected to find a 
letter between the stamp and the signa- 
ture.” 

“Something of that kind. The fact 
is, I felt irresistibly impressed with a 
presentiment of some vast good for- 
tune impending. I can scarcely say 
why. Perhaps, after all, it was rather 
a desire than an actual belief;—but do 
you know that Jupiter’s silly words, 
about the bug being of solid gold. had 


| many 
| vague 
buried, somewhere upon the Atlantic 






THE GOLD BUG 71 


a remarkable effect upon my fancy? 
And then the series of accidents and 


 coincidents—these were so very extraor- 


dinary. Do you observe how mere an 


_ accident it was that these events should 
_ have occurred upon the sole day of all 
_ the year in which it has been, or may 
be sufficiently cool for fire, and that 
' without the fire, or without the inter- 


vention of the dog at the precise mo- 
ment in which he appeared, I should 
never have become aware of the 


| death’s-head, and so never the possessor 
| of the treasure.” . 


“But proceed—I am all impatience.” 
“Well; you have heard, of course, the 
stories current—the thousand 
rumors afloat about money 
by Kidd and his 


coast, associates. 


These rumors must have had some 
_ foundation in fact. 
_ mors have existed so long and so con- 
_ finuous, could have resulted, it appeared 
to me, only from the circumstance of 


And that the ru- 


| the buried treasures still remaining 
entombed. 
_ plunder for a time, and afterward re- 
claimed it, the rumors would scarcely 
| have reached us in their present un- 


Had Kidd concealed his 


varying form. You will observe that 


the stories told are all about money- 
_ seekers, not about money-finders. Had 
_ the pirate recovered his money, there 


the affair would have dropped. It 
seemed to me that some accident—say 


the loss of a memorandum indicating 
| its locality—had deprived him of the 
means of recovering it, and that this 
accident had become known to his fol- 


lowers, who otherwise might never have 
heard that the treasure had been con- 


cealed at all, and who, busying them- 
selves in vain, because unguided, 
attempts to regain it, had given first 
birth, and then universal currency, to 
the reports which are now so common. 
Have you ever heard of any important 
treasure being unearthed along the 
coast?” 

““Never.”’ 

“But that Kidd’s accumulations were 
immense, is well known. I took it for 
granted, therefore, that the earth still 
held them; and you will scarcely be 
surprised when I tell you that I felt a 
hope, nearly amounting to certainty, 
that the parchment so strangely found 
involved a lost record of the place of 
deposit.” 

“But how did you proceed?” 

“T held the vellum again to the fire, 
after increasing the heat, but nothing 
appeared. I now thought it possible 
that the coating of dirt might have 
something to do with the failure: so I 
carefully rinsed the parchment by pour- 
ing warm water over it, and, having 
done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with 
the skull downward, and put the pan 
upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. In 
a few minutes, the pan having become 
thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, 
and, to my inexpressible joy, found it 
spotted, in several places, with what 
appeared to be figures arranged in lines. 
Again I placed it in the pan, and suf- 
fered it to remain another minute. 
Upon taking it off, the whole was just 
as you see it now.” 

Here Legrand, having re-heated the 
parchment, submitted it to my inspec- 
tion. The following characters were 


72 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


rudely traced, in a red tint, between 
the death’s-head and the goat: 


SSE tii3s0 ae, 8) 2767) 45s 
)4);806*:4848960))85 
Aas dee eek ulate iby td) 
ib sk Seah nt uals sear WE Gar a, he) 
Sip Qi (AO S61 2 Git a 
8 * 34 0:16.92 85.) >):6 18) 4:tte.l 
(GT Dewd SOc Rely? 842-811. lee A Sut 
Pi ac: Sats es es AP I oO 0 ag = SO GS De: 
HUBS ENC PIG SAB) ph IG T 
s¥z Ui SiSist Tye: 


“But,” said I, returning him the slip, 
“IT am as much in the dark as ever. 
Were all the jewels of Golconda await- 
ing me upon my solution of this enigma, 
I am quite sure that I should be unable 
to earn them.” 

“And yet,’ said Legrand, “the solu- 
tion is by no means so difficult as you 
might be led to imagine from the first 
hasty inspection of the characters. 
These characters, as any one might 
readily guess, form a cipher—that is to 
say, they convey a meaning; but then 
from what is known of Kidd, I could 
not suppose him capable of construct- 
ing any of the more abstruse crypto- 
graphs. I made up my mind, at once, 
that this was a simple species—such, 
however, as would appear, to the crude 
intellect of the sailor, absolutely insolu- 
ble without the key.” 

“And you really solved it?” 

“Readily; I have solved others of 
an abstruseness ten thousand times 
greater. Circumstances, and a certain 
bias of mind, have led me to take inter- 
est in such riddles, and it may well be 
doubted whether human ingenuity can 
construct an enigma of the kind which 
human ingenuity may not, by proper 


application, resolve. In fact, having 
once established connected and legible 
characters, I scarcely gave a thought 
to the mere difficulty of developing 
their import. 

“In the present case—indeed in all 
cases of secret writing—the first ques- 
tion regards the Janguage of the cipher; 
for the principles of solution, so far, 
especially, as the more simple ciphers 
are concerned, depend upon, and are 
varied by, the genius of the particular 
idiom. In general, there is no alterna- 
tive but experiment (directed by proba- 
bilities) of every tongue known to him 
who attempts the solution, until the 
true one be attained. But, with the 
cipher now before us all difficulty was 
removed by the signature. The pun 
upon the word ‘Kidd’ is appreciable in 
no other language than the English. 
But for this consideration I should have 
begun my attempts with the Spanish 
and French, as the tongues in which a 
secret of this kind would most naturally 
have been written by a pirate of the 
Spanish main. As it was, I assumed 
the cryptograph to be English. 

“You observe there are no divisions 
between the words. Had there been 
divisions the task would have been com- 
paratively easy. In such cases I should 
have commenced with a collation and 
analysis of the shorter words, and, had 
a word of a single letter occurred, as 
is most likely, (a or J, for example,) 1 
should have considered the solution as 
assured. But, there being no division, 
my first step was to ascertain the pre- 
dominant letters, as well as the least 
frequent. Counting all, I constructed 
a table thus: 








THE GOLD BUG 73 


Of the character 8 there are 33. 


; 26. 
4 is 19. 
t) ‘ 16. 
** 5 13. 
5 s 12) 
6 « 11. 
+1 : 8. 
0 ie 6 
92 Si 
23 i 4, 
? a 3 
q cc 2 
~ there is l 


“Now, in English, the letter which 
most frequently occurs is e. After- 
ward, the succession runs thus: aoid 
hnrstuycfglmwhkpqxz. Epre- 
dominates so remarkably, that an indi- 
vidual sentence of any length is rarely 
seen, in which it is not the prevailing 
character. 

“Here, then, we have, in the very 
beginning, the groundwork for some- 
thing more than a mere guess. The 
general use which may be made of the 
table is obvious—but, in this particular 
cipher, we shall only very partially re- 
quire its aid. As our predominant 
character is 8, we will commence by 
assuming it as the e of the natural al- 
phabet. To verify the supposition, let 
us observe if the 8 be seen often in 
_couples—for e is doubled with great 
frequency in English—in such words, 
‘for example, as ‘meet,’ ‘fleet,’ ‘speed,’ 
‘seen,’ ‘been,’ ‘agree,’ etc. In the pres- 
ent instance we see it doubled no less 





Note.—The character ( has been 
omitted, cf which there are 10. Other 
editions have failed to observe this —Ed. 


than five times, although the crypto- 
graph is brief. 

“Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, 
of all words in the language, ‘the’ is 
most usual; let us see, therefore, 
whether there are not repetitions of any 
three characters, in the same order of 
collocation, the last of them being 8. 
If we discover repetitions of such let- 
ters, so arranged, they will most proba- 
bly represent the word ‘the.’ Upon 
inspection, we find no less than seven 
such arrangements, the characters being 
348. We may, therefore, assume that ; 
represents ¢, 4 represents #, and 8 rep- 
resents e—the last being now well con- 


firmed. Thus a great step has been 
taken. 
“But, having established a_ single 


word, we are enabled to establish a 
vastly important point; that is to say, 
several commencements and termina: 
tions of other words. Let us refer, for 
example, to the last instance but one, 
in which the combination ;48 occurs— 
not far from the end of the cipher. 
We know that the ; immediately ensu- 
ing is the commencement of a word, 
and, of the six characters succeeding 
this ‘the,’ we are cognizant of no less 
than five. Let us set these characters 
down, thus, by the letters we know 
them to represent, leaving a space for 
the unknown— 
t eeth 


“Here we are enabled, at once, to 
discard the ‘th,’ as forming no portion 
of the word commencing with the first 
t; since, by experiment of the entire 
alphabet for a letter adapted to the 
vacancy, we perceive that no word can 
be formed of which this th can be a 
part. We are thus narrowed into 


74 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLEN POE 


t ee 


and, going through the alphabet, if 
necessary, as before, we arrive at the 
word ‘tree,’ as the sole possible reading. 
We thus gain another letter, 7, repre- 
sented by ( with the words ‘the tree’ 
in juxtaposition. 

“Looking beyond these words, for a 
short distance, we again see the com- 
bination ;48, and employ it by way of 
termination to what immediately pre- 
cedes. We have thus this arrange- 
ment: 


the tree ;4(+?34 the 


or, substituting the natural letters, 
where known, it reads thus: 


the tree thrt?3h the 


“Now, if, in place of the unknown 
characters, we leave blank spaces, or 
substitute dots, we read thus: 


the tree thr...h the 


when the word ‘through’ makes itself 
evident at once. But this discovery 
gives us three new letters, 0, u, and g, 
represented by ¢, ?, and 3. 

“Looking now, narrowly, through the 
cipher for combinations of known char- 
acters, we find, not very far from the 
beginning, this arrangement, 


83(88, or egree 


which plainly, is the conclusion of the 
word ‘degree,’ and gives us another 
letter, d, represented by f. 

“Four letters beyond the word ‘de- 
gree, we perceive the combination 


346(;88 


“Translating the known characters, 
and representing the unknown by dots, 
as before, we read thus: 


th.rtee 


an arrangement immediately suggestive 
of the word ‘thirteen,’ and again fur- 
nishing us with two new characters, 
i and n, represented by 6 and *. 

“Referring, now, to the beginning of 
the cryptograph, we find the combina- 
tion, 


S3ttt 


“Translating as before, we obtain 
.good 


which assures us that the first letter is 
A, and that the first two words are 
‘A good.’ 

“Tt is now time that we arrange oul’ 
key, as far as discovered, in a tabular 
form, to avoid confusion. It will stand 


thus: 
5 represents a 
+ <9 d 
8 ie e 
3 (<4 g 
4 i h 
6 Be i 
* cc n 
i ce fe} 
( “ r 
; cc t 
? fs u 


“We have, therefore, no less than 














THE GOLD BUG 75 


eleven* of the most important letters 
vepresented, and it will be unnecessary 
to proceed with the details of the solu- 
tion. I have said enough to convince 
you that ciphers of this nature are 
readily soluble, and to give you some 
insight into the rationale of their devel- 
opment. But be assured that the speci- 
men before us appertains to the very 
simplest species of cryptograph. It 
now only remains to give you the full 
translation of the characters upon the 
parchment, as unriddled. Here it is: 


“A good glass in the bishop’s hostel 
in the devil’s seat forty-one degrees and 
thirteen minutes northeast and by north 
main branch seventh limb east side 
shoot from the left eye of the death’s- 
head a bee-line from the tree through 
the shot fifty feet out.” 


“But,” said I, “the enigma seems 
still in as bad a condition as ever.. How 
is it possible to extort a meaning from 
ali this jargon about ‘devil’s seats,’ 
‘death’s-heads,’ and ‘bishop’s hotels?’ ” 

“T confess,” replied Legrand, ‘that 
the matter still wears a serious aspect, 
when regarded with a casual glance. 
My first endeavor was to divide the 
sentence into the natural division in- 
tended by the cryptographist.” 

“Vou mean, to punctuate it?” 

“Something of that kind.” 

“But how was it possible to effect 
this?” 

“T reflected that it had been a point 
with the writer to run his words to- 


* Many editions err in stating only 
ten letters have been discovered, 
whereas actually there are eleven, letter 
u having been omitted—Ed. 


‘Bishop’s Hotel’; 


gether without division, so as to increase 
the difficulty of solution. Now, a not 
Over-acute man, in pursuing such an 
object, would be nearly certain to 
overdo the matter. When, in the 
course of his composition, he arrived 
at a break in his subject which would 
naturally require a pause, or a point, 
he would be exceedingly apt to run 
his characters, at this place, more than 
usually close together. If you will 
observe the MS., in the present in- 
stance, you will easily detect five such 
cases of unusual crowding.* Acting 
upon this hint, I made the division 
thus: 


“A good glass in the bishop’s hostel 
in the devil’s seat—forty-one degrees 
and thirteen minutes—northeast and by 
north—main branch seventh limb east 
side—shoot from the left eye of the 
death’s-head—a bee-line from the tree 
through the shot fifty feet out.” 


“Even this division,” said I, ‘leaves 
me still in the dark.” 

“Tt left me also in the dark.” replied 
Legrand, “for a few days; during which 
I made diligent inquiry in the neigh- 
borhood of Sullivan’s Island, for any 
building which went by name of the 
for, of course, I 
dropped the obsolete word ‘hostel.’ 
Gaining no information on the subject, 
I was on the point of extending my 
sphere of search, and proceeding in a 
more systematic manner, when, one 
morning, it entered into my head, quite 


* It will be observed that this edition 
has printed these letters as stated here. 
This has been neglected in other edi- 
tions.—Ed. Pw 2 


76 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLEN POE 


suddenly, that this ‘Bishop’s Hostel’ 
might have some reference to an old 
family, of the name of Bessop, which, 
time out of mind, had held possession 
of an ancient manor-house, about four 
miles to the northward of the island. 
I accordingly went over to the planta- 
tion, and re-instituted my inquiries 
among the older negroes of the place. 
At length one of the most aged of the 
women said that she had heard of such 
a place as Bessop’s Castle, and thought 
that she could guide me to it, but that 
it was not a castle, nor a tavern, but 
a high rock. 

“YT offered to pay her well for her 
trouble, and, after some demur, she 
consented to accompany me to the spot. 
We found it without much difficulty, 
when, dismissing her, I proceeded to 
examine the place. The ‘castle’ con- 
sisted of an irregular assemblage of 
cliffs and rocks—one of the latter being 
quite remarkable for its height as well 
as for its insulated and artificial appear- 
ance. I clambered to its apex, and then 
felt much at a loss as to what should 
be next done. 

“While I was busied in reflection, my 
eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the 
eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard 
below the summit upon which I stood. 
This ledge projected about eighteen 
inches, and was not more than a foot 
wide, while a niche in the cliff just 
above it gave it a rude resemblance to 
one of the hollow-backed chairs used 
by our ancestors. I made no doubt 
that here was the ‘devil’s-seat’ alluded 
to in the MS., and now I seemed to 
grasp the full secret of the riddle. 

“The ‘good glass,’ I knew, could have 
reference to nothing but a telescope; 
for the word ‘glass’ is rarely employed 


in any other sense by seamen. Now 
here, I at once saw, was a telescope to 
be used, and a definite point of view, 
admitting no variation, from which to 
use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe 
that the phrases, ‘forty-one degrees and 
thirteen minutes,’ and ‘northeast and by 
north, were intended as directions for 
the levelling of the glass. Greatly ex- 
cited by these discoveries, I hurried 
home, procured a telescope, and re- 
turned to the rock. 

“T let myself down to the ledge, and 
found that it was impossible to retain 
a seat upon it except in one particular 
position. This fact confirmed my pre- 
conceived idea. I proceeded to use the 
glass. Of course, the ‘forty-one degrees 
and thirteen minutes’ could allude to 
nothing but elevation above the visible 
horizon, since the horizontal direction 
was clearly indicated by the words, 
‘northeast and by north.’ This latter 
direction I at once established by means 
of a pocket-compass; then, pointing the 
glass as nearly at an angle of forty-one 
degrees of elevation as I could do it 
by guess, I moved it cautiously up or 
down, until my attention was arrested 
by a circular rift or opening in the 
foliage of a large tree that overtopped 
its fellows in the distance. In the 
centre of this rift I perceived a white 
spot, but could not, at first, distinguish 
what it was. Adjusting the focus of 
the telescope, I again looked, and now 
made it out to be a human skull. 

“Upon this discovery I was so san- 
guine as to consider the enigma solved; 
for the phrase ‘main branch, seventh 
limb, east side,’ could refer only to the 
position of the skull upon the tree, 
while ‘shoot from the left eye of the 
death’s-head’ admitted, also, of but one 





THE GOLD BUG 77 


interpretation, in regard to a search for 
buried treasure. I perceived that the 
design was to drop a bullet from the 
left eye of the skull, and that a bee- 
line, or, in other words, a straight line, 
drawn from the nearest point of the 
trunk through the shot’ (or the spot 
where the bullet fell), and thence ex- 
tended to a distance of fifty feet, would 
indicate a definite point—and beneath 
this point I thought it at least possible 
that a deposit of value lay concealed.” 

“All this,’ I said, “is exceedingly 
clear, and, although ingenious, still sim- 
ple and explicit. When you left the 
Bishop’s Hotel, what then?” 

“Why, having carefully taken the 
bearings of the tree, I turned home- 
ward. The instant that I left ‘the 
devil’s-seat,’ however, the circular rift 
vanished; nor could I get a glimpse 
of it afterward, turn as I would. What 
seems to me the chief ingenuity in this 
whole business, is the fact (for repeated 
experiment has convinced me it is a 
fact) that the circular opening in ques- 
tion is visible from no other attainable 
point of view than that afforded by the 
narrow ledge upon the face of the rock. 

“In this expedition to the ‘Bishop’s 
Hotel’ I had been attended by Jupiter, 
who had, no doubt, observed, for some 
weeks past, the abstraction of my de- 
meanor, and took especial care not to 
leave me alone. But, on the next day, 
getting up very early, I contrived to 
give him the slip, and went into the 
hills in search of the tree. After much 
toil I found it. When I came home at 
night my valet proposed to give me a 
flogging. With the rest of the adven- 
 ture_I believe you are as well acquainted 
as myseif.” 

“T suppose,” said I; ‘you missed the 


spot, in the first attempt at digging, 
through Jupiter’s stupidity in letting 
the bug fall through the right instead 
of through the left eye of the skull.” 

“Precisely. This mistake made a dif- 
ference of about two inches and a half 
in the ‘shot’—that is to say, in the 
position of the peg nearest the tree; 
and had the treasure been beneath the 
‘shot,’ the error would have been of 
little moment; but ‘the shot,’ together 
with the nearest point of the tree, were 
merely two points for the establishment 
of a line of direction; of course the 
error, however trivial in the beginning, 
increased as we proceeded with the 
line, and py the time we had gone fifty 
feet threw us quite off the scent. But 
for my deep-seated impressions that 
treasure was here somewhere actually 
buried, we might have had all our labor 
in vain.” 

“But your grandiloquence, and your 
conduct in swinging the beetle—how 
excessively odd! I was sure you were 
mad. And why did you insist upon 
letting fal: the bug, instead of a bullet, 
from the skull?” 

“Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat 
annoyed by your evident suspicions 
touching my sanity, and so resolved to 


- punish you quietly, in my own way, by 


a little bit of sober mystification. For 
this reason I swung the beetle, and for 
this reason I let it fall from the tree. 
An observation of yours about its great 
weight suggested the latter idea.” 

“Ves, I perceive; and now there is 
only one point which puzzles me. What 
are we to make of the skeletons found 
in the hole?” 

“That is a question I am no more 
able to answer than yourself. There 


78 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


seems, however, only one plausible way 
of accounting for them—and yet it is 
dreadful to believe in such atrocity as 
my suggestion would imply. It is clear 
that Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted this 
treasure, which I doubt not—it is clear 
that he must have had assistance in 


The Murders in 


the labor. But this labor concluded, 
he may have thought it expedient to 
remove all participants in his secret. 
Perhaps a couple of blows with a mat- 
tock were sufficient, while his coad- 
jutors were busy in the pit; perhaps it 
required a dozen—who shall tell?” ' 


the Rue Morgue 


(First published in Graham’s Magazine, April, 1841.—Ed.) 


THE mental features discoursed of 
as the analytical, are, in themselves, 
but little susceptible of analysis. We 
appreciate them only in their effects. 
We know of them, among other things, 
that they are always to their possessor, 
when inordinately possessed, a source 
of the liveliest enjoyment. As the 
strong man exults in his physical abil- 
ity, delighting in such exercises as call 
his muscles into action, so glories the 
analyst in that moral activity which 
disentangles. He derives pleasure from 
even the most trivial occupations bring- 
ing his talent into play. He is fond 
of enigmas, of conundrums, hierogly- 
phics; exhibiting in his solutions of each 


a degree of acumen which appears to ° 


the ordinary apprehension preterna- 
tural. His results, brought about by 
the very soul and essence of method, 
have, in truth, the whole air of in- 
tuition. 

The faculty of re-solution is possibly 
much invigoratea by mathematical 
study, and especially by that highest 
branch of it which, unjustly, and merely 
on account of its retrograde operations, 
has been called, as if par excellence, 
analysis. Yet to calculate is not in 


itself to analyze. A chess-player, for 
example, does the one, without effort 
at the other. It follows that the game 
of chess, in its effects upon mental 
character, is greatly misunderstood. I 
am not now writing a treatise, but 
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar 
narrative by observations very much 
at random; I will, therefore, take oc- 
casion to assert that the higher powers 
of the reflective intellect are more de- 
cidedly and more usefully tasked by 
the unostentatious game of draughts 
than by all the elaborate frivolity of 
chess. In this latter, where the pieces 
have different and bizarre motions, 
with various and variable values, what 
is only complex, is mistaken (a not 
unusual error) for what is profound. 
The attention is here called powerfully 
into play. If it flag for an instant, an 
oversight is committed, resulting in 
injury or defeat. The possible moves 
being not only manifold, but involute, 
the chances of such oversights are mul- 
tiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, 
it is the more concentrative rather than 
the more acute player who conquers. 
In draughts, on the contrary, where 
the moves are unique and have but 





THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 79 


little variation, the probabilities of in- 
advertence are diminished, and the 
mere attention being left comparatively 
unemployed, what advantages are ob- 
tained by either party are obtained by 
superior acumen. To be less abstract, 
let us suppose a game of draughts 
where the pieces are reduced to four 
kings, and where, of course, no over- 
sight is to be expected. It is obvious 
that here the victory can be decided 
(the players being at all equal) only 
by some recherche movement, the re- 
sult of some strong exertion of the 
intellect. Deprived of ordinary re- 
sources, the analyst throws himself into 
the spirit of his opponent, identifies 
himself therewith, and not unfrequently 
sees thus, at a glance, the sole meth- 
ods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple 
ones) by which he may seduce into 
error or hurry into miscalculation. 
Whist has long been known for its 
influence upon what is termed the cal- 
culating power; and men of the high- 
est order of intellect have been known 
to take an apparently unaccountable 
delight in it, while eschewing chess as 
frivolous. Beyond doubt there is 
nothing of a similar nature so greatly 
tasking the faculty of analysis. The 
best chess-player in Christendom may 
be little more than the best player of 
chess; but proficiency in whist im- 
plies capacity for success in all these 
more important undertakings where 
mind struggles with mind. When I 
say proficiency, I mean that perfection 
in the game which includes a compre- 
hension of all the sources whence 
legitimate advantage may be derived. 
These are not only manifold, but multi- 
form, and lie frequently among recesses 
of thought altogether inaccessible to 


the ordinary understanding. To ob- 
serve attentively is to remember dis- 
tinctly; and, so far, the concentrative 
chess-player will do very well at whist; 
while the rules of Hoyle (themselves 
based upon the mere mechanism of the 
game) are sufficiently and_ generally 
comprehensible. Thus to have a re- 
tentive memory, and proceed by “the 
book” are points commonly regarded 
as the sum total of good playing. But 
it is in matters beyond the limits of 
mere rule that the skill of the analyst 
is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host 
of observations and inferences. So, 
perhaps, do his companions; and the 
difference in the extent of the informa- 
tion obtained, lies not so much in the 
validity of the inference as in the 
quality of the observation. The neces- 
sary knowledge is that of what to ob- 
serve. Our player confines himself not 
at all; nor, because the game is the 
object, does he reject deductions from 
things external to the game. He ex- 
amines the countenance of his partner, 
comparing it carefully with that of 
each -of his opponents. He considers 
the mode of assorting the cards in each 
hand; often counting trump by trump, 
and honor by honor, through the 
glances bestowed by their holders upon 
each. He notes every variation of face 
as the play progresses, gathering a fund 
of thought from the differences in the 
expression of certainty, of surprise, of 
triumph, or chagrin. From the man- 
ner of gathering up a trick he judges 
whether the person taking it, can make 
another in the suit. He recognizes 
what is played through feint, by the 
manner with which it is thrown upon 
the table. A casual or inadvertent 
word; the accidental dropping or turn- 


80 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ing of a card, with the accompanying 
anxiety or carelessness in regard to its 
concealment; the counting of the tricks, 
with the order of their arrangement; 
embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness, or 
trepidation—all afford, to his apparently 
intuitive perception, indications of the 
true state of affairs. The first two or 
three rounds having been played, he 
is in full possession of the contents 
of each hand, and thenceforward puts 
down his cards with as absolute a pre- 
cision of purpose as if the rest of the 
party had turned outward the faces of 
their own. 

The analytical power should not be 
confounded with simple ingenuity; for 
while the analyst is necessarily ingeni- 
ous, the ingenious man is often re- 
markably incapable of analysis. The 
constructive or combining power, by 
which ingenuity is usually manifested, 
and to which the phrenologists (I be- 
lieve erroneously) have assigned a 
separate organ, supposing it a primitive 
faculty, has been so frequently seen 
in those whose intellect bordered other- 
wise upon idiocy, as to have attracted 
general observation among writers on 
morals. 
analytic ability there exists a difference 
far greater, indeed, than that between 
the fancy and the imagination, but of 
a character very strictly analogous. It 
will be found, in fact, that the in- 
genious are always fanciful, and the 
truly imaginative never otherwise than 
analytic. 

The narrative which follows will ap- 
pear to the reader somewhat in the 
light of a commentary upon the prop- 
ositions just advanced. 

Residing in Paris during the spring 
and part of the summer of 18—. I 


Between ingenuity and the. 


there became acquainted with a Mon- 
sieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young 
gentleman was of an excellent, indeed 
of an illustrious family, but, by a 
variety of untoward events, had been 
reduced to such poverty that the energy 
of his character succumbed beneath it, 
and he ceased to bestir himself in the 
world, or to care for the retrieval of 
his fortunes. By courtesy of his cred- 
itors, there still remained in his posses- 
sion a small remnant of his patrimony; 
and, upon the income arising from this, 
he managed, by means of a rigorous 
economy, to procure the necessaries of 
life, without troubling himself about 
its superfluities. Books, indeed, were 
his sole luxuries, and in Paris these 
are easily obtained. 

Our first meeting was at an obscure 
library in the Rue Montmartre, where 
the accident of our both being in search 
of the same very rare and very re- 
markable volume, brought us into closer 
communion. We saw each other again 
and again. I was deeply interested in 
the little family history which he de- 
tailed to me with all that candor which 
a Frenchman indulges whenever mere 
self is the theme. I was astonished, 
too, at the vast extent of his reading; 
and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled 
within me by the wild fervor, and the 
vivid freshness of his imagination. 
Seeking in Paris the objects I then 
sought, I felt that the society of such 
a man would be to me a treasure be- 
yond price; and this feeling I frankly 
confided to him. It was at length ar- 
ranged that we should live together 
during my stay in the city; and as my 
wordly circumstances were somewhat 
less embarrassed than his own, I was 
permitted to be at the expense of rent- 














THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 81 


ing, and furnishing in a style which 
suited the rather fantastic gloom of 
our common temper, a time-eaten and 
grotesque mansion, long deserted 
through superstitions into which we 
did not inquire, and tottering to its 
fall in a retired and desolate portion 
of the Faubourg St. Germain. 

Had the routine of our life at this 
place been known to the world, we 
should have been regarded as madmen 
—although, perhaps, as madmen of a 
harmless nature. Our seclusion was 
perfect. We admitted no visitors. 
Indeed the locality of our retirement 
had been carefully kept a secret from 
my own former associates; and it had 
been many years since Dupin had 
ceased to know or be known in Paris. 
We existed within ourselves alone. 

It was a freak of fancy in my friend 
(for what else shall I call it?) to be 
enamored of the night for her own 
sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into 
all his others, I quietly fell; giving 
myself up to his wild whims with a 
perfect abandon. The sable divinity 
would not herself dwell with us always; 
but we could counterfeit her presence. 
At the first dawn of the morning we 
closed all the massy shutters of our 
old building; lighted a couple of tapers 
which, strongly perfumed, threw out 
only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. 
By the aid of these we then busied our 
souls in dreams—reading, writing, or 
conversing, until warned by the clock 
of the advent of the true Darkness. 
Then we sallied forth into the streets, 
arm in arm, continuing the topics of 
the day, or roaming far and wide until 
a late hour, seeking, amid the wild 
Vights and shadows of the populous 


city, that infinity of mental excitement 
which quiet observation can afford. 

At such times I could not help re- 
marking and admiring (although from 
his rich ideality I had been prepared 
to expect it) a peculiar analytic ability . 
in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an 
eager delight in its exercise—if not 
exactly in its display—and did not hesi- 
tate to confess the pleasure thus de- 
rived. He boasted to me, with a low 
chuckling laugh, that most men, in re- 
spect to himself, wore windows in their 
bosoms, and was wont to follow up 
such assertions by direct and very 
startling proofs of his intimate knowl- 
edge of my own. His manner at these 
moments was frigid and abstract; his 
eyes were vacant in expression; while 
his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose 
into a treble which would have sounded 
petulantly but for the deliberateness 
and entire distinctness of the enun- 
ciation. Observing him in these moods, 
I often dwelt meditatively upon the 
old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and 
amused myself with the fancy of a 
double Dupin—the creative and the 
resolvent. 

Let it not be supposed, from what 
I have just said, that I am detailing 
any mystery, or penning any romance. 
What I have described in the French- 
man was merely the result of an ex- 
cited, or perhaps of a diseased, intelli- 
gence, but of the character of his 
remarks at the periods in question an 
example will best convey the idea. 

We were strolling one night down a 
long dirty street, in the vicinity of the 
Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, 
occupied with thought, neither of us 
had spoken a syllable for fifteen min- 


82 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


utes at least. All at once Dupin broke 
forth with these words: 

“He is a very little fellow, that’s 
true, and would do better for the 
Theatre des Varietes.” 

“There can be no doubt of that,” 
I replied, unwittingly, and not at first 
observing (so much had I been ab- 
sorbed in reflection) the extraordinary 
manner in which the speaker had 
chimed in with my meditations. In 
an instant afterward I recollected my- 
self, and my astonishment was pro- 
found. 

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is 
beyond my comprehension. I do not 
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and 
can scarcely credit my senses. How 
was it possible you should know I was 
thinking of——-?” Here I paused, to 
ascertain beyond a doubt whether he 
really knew of whom I thought. 

ve of Chantilly,” said he, “why 
do you pause? You were remarking 
to yourself that his diminutive figure 
unfitted him for tragedy.” 

This was precisely what had formed 
the subject of my reflections. Chantilly 
was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. 
Dennis, who, becoming stage-mad, had 
attempted the role of Xerxes, Crebil- 
lon’s tragedy so called, and been no- 
toriously Pasquinaded for his pains. 

“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I ex- 
claimed, “the method—if method there 
is—by which you have been enabled 





to fathom my soul in this matter.” 


In fact, I was even more startled than 
IT would have been willing to express. 

“Tt was the fruiterer,” replied my 
friend, “who brought you to the con- 
clusion that the mender of soles was 
not of sufficient height for Xerxes et 
id genus omne.” 


“The fruiterer!—you astonish me— 
I know no fruiterer whomsoever.” 

“The man who ran up against you 
as we entered the street—it may have 
been fifteen minutes ago.” 

I now remembered that, in fact, a 
fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large 
basket of apples, had nearly thrown me 
down, by accident, as we passed from 
the Rue C into the thorough- 
fare where we stood; but what this 
had to do with Chantilly I could not 
possibly understand. 

There was not a particle of char- 
latanerie about Dupin. “I will ex- 
plain,’ he said, ‘and that you may 
comprehend all clearly, we will first 
retrace the course of your meditations, 
from the moment in which I spoke to 
you until that of the rencontre with 
the fruiterer in question. The larger 
links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, 
Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stere- 
otomy the street stones, the fruit- 
erer.” 

There are few persons who have 
not, at some period of their lives, 
amused themselves in retracing their 
steps by which particular conclusions 
of their own minds have been attained. 
The occupation is often full of interest; 
and he who attempts it for the first 
time is astonished by the apparently 
illimitable distance and incoherence be- 
tween the starting-point and the goal. 
What, then, must have been my amaze- 
ment, when I heard the Frenchman 
speak what he had just spoken, and 
T could not help acknowledging that 
he had spoken the truth. He con- 
tinued: 

‘We had been talking of horses, f 
IT remember aright, just before leaving 
the Rue C This was the last 











THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 83 


subject we discussed. As we crossed 
into this street, a fruiterer, with a 
large basket upon his head, brushing 
quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile 
of paving-stones collected at a spot 
where the causeway is undergoing re- 
pair. You stepped upon one of the 
loose fragments, slipped, slightly 
strained your ankle, appeared vexed or 
sulky, muttered a few words, turned 
to look at the pile, and then proceeded 
in silence. I was not particularly at- 
tentive to what you did; but observa- 
tion has become with me, of late, a 
species of necessity. 

“You kept your eyes upon the 
ground—glancing, with a petulant ex- 
pression, at the holes and ruts in the 
pavement, (so that I saw you were 
still thinking of the stones,) until we 
reached the little alley called Lamar- 
tine, which has been paved, by way 
of experiment, with the overlapping 
and riveted blocks. Here your counte- 
nance brightened up, and, perceiving 
your lips move, I could not doubt that 
you murmured the word ‘stereotomy,’ 
a term very affectedly applied to this 
species of pavement. I knew that you 
could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ 
without being brought to think of ato- 
‘mies, and thus of the theories of Epi- 
curus; and since, when we discussed 
this subject not very long ago, I men- 
tioned to you how singularly, yet with 
how little notice, the vague guesses of 
that noble Greek had met with con- 
_firmation in the late nebular cosmog- 
ony, I felt that you could not avoid 
casting your eyes upward to the great 
nebula in .Orion, and I certainly ex- 
pected that you would do so. You 
_ did look up; and I was now assured that 
I had correctly followed your steps. 


But in that bitter tirade upon Chan: 
tilly, which appeared in yesterday’s 
‘Musee,’ the satirist, making some dis- 
graceful allusions to the cobbler’s 
change of name upon assuming the 
buskin, quoted a Latin line about which 
we have often conversed. I mean the 
line 


Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum. 


I had told you that this was in refer- 
ence to Orion, formerly written Urion; 
and, from certain pungencies connected 
with this explanation, I was aware that 
you could not have forgotten it. It 
was clear, therefore, that you would 
not fail to combine the two ideas of 
Orion and Chantilly. That you did 
combine them I saw by the character 
of the smile which passed over your 
lips. You thought of the poor cob- 
bler’s immolation. So far, you had 
been stooping in your gait; but now 
I saw you draw yourself up to your 
full height. I was then sure that you 
reflected upon the diminutive figure of 
Chantilly. At this point I interrupted 
your mediations to remark that as, in 
fact, he«was a very little fellow—that 
Chantilly—he would do better at the 
Theatre des Varietes.” 

Not long after this, we were looking 
over an evening edition of the Gazette 
des Tribunaux, when the following par- 
agraphs arrested our attention. 

“EXTRAORDINARY Murpers.— This 
morning, about three o’clock, the in- 
habitants of the Quartier St. Roch were 
roused from sleep by a succession of 
terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, 
from the fourth story of a house in 
the Rue Morgue, known to be in the 
sole occupancy of one Madame L’Es- 


84 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


panaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle 
Camille L’Espanaye. After some de- 
lay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt 
to procure admission in the usual man- 
ner, the gateway was broken in with 
a crowbar, and eight or ten of the 
neighbors entered, accompanied by two 
gendarmes. By this time the cries had 
ceased; but, as the party rushed up 
the first flight of stairs, two or more 
rough voices, in angry contention, were 
distinguished, and seemed to proceed 
from the upper part of the house. As 
the second landing was reached, these 
sounds, also, had ceased, and every 
thing remained perfectly quiet. The 
party spread themselves, and hurried 
from room to room. Upon arriving 
at a large back chamber in the fourth 
story, (the door of which, being found 
locked, with the key inside, was forced 
open,) a spectacle presented itself 
which struck every one present not 
less with horror than with astonish- 
ment. 

“The apartment was in the wildest 
disorder—the furniture broken and 
thrown about in all directions. There 
was only one bedstead; and from this 
the bed had been removed, and thrown 
into the middle of the floor. On a 
chair lay a razor, besmeared with 
blood. On the hearth were two or 
three long and thick tresses of gray 
human hair, also dabbled with blood, 
and seeming to have been pulled out 
by the roots. Upon the floor were 
found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of 
topaz, three large silver spoons, three 
smaller of metal d’Alger, and two bags, 
containing nearly four thousand francs 
in gold. The drawers of a bureau, 
which stood in one corner, were open, 
and had been, apparently, rifled, al- 


theugh many articles still remained in 
them. A small iron safe was discov- 
ered under the bed (not under the bed- 
stead). It was open, with the key 
still in the door. It had no contents 
beyond a few old letters, and other 
papers of little consequence. 

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces 
were here seen; but an unusual quan- 
tity of soot being observed in the fire- 
place, a search was made in the chim- 
ney, and (horrible to relate!) the 
corpse of the daughter, head down- 
ward, was dragged therefrom; it hav- 
ing been thus forced up the narrow 
aperture for a considerable distance. 
The body was quite warm. Upon ex- 
amining it, many excoriations were per- 
ceived, no doubt occasioned by the 
violence with which it had been thrust 
up and disengaged. . Upon the face 
were many _ severe scratches, and, 
upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep 
indentations of finger nails, as if the 
deceased had been throttled to death. 

“After a thorough investigation of 
every portion of the house without far- 
ther discovery, the party made its way 
into a small paved yard in the rear of 
the building, where lay the corpse of 
the old lady, with her throat so en- 
tirely cut that, upon an attempt to 
raise her, the head fell off. The body, 
as well as the head, was fearfully muti- 
lated—the former so much so as 
scarcely to retain any semblance of 
humanity. 

“To this horrible mystery there is 
not as yet, we believe, the slightest 
clew.” 

The next day’s paper had these addi- 
tional particulars: 

“The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue.— 
Many individuals have been examined 


THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 85 


in relation to this most extraordinary 
_and frightful affair,” [the word ‘affaire’ 
has not yet, in France, that levity of 
import which it conveys with us] “but 
nothing whatever has transpired to 
throw light upon it. We give below 
all the material testimony elicited. 

“Pauline Dubourg, iaundress, deposes 
that she has known both the deceased 
for three years, having washed for 
them during that period. The old lady 

and her daughter seemed on _ good 

'terms—very affectionate toward each 
other. They were excellent pay. Could 
'not speak in regard to their mode or 
means of living. Believed that Ma- 
dame L. told fortunes for a living. 
Was reputed to have money put by. 
Never met any person in the house 
when she called for the clothes or 
took them home. Was sure that they 
had no servant in employ. There ap- 
peared to be no furniture in any part 
of the building except in the fourth 
story. 

“Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes 
that he has been in the habit of selling 
small quantities of tobacco and snuff 
to Madame L’Espanaye for nearly four 
years. Was born in the neighborhood, 
and has always resided there. The de- 
ceased and her daughter had occupied 
the house in which the corpses were 
found, for more than six years. It was 
formerly occupied by a jeweller, who 
-under-let the upper rooms to various 
persons. The house was the property 
‘of Madame L. She became dissatisfied 
with the abuse of the premises by her 
tenant, and moved into them herself, 
ieefusing to let any portion. The old 
lady was childish. Witness had seen 
the daughter some five or six times dur- 
‘ing the six years. The two lived an 






















exceedingly retired life—were reputed 
to have money. Had heard it said 
among the neighbors that Madame L. 
told fortunes—did not believe it. Had 
never seen any person enter the door 
except the old lady and her daughter, 
a porter once or twice, and a physician 
some eight or ten times. 

“Many other persons, neighbors, gave 
evidence to the same effect. No one 
was spoken of as frequenting the house. 
It was not known whether there were 
any living connections of Madame L. 
and her daughter. The shutters of the 
front . windows were seldom opened, 
Those in the rear were always closed, 
with the exception of the large black 
room, fourth story. The house was a 
good house—not very old. 

“Tsidore Muset, gendarme, deposes 
that he was called to the house about 
three o’clock in the morning, and found 
some twenty or thirty persons at the 
gateway, endeavoring to gain admit- 
tance. Forced it open, at length, with a 
bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had 
but little difficulty in getting it open, 
on account of its being a double or 
folding gate, and bolted neither at bot- 
tom nor top. The shrieks were con- 
tinued until the gate was forced—and 
then suddenly ceased. They seemed 
to be screams of some person (or per- 
sons) in great agony—were loud and 
drawn out, not short and quick. Wit- 
nesses led the way up stairs. Upon 
reaching the first landing, heard two 
voices in loud and angry contention— 
the one a gruff voice, the other much 
shriller—a very strange voice. Could 
distinguish some words of the former, 
which was that of a Frenchman. Was 
positive that it was not a woman’s 
voice. Could distinguish the words 


86 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


‘sacre’ and: ‘diable.’ The shrill voice 
was that of a foreigner. Could not 
be sure whether it was the voice of a 
man or of a woman. Could not make 
out what was said, but believed the 
language to be Spanish. The state of 
the room and of the bodies was de- 
scribed by this witness as we described 
them yesterday. 

“Henrt Duval, a neighbor, and by 
trade a silver-smith, deposes that he 
was one of the party who first entered 
the house. Corroborates the testimony 
of Muset in general. As soon as they 
forced an entrance, they re-closed the 
door, to keep out the crowd, which 
collected very fast, notwithstanding the 
lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, 
this witness thinks, was that of an 
Italian. Was certain it was not French. 
Could not be sure that it was a man’s 
voice. It might have been a wom- 
an’s. Was not acquainted with the Ital- 
ian language. Could not distinguish 
the words, but was convinced by the 
intonation that the speaker was an 
Italian. Kneiz Madame L. and her 
daughter. Had conversed with both 
frequently. Was sure that the shrill 
voice was not that of either of the de- 
ceased. 


(i$ 





Odenheimer, restaurateur. — 
This witness volunteered his testimony. 
Not speaking French, was examined 
through an interpreter. Is a native of 
Amsterdam. Was passing the house 
at the time of the shrieks. They lasted 
for several minutes—probably _ ten. 


They were long and loud—very awful 


and distressing. Was one of those who 
entered the building. Corroborated the 
previous evidence in every respect but 
one. Was sure that the shrill voice was 
that of a man—of a Frenchman, Could 


not distinguish the words uttered. They 
were loud and quick—unequal—spoken 
apparently in fear as well as in anger. 
The voice was harsh—not so much 
shrill as harsh. Could not call it a 
shrill voice. The gruff voice said re- 
peatedly, ‘sacre,’ ‘diable, and once 
‘mon Dieu.’ 

“Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm 
of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. 
Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Es- 
panaye had some property. Had opened 
an account with his banking house in 
the spring of the year—(eight years 
previously). Made frequent deposits 
in small sums. Had checked for noth~ 
ing until the third day before her 
death, when she took out in person 
the sum of 4000 francs. This sum 
was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home 
with the money. 

“Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud 
et Fils, deposes that on the day in 
question, about noon, he accompanied 
Madame L’Espanaye to her residence 
with the 4000 francs, put up in two 
bags. Upon the door being opened, 
Mademoiselle L. appeared and _ took 
from his hands one of the bags, while 
the old lady relieved him of the other. 
He then bowed and departed. Did 
not see any person in the street at the 
time. It is a by-street—very lonely. 

“William Bird, tailor, deposes that 
he was one of the party who entered 
the house. Is an Englishman. Has 
lived in Paris two years. Was one of 
the first to ascend the stairs. Heard 
the voices in contention. The gruff 
voice was that of a Frenchman. Could 
make out several words, but cannot 
now remember all. Heard distinctly 
‘sacre’ and ‘mon Dieu.’ There was a 
sound at the moment as if of several 





THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 37 


persons. struggling—a scraping and 
scuffing sound. The shrill voice was 
very loud—louder than the gruff one. 
Is sure that it was not the voice of an 


Englishman. Appeared to be that of 
a German. Might have been a wom- 
an’s voice. Does not understand Ger- 
man. 


“Four of the above-named witnesses 
being recalled, deposed that the door 
of the chamber in which was found the 
body of Mademoiselle L. was locked 
on the inside when the party reached 
it. Every thing was perfectly silent— 
no groans or noises of any kind. Upon 
forcing the door no person was seen. 
The windows, both of the back and 
front room, were down and firmly fas- 
tened from within. A door between 
the two rooms was closed but not 
locked. The door leading from the 
front room into the passage was locked, 
with the key on the inside. A small 
room in the front of the house, on the 
fourth story, at the head of the passage, 
was open, the door being ajar. This 
room was crowded with old beds, boxes, 
_and so forth. These were carefully re- 
_moved and searched. There was not an 
inch of any portion of the house which 
was not carefully searched. Sweeps 
were sent up and down the chimneys. 
The house was a four-story one, with 
-garrets (mansardes). A trap-door on 
the roof was nailed down very se- 
curely—did not appear to have been 
opened for years. The time elapsing 
between the hearing of the voices in 
contention and the breaking open of 
the room door was variously stated 
by the witnesses. Some made it as 
short as three minutes—some as long 


“Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes 
that he resides in the Rue Morgue. 
Is a native of Spain. Was one of the 
party who entered the house. Did not 
proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was 
apprehensive of the consequences of 
agitation. Heard the voices in con- 
tention. The gruff voice was that of a 
Frenchman. Could not distinguish 
what was said. The shrill voice was 
that of an Englishman—is sure of this. 
Does not understand the English lan- 
guage, but judges by the intonation. 

“Alberto Montani, confectioner, de- 
poses that he was among the first to as- 
cend the stairs. Heard the voices in 
question. The gruff voice was that 
of a Frenchman. Distinguished several 
words. The speaker appeared to be 
expostulating. Could not make out 
the words of the shrill voice. Spoke 
quick and unevenly. Thinks it the 
voice of a Russian. Corroborates the 
general testimony. Is an_ Italian. 
Never conversed with a native of Rus- 
sia. 

“Several witnesses, recalled, here 
testified that the chimneys of all the 
rooms on the fourth story were too 
narrow to admit the passage of a hu- 
man being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant 
cylindrical sweeping-brushes, such as 
are employed by those who clean chim- 
neys. ‘These brushes were passed up 
and down every flue in the house. 
There is no back passage by which 
any one could have descended while 
the party proceeded up stairs. The 
body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was 
so firmly wedged in the chimney that 
it could not be got down until four 
or five of the party united their 


_as five. The door was opened with 
difficulty. 


1 


strength. 
“Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that 





88 WORKS OF' EDGAR ALLAN POE 


he was called to view the bodies about 
daybreak. They were both then lying 
on the sacking of the bedstead in the 
chamber where Mademoiselle L. was 
found. The corpse of the young lady 
was much bruised and excoriated. The 
fact that it had been thrust up the 
chimney would sufficiently account for 
these appearances. The throat was 
greatly chafed. There were several 
deep scratches just below the chin, to- 
gether with a series of livid ‘spots 
which were evidently the impression 
of fingers. The face was fearfully dis- 
colored, and the eyeballs protruded. 
The tongue had been partially bitten 
through. A large bruise was discov- 
ered upon the pit of the stomach, pro- 
duced, apparently, by the pressure of 
a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, 
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had _ been 
throttled to death by some person or 
persons unknown. The corpse of the 
mother was horribly mutilated. All 
the bones of the right leg and arm 
were more or less shattered. The left 
tzbia much splintered, as well as all 
the ribs of the left side. Whole body 
dreadfully bruised and discolored. It 
was not possible to say how the in- 
juries had been inflicted. A heavy 
club of wood, or a broad bar of iron— 
a chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse 
weapon would have produced such re- 
sults, if wielded by the hands of a 
very powerful man. No woman could 
have inflicted the blows with any 
weapon. The head of the deceased, 
when seen by witness, was entirely 
separated from the body, and was also 
greatly shattered. The throat had evi- 
dently been cut with some very sharp 
instrument—probably with a razor. 


“Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was 


called with M. Dumas to view the 
bodies. Corroborated the testimony 
and the opinions of M. Dumas. 

“Nothing further of importance was 
elicited, although several other persons 
were examined. A murder so mysteri- 
ous, and so perplexing in all its par- 
ticulars, was never before committed 
in Paris—if indeed a murder has been 
committed at all. The police are en- 
tirely at fault—an unusual occurrence 
in affairs of this nature. There is not, 
however, the shadow of a clew appar- 
ent.” 

The evening edition of the paper 
stated that the greatest excitement still 
continued in the Quartier St. Roch— 
that the premises in question had been 
carefully re-searched, and fresh exami- 
nations of witnesses instituted, but all 
to no purpose. A postscript, however, 
mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had 
been arrested and imprisoned—although - 
nothing appeared to criminate him be- 
yond the facts already detailed. 

Dupin seemed singularly interested 
in the progress of this affair—at least 
so I judged from his manner, for he 
made no comments. It was only after 
after the announcement that Le Bon 
had been imprisoned, that he asked — 
me my opinion respecting the murders. 

I could merely agree with all Paris 
in considering them an insoluble mys- 
tery. JI saw no means by which it 
would be possible to trace the mur- 
derer. 

“We must not judge of the means,” 
said Dupin, “by this shell of an exami- 
nation. The Parisian police, so much 
extolled for acumen, are cunning, but — 
no more. There is no method in their 
proceedings, beyond the method of the 
moment. They make a vast parade 


| well. 











THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 89 


of measures; but, not unfrequently, 
these are so ill-adapted to the objects 
proposed, as to put us in mind of 
_ Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his 
_ robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre 
la musique. The results attained by 
them are not unfrequently surprising, 
but, for the most part, are brought 
_ about by simple diligence and activity. 
When these qualities are unavailing, 
their schemes fail. Vidocq, for ex- 
ample, was a good guesser, and a per- 
- severing man. But, without educated 
thought, he erred continually by the 
_ very intensity at his investigations. He 
_ impaired his vision by holding the ob- 
ject too close. He might see, perhaps, 
_ one or two points with unusual clear- 
ness, but in so doing he, necessarily, 
lost sight of the matter as a whole. 
_ Thus there is such a thing as being too 
profound. Truth is not always in a 
| In fact, as regards the more 
_ important knowledge, I do believe that 
_ she is invariably superficial. The depth 
lies in the valleys where we seek her, 
and not upon the mountain-tops where 
she is found. The modes and sources 
of this kind of error are well typified 
_in the contemplation of the heavenly 
_ bodies. To look at a star by glances— 
_ to view it in a side-long way, by turn- 
_ ing toward it the exterior portions of 
the retina (more susceptible of feeble 
_ impressions of light than the interior), 
is to behold the star distinctly—is to 
have the best appreciation of its lus- 
_ tre—a lustre which grows dim just in 
proportion as we turn our vision fully 
upon it. A greater number of rays 
actually fall upon the eye in the lat- 
ter case, but in the former, there is 
the more refined capacity for compre- 
hension, By undue profundity we per- 


plex and enfeeble thought; and it is 
possible to make even Venus herself 
vanish from the firmament by a scru- 
tiny too sustained, too concentrated, 
or too direct. 

“As for these murders, let us enter 
into some examinations for ourselves, 
before we make up an opinion respect- 
ing them. An inquiry will afford us 
amusement,” [I thought this an odd 
term, so applied, but said nothing] “and 
besides, Le Bon once rendered me a 
service for which I am not ungrateful. 
We will go and see the premises with 
our own eyes. I know G erthe 
Prefect of Police, and shall have no 
difficulty in obtaining the necessary 
permission.” 

The permission was obtained, and 
we proceeded at once to the Rue 
Morgue. This is one of those miser- 
able thoroughfares which intervene be- 
tween the Rue Richelieu and the Rue 
St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon 
when we reached it, as this quarter is 
at a great distance from that in which 
we resided. The house was readily 
found; for there were still many per- 
sons gazing up at the closed shutters, 
with an objectless curiosity, from the 
opposite side of the way. It was an 
ordinary Parisian house, with a gate- 
way, on one side of which was a giazed 
watch-box, with a sliding panel in the 
window, indicating a loge de concierge. 
Before going in we walked up the 
street, turned down an alley, and then, 
again turning, passed in the rear of 
the building—Dupin, meanwhile, exam- 
ining the whole neighborhood, as well 
as the house, with a minuteness of at- 
tention for which I could see no pos- 
sible object. 

Retracing our steps we came again 





90 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


to the front of the dwelling, rang, and 
having shown our credentials, were ad- 
mitted by the agents in charge. We 
went up stairs—into the chamber where 
the body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye 
had been found, and where both the 
deceased still lay. The disorders of 
the room had, as usual, been suffered 
to exist. I saw nothing beyond what 
had been stated in the Gazette des 
Tribunaux. Dupin scrutinized every 
thing—not excepting the bodies of the 
victims. We then went into the other 
rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme 
accompanying us throughout. The ex- 
amination occupied us until dark, when 
we took our departure. On our way 
home my companion stepped in for 
2 moment at the office of one of the 
daily papers. 

I have said that the whims of my 
friend were manifold, and that Je les 
menageais:—for this phrase there is no 
English equivalent. It was his humor, 
now, to decline all conversation on the 
subject of. the murder, until about noon 
the next day. He then asked me, sud- 
denly, if I had observed any thing pe- 
culiar at the scene of the atrocity. 

There was something in his manner 
of emphasizing the word “peculiar,” 
which caused me to shudder, without 
knowing why. 

“No, nothing peculiar,” T said; ‘“noth- 
ing more, at least, than we both saw 
stated in the paper.” 

“The Gazette,’ he replied, ‘has not 
entered, I fear, into the unusual hor- 
ror of the thing. But dismiss the idle 
opinions of this print. It appears to 
me that this mystery is considered 
insoluble, for the very reason which 
should cause it to be regarded as easy 
of solution—I mean for the outre 


character of its features. The police 
are confounded by the seeming absence 
of motive—not for the murder itself— 
but for the atrocity of the murder. 
They are puzzled, too, by the seeming 
impossibility of reconciling the voices 
heard in contention, with the facts that 
no one was discovered upstairs by the 
assassinated Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, 
and that there were no means of egress 
without the notice of the party ascend- 
ing. The wild disorder of the room; 
the corpse thrust, with the head down- 
ward, up the chimney; the frightful 
mutilation of the body of the old lady; 
these considerations, with those just 
mentioned, and others which I need 
not mention, have sufficed to paralyze 
the powers, by putting completely at 
fault the boasted acumen, of the gov- 
ernment agents. They have fallen into 
the gross but common error of con- 
founding the unusual with the abstruse. 
But it is by these deviations from the 
plane of the ordinary, that reason feels 
its way, if at all, in its search for the 
true. In investigations such as we are 
now pursuing, it should not be so much 
asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what 
has occurred that has never occurred 
before.’ In fact, the facility with which 
I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the 
solution of this mystery, is in the direct 
ratio of its apparent insolubility in the 
eyes of the police.” 

I stared at the speaker in mute as- 
tonishment. 

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, 
looking toward the door of our apart- 
ment—“I am now awaiting a person 
who, although perhaps not the perpe- 
trator of these butcheries, must have 
been in some measure implicated in 
their perpetration. Of the worst por- 








THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 91 


tion of the crimes committed, it is 
probable that he is innocent. I hope 
that I am right in this supposition; 
for upon it I build my expectation of 
reading the entire riddle. I look for 
the man here—in this room—every mo- 
ment. It is true that he may not ar- 
rive; but the probability is that he 
will. Should he come, it will be neces- 
sary to detain him. Here are pistols; 
and we both know how to use them 
when occasion demands their use.” 

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing 
what I did, or believing what I heard, 
while Dupin went on, very much as 
if in a soliloquy. I have already spoken 
of his abstract manner at such times. 
His discourse was addressed to myself; 
but his voice, although by no means 
loud, had that intonation which is com- 
monly employed in speaking to some 
one at a great distance. His eyes, va- 
cant in expression, regarded only the 
wall. 

“That the voices heard in conten- 
tion,” he said, “by the party upon the 
stairs, were not the voices of the 
women themselves, was fully proved 
by the evidence. This relieves us of all 
doubt upon the question whether the 
old lady could have first destroyed the 
daughter, and afterward have commit- 
ted suicide. I speak of this point 
chiefly for the sake of method; for the 
strength of Madame L’Espanaye would 
have been utterly unequal to the task 
of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up 
the chimney as it was found; and the 
nature of the wounds upon her own 
person entirely precludes the idea of 
self-destruction. Murder, then, has 
been committed by some third party; 
and the voices of this third party were 
those heard in contention. Let me 


now advert—not to the whole testimony 
respecting these voices—but to what 
was peculiar in that testimony. Did 
you observe any thing peculiar about 
it?” 

I remarked that. while all the wit- 
nesses agreed in supposing the gruff 
voice to be that of a Frenchman, there 
was much disagreement in regard to the 
shrill, or, as one individual termed it, 
the harsh voice. 

“That was the evidence itself,” said 
Dupin, “but it was not the peculiarity 
of the evidence. You have observed 
nothing distinctive. Yet there was 
something to be observed. The wit- 
nesses, aS you remark, agreed about 
the gruff voice; they were here unani- 
mous. But in regard to the shrill voice, 
the peculiarity is—not that they dis- 
agreed—but that, while an Italian, an 
Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and 
a Frenchman attempted to describe it, 
each one spoke of it as that of a for- 
eigner. Each is sure that it was not 
the voice of one of kis own country- 
men. Each likens it—not to the voice 
of an individual of any nation with 
whose language he is conversant—but 
the converse. The Frenchman supposes 
it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might 
have distinguished some words had he 
been acquainted with the Spanish’ 
The Dutchman maintains it to have 
been that of a Frenchman; but he find 
it stated that ‘not understanding 
French this witness was examined 
through an interpreter.” The English- 
man thinks it the voice of a German, 
and ‘does not understand German’ 
The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that 
of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the 


intonation’ altogether, ‘as he has no 


knowledge of the English” The Italiar 


92 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


believes it the voice of a Russian, but 
‘has never conversed with a native of 
Russia.” A second Frenchman differs, 
moreover, with the first, and is positive 
that the voice was that of an Italian; 
but, zot being cognizant of that tongue, 
is, like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the 
intonation.’ Now, how strangely un- 
usual must that voice have really been, 
about which such testimony as this 
could have been elicited!—in whose 
tones, even, denizens of the five great 
divisions of Europe could recognize 
nothing familiar! You will say that it 
mijsht have been the voice of an Asi- 
atic—of an African. Neither Asiatics 
nor Africans abound in Paris; but, 
without denying the inference, I will 
now merely call your attention to three 
points. ‘The voice is termed by one 
witness ‘harsh rather than shrill. It 
is represented by two others to have 
been ‘quick and unequal.’ No words— 
no sounds resembling words—were by 
any witness mentioned as distinguish- 
able. 

“T know not,” continued Dupin, 
“what impression I may have made, 
so far, upon your own understanding; 
but I do not hesitate to say that legiti- 
mate deductions even from this por- 
tion of the testimony—the portion re- 
specting the gruff and shrill voices—are 
in themselves sufficient to engender a 
suspicion which should give direction 
to all farther progress in the investiga- 
tion of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate 
deductions’; but my meaning is not 
thus fully expressed. I designed to 
imply that the deductions are the sole 
proper ones, and that the suspicion 
arises inevitably from them as the sin- 
gle result. What the suspicion is, 
however, I will not say just yet. I 


merely wish you to bear in mind that, 
with myself, it was sufficiently forcible 
to give a definite form—a certain ten- 
dency—to my inquiries in the chamber. 

“Let us now transport ourselves, in 
fancy, to this chamber. What shall we 
first seek here? The means of egress 
employed by the murderers. It is not 
too much to say that neither of us be- 
lieve in preternatural events. Madame 
and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were 
not destroyed by spirits. The doers 
of the deed were material and escaped 
materially. Then how? Fortunately 
there is but one mode of reasoning 
upon the point, and that mode must 
lead us to a definite decision. Let us 
examine, each by each, the possible 
means of egress. It is clear that the 
assassins were in the room where Made- 
moiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at 
least in the room adjoining, when the 
party ascended the stairs. It is, then, 
only from these two apartments that 
we have to seek issues. The police 
have laid bare the floors, the ceiling, © 
and the masonry of the walls, in every — 
direction. No secret issues could have 
escaped their vigilance. But, not trust- 
ing to their eyes, I examined with my 
own. ‘There were, then, zo secret is- — 
sues. Both doors leading from the © 
rooms into the passage were securely © 
locked, with the keys inside. Let us 
turn to the chimneys. These, although | 
of ordinary width for some eight or — 
ten feet above the hearths, will not — 
admit, throughout their extent, the 
body of a large cat. The impossibility — 
of egress, by means already stated, — 
being thus absolute, we are reduced to 
the windows. Through those of the — 
front room no one could have escaped — 
without notice from the crowd in the — 


























THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 93 


street. The murderers must have 
passed, then, through those of the back 
room. Now, brought to this conclusion 
in so unequivocal a manner as we are, 
it is not our part, as reasoners, to re- 
ject it on account of apparent impossi- 
bilities. It is only left for us to prove 
that these apparent ‘impossibilities’ are, 
in reality, not such. 

“There are two windows in the cham- 
ber. One of them is unobstructed by 
furniture, and is wholly visible. The 
lower portion of the other is hidden 
from view by the head of the unwieldy 
bedstead which is thrust close up 
against it. The former was found se- 
curely fastened from within. It re- 
sisted the utmost force of those who 
endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet- 
hole had been pierced in its frame to 
the left, and a very stout nail was 
found fitted therein, nearly to the head. 
Upon examining the other window, a 
similar nail was seen similarly fitted 
in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise 
this sash failed also. The police were 
now entirely satisfied that egress had 
not been in these directions. And, 
therefore, it was thought a matter of 
supererogation to withdraw the nails 
and open the windows. 

“My own examination was somewhat 
more particular, and was so for the rea- 
son I have just given—because here 
it was, I knew, that all apparent im- 
possibilities must be proved to be not 
such in reality. 

“T proceeded to think thus—a pos- 
teriort. The murderers did escape 
from one of these windows. This be- 
ing so, they could not have re-fas- 
tened the sashes from the inside, as 
they were found fastened—the consid- 
eration which put a stop, through its 


obviousness, to the scrutiny of the po- 
lice in this quarter. Yet the sashes 
were fastened. They must, then, have 
the power of fastening themselves. 
There was no escape from this con- 
clusion. I stepped to the unobstructed 
casement, withdrew the nail with some 
difficulty, and attempted to raise the 
sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I 
had anticipated. A concealed spring 
must, I now knew, exist; and this cor- 
roboration of my idea convinced me 
that my premises, at least, were cor- 
rect, however mysterious still appeared 
the circumstances attending the nails. 
A careful search soon brought to light 
the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, 
satisfied with the discovery, forbore to 
upraise the sash. 

“T now replaced the nail and re- 
garded it attentively. A person pass- 
ing through this window might have 
reclosed it, and the spring would have 
caught—but the nail could not have 
been replaced. ‘The conclusion was 
plain, and again narrowed in the field 
of my investigations. The assassins 
must have escaped through the other 
window. Supposing, then, the springs 
upon each sash to be the same, as was 
probable, there must be found a dif- 
ference between the nails, or at least 
between the modes of their fixture. 
Getting upon the sacking of the bed- 
stead, I looked over the head-beard 
minutely at the second casement. Pass- 
ing my hand down behind the board, 
I readily discovered and pressed the 
spring, which was, as I had supposed, 
identical in character with its neighbor 
I now looked at the nail. it was as 
stout as the other, and apparently fitted 
in the same manner—driven in nearly 
up to the head. 


94 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“You will say that I was puzzled; 
but, if you think so, you must have 
misunderstood the nature of the induc- 
tions. To use a sporting phrase, I 
had not been once ‘at fault.’ The 
scent had never for an instant been 
lost. There was no flaw in any link 
of the chain. I had traced the secret 
to its ultimate result,—and that result 
was the nail. It had, I say, in every 
respect, the appearance of its fellow 
in the other window; but this fact was 
an absolute nullity (conclusive as it 
might seem to be) when compared 
with the consideration that here, at 
this point, terminated the clew. ‘There 
must be something wrong,’ I said, 
‘about the nail. I touched it; and 
the head, with about a quarter of an 
inch of the shank came off in my fin- 
gers. The rest of the shank was in 
the gimlet-hole, where it had been 
broken off. The fracture was an old 
one (for its edges were incrusted with 
rust), and had apparently been ac- 
complished by the blow of a hammer, 
which had partially imbedded, in the 
top of the bottom sash, the head por- 
tion of the nail. I now carefully re- 
placed this head portion in the indenta- 
tion whence I had taken it, and the 
resemblance to a perfect nail was com- 
plete—the fissure was invisible. Press- 
ing the spring, I gently raised the sash 
for a few inches; the head went up 
with it, remaining firm in its bed. I 
closed the window, and the semblance 
of the whole nail was again perfect. 

“This riddle, so far, was now un- 
riddled. The assassin had _ escaped 
through the window which looked upon 
the bed. Dropping of its own accord 
upon his exit (or perhaps purposely 
closed) it had become fastened by the 


spring; and it was the retention of this 
spring which had been mistaken by 
the police for that of the nail,—farther 
inquiry being thus considered unneces- 
sary. 

“The next question is that.of the 
mode of descent. Upon this point I 
had been satisfied in my walk with 
you around the building. About five 
feet and a half from the casement in 
question there runs a_ lightning-rod. 
From this rod it would have been 
impossible for any one to reach the 
window itself, to say nothing of en- 
tering it. I observed, however, that 
the shutters of the fourth story were 
of the peculiar kind called by Parisian 
carpenters ferrades—a kind rarely em- 
ployed at the present day, but fre- 
quently seen upon very old mansions 
at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are 
in the form of an ordinary door (a 
single, not a folding door), except that 
the lower half is latticed or worked 
in open trellis—thus affording an ex- 
cellent hold for the hands. In the 
present instance these shutters are fully 
three feet and a half broad. When 
we saw them from the rear of the 
house, they were both about half open— 
that is to say, they stood off at right 
angles from the wall. It is probable 
that the police, as well as myself, ex- 
amined the back of the tenement; but, - 
if so, in looking at these ferrades in 
the line of their breadth (as they must 
have done), they did not perceive this 
great breadth itself, or, at all events. 
failed to take it into due consideration. 
In fact, having once satisfied them- 
selves that no egress could have been 
made in this quarter, they would nat- 
urally besto-v here a very cursory ex- 
amination. It was clear to me, how- 





THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 95 


ever, that the shutter belonging to the 
window at the head of the bed, would, 
if swung fully back to the wall, reach 
to within two feet of the lightning-rod. 
It was also evident that, by exertion 
of a very unusual degree of activity 
and courage, an entrance into the win- 
dow, from the rod, might have been 
thus effected. By reaching to the dis- 
tance of two feet and a half (we now 
suppose the shutter epen to its whole 
extent) a robber might have taken 
a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Let- 
ting go, then, his hold upon the rod, 
placing his feet securely against the 
wall, and springing boldly from it, he 
might have swung the shutter so as to 
close it, and, if we imagine the win- 
dow open at the time, might even have 
swung himself into the room. 

“I wish you to bear especially in 
mind that I have spoken of a very 
unusual degree of activity as requisite 
to success in so hazardous and so diffi- 
cult a feat. It is my design to show 
you first, that the thing might possibly 
have been accomplished :—but, secondly 
and chiefly, I wish to impress upon 
your understanding the very extraordi- 
nary—the almost preternatural charac- 
ter of that agility which could have ac- 
complished it. 

“You will say, no doubt, using the 
language of the law, that ‘to make 
out my case,’ I should rather under- 
value, than insist upon a full estima- 
tion of the activity required in this mat- 
ter. This may be the practice in law, 
but it is not the usage of reason. My 
ultimate object is only the truth. My 
immediate purpose is to lead you to 
place in juxtaposition, that very wun- 
usual activity of which I have just 
spoken. with that very peculiar shrill 


(or harsh) and unequal voice, about 
whose nationality no two persons could 
be found to agree, and in whose ut- 
terance no syllabification could be de- 
tected.” 

At these words a vague and _ half- 
formed conception of the meaning of 
Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed 
to be upon the verge of comprehen- 
sion, without power to comprehend—as 
men, at times, find themselves upon 
the brink of remembrance, without be- 
ing able, in the end, to remember. My 
friend went on with his discourse. 

“You will see,” he said, “that I 
have shifted the question from the 
mode of egress to that of ingress. It 
was my design to convey the idea that 
both were effected in the same manner, 
at the same point. Let us now revert 
to the interior of the room. Let us 
survey the appearances here. The 
drawers of the bureau, it is said, had 
been rifled, although many articles of 
apparel still remained within them. The 
conclusion kere is absurd. It is a 
mere guess—a very silly one—and no 
more. How are we to know that the ar- 
ticles found in the drawers were not all 
these drawers had’ originally contained? 
Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter 
lived an exceedingly retired life—saw 
no company—seldom went out—had 
little use for numerous changes of habil- 
iment. Those found were at least of 
as good quality as any likely to be 
possessed by these ladies. If a thief 
had taken any, why did he not take 
the best—why did he not take all? In 
a word, why did he abandon four thou- 
sand francs in gold to encumber him- 
self with a bundle of linen? The gold 
was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum 
mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the 


96 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


banker, was discovered, in bags, upon 
the floor. I wish you therefore, to 
discard from your thoughts the blun- 
dering idea of motive, engendered in 
the brains of the police by that por- 
tion of the evidence which speaks of 
money delivered at the door of the 
house. Coincidences ten times as re- 
markable as this (the delivery of the 
money, and murder committed within 
three days upon the party receiving 
it), happened to all of us every hour 
of our lives, without attracting even 
momentary notice. Coincidences, in 
general, are great stumbling-blocks in 
the way of that class of thinkers who 
have been educated to know nothing 
of the theory of probabilities—that 
theory to which the most glorious ob- 
jects of human research are indebted 
for the most glorious of illustration. 
In the present instance, had the gold 
been gone, the fact of its delivery 
three days before would have formed 
something more than a coincidence. It 
would have been corroborative of this 
idea of motive. But, under the real 
circumstances of the case, if we are 
to suppose gold the motive of this out- 
rage, we must also imagine the perpe- 
trator so vacillating an idiot as to have 
abandoned his gold and his motive to- 
gether. 

“Keeping now steadily in mind the 
points to which I have drawn your at- 
tention—that peculiar voice, that un- 
usual agility, and that startling ab- 
sence of motive in a murder so sin- 
gularly atrocious as this—let us glance 
at the butchery itself. Here is a 
woman strangled to death by manual 
strength, and thrust up a_ chimney 
head downward. Ordinary assassins 
employ no such mode of murder as 


this. Least of all, do they thus dis- 
pose of the murdered. In the manner 
of thrusting the corpse up the chim- 
ney, you will admit that there was 
something excessively outre—something 
altogether irreconcilable with our com- 
mon notions of human action, even 
when we suppose the actors the most 
depraved of men. Think, too, how 
great must have been that strength 
which could have thrust the body up 
such an aperture so forcibly that the 
united vigor of several persons was 
found barely sufficient to drag it 
down! 

“Turn, now, to other indications of 
the employment of a vigor most mar- 
vellous. On the hearth were thick 
tresses—very thick tresses—of gray hu- 
man hair. These had been torn out 
by the roots. You are aware of the 
great force necessary in tearing thus 
from the head even twenty or thirty 
hairs together. You saw the locks in 
question as well as myself. Their roots 
(a hideous sight!) were clotted with 
fragments of the flesh of the scalp— 
sure token of the prodigious power 
which had been exerted in uprooting 
perhaps half a million of hairs at a 
time. The throat of the old lady was 
not merely cut, but the head absolutely 
severed from the body: the instrument 
was a mere razor. I wish you also. 
to look at the brutal ferocity of these 
deeds. Of the bruises upon the body 
of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. 
Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy co- 
adjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pro- 
nounced that they were inflicted by 
some obtuse instrument; and so far 
these gentlemen are very correct. The 
obtuse instrument was clearly the stone 
pavement in the yard, upon which the 





THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 97 


victim had fallen from the window 

which looked in upon the bed. This 
idea, however simple it may now seem, 
escaped the police for the same rea- 
son that the breadth of the shutters 
escaped them—because, by the affair 
of the nails, their perceptions had been 
hermetically sealed against the possi- 
bility of the windows having ever been 
opened at all. 

“If now, in addition to all these 
things, you have properly reflected upon 
the odd disorder of the chamber, we 
have gone so far as to combine the 
ideas of an agility astounding, a 
strength superhuman, a ferocity brutal, 
a butchery without motive, a grotes- 
querie in horror absolutely alien from 
humanity, and a voice foreign in tone 
to the ears of men of many nations, 
and devoid of all distinct or intelligible 
syllabification. What result, then, has 
ensued? What impression have I made 
upon your fancy?” 

I felt a creeping of the flesh as 
Dupin asked me the question. ‘A mad- 
man,’ I said, “has done this deed— 
some raving maniac, escaping from a 
neighboring Maison de Sante.’ 

“In some respects,” he replied, “your 
idea is not irrelevant. But the voices 
of madmen, even in their wildest par- 
oxysms, are never found to tally with 
that peculiar voice heard upon the 
stairs. Madmen are of some nation, 
and their language, however incoher- 
ent in its words, has always the co- 
herence of syllabification. Besides, the 
hair of a madman is not such as I now 
hold in my hand. I disentangled this 
little tuft from the rigidly clutched fin- 
gers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me 
what you can make of it.” 

“Dupin!” I said, completely un- 


nerved; “this hair is most unusual— 
this is no Auman hair.” 

“T have not asserted that it is,” said 
he; “but, before we decide this point, 
I wish you to glance at the little sketch 
I have here traced upon this paper. It 
is a fac-simile drawing of what has 
been described in one portion of the 
testimony as ‘dark bruises and deep in- 
dentations of finger nails’ upon the 
throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and 
in another (by Messrs. Dumas and 
Etienne) as a ‘series of livid spots, 
evidently the impression of fingers.’ 

“Vou will perceive,’ continued my 
friend, spreading out the paper upon 
the table before us, “that this drawing 
gives the idea of a firm and fixed 
hold. There is no slipping apparent. 
Each finger has retained—possibly un- 
til the death of the victim—the fearful 
grasp by which it originally imbedded 
itself. Attempt, now, to place all your 
fingers, at the same time, in the re- 
spective impressions as you see them.” 

I made the attempt in vain. 

“We are possibly not giving this mat- 
ter a fair trial,’ he said. ‘The paper 
is spread out upon a plane surface; 
but the human throat is cylindrical. 
Here is a billet of wood, the circum- 
ference of which is about that of the 
throat. Wrap the drawing around it, 
and try the experiment again.” 

I did so; but the difficulty was even 
more obvious than before. “This,” I 
said, “is the mark of no human hand.” 

“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this 
passage from Cuvier.” 

It was a minute anatomical and gen- 
erally descriptive account of the large 
fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East In- 
dian Islands. The gigantic stature, the 
prodigious strength and activity, the 


98 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


wild ferocity, and the imitative pro- 
pensities of these mammalia are suff- 
ciently well known to all. I understood 


the full horrors of the murder at once. ° 


“The description of the digits,” said 
TI, as I made an end of the reading, “‘is 
in exact accordance with his drawing. 
I see that no animal but an Ourang- 
Outang, of the species here mentioned, 
could have impressed the indentations 
as you have traced them. ‘This tuft 
of tawny hair, too, is identical in char- 
acter with that of the beast of Cuvier. 
But I cannot possibly comprehend the 
particulars of this frightful mystery. 
Besides, there were fwo voices heard 
in contention, and one of them was 
unquestionably the voice of a French- 
man.” 

“True; and you will remember an 
expression attributed almost unani- 
mously, by the evidence, to this voice, 
—the expression, ‘mon Dieu!’ This, 
under the circumstances, has been 
justly characterized by one of the wit- 
nesses (Montani, the confectioner) as 
an expression of remonstrance or ex- 
postulation. Upon these two words, 
therefore, I have mainly built my hopes 
of a full solution of the riddle. A 
Frenchman was cognizant of the mur- 
der. It is possible—indeed it is far 
more than probable—that he was in- 
nocent of all participation in the bloody 
transaction which took place. The Ou- 
rang-Outang may have escaped from 
him. He may have traced it to the 
chamber; but, under the agitating cir- 
- cumstances which ensued, he could 
never have recaptured it. It is still 
at large. I will not pursue these 
guesses—for J have no right to call 
them more—since the shades of reflec- 
tion upon which they are based are 


scarcely of sufficient depth to be ap- 
preciable by my own intellect, and since 
I could not pretend to make them in- 
telligible to the understanding of an- 
other. We will call them guesses, 
then, and speak of them as such. If 
the Frenchman in question is indeed, 
as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, 
this advertisement, which I left last 
night upon our return home, at the 
office of Le Monde (a paper devoted to 
the shipping interest, and much sought 
by sailors), will bring him to our resi- 
dence.” 

He handed me a paper, and I read 
thus: 

CaucHt—In the Bois de Boulogne, 
early in the morning of the inst. 
(the morning of the murder), @ very 
large, tawny Ourang-Outang of the 
Bornese species. The owner (who is 
ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to 
a Maltese vessel) may have the ani- 
mal again, upon identifying it satisfac- 
torily, and paying a few charges aris- 
ing from its capture and keeping. Call 
at No. Rue , Faubourg St. 
Germain—au_ troisieme.” 

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that 
you should know the man to be a sailor, 
and belonging to a Maltese vessel?” 

“T do not know it,” said Dupin. “TI 
am not sure of it. Here, however, is 
a small piece of ribbon, which from 
its form, and from its greasy appear- 
ance, has evidently been used in tying 
the hair in one of those long queues of 
which sailors are so fond. Moreover, 
this knot is one which few besides 
sailors can tie, and it is peculiar to the 
Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at 
the foot of the lightning-rod. It could 
not have belonged to either of the de- 
ceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong 














THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 99 


* my induction from this ribbon, that 
the Frenchman was a sailor belonging 
to a Maltese vessel, still I can have 
done no harm in saying what I did 
in the advertisement. If I am right, 
a great point is gained. Cognizant 
although innocent of the murder, the 
Frenchman will naturally hesitate about 
replying to the advertisement—about 
demanding the Ourang-Outang. He 
will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I 
am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of 
great value—to one in my circum- 
stances a fortune of itself—why should 
I lose it through idle apprehensions of 
danger? Here it is, within my grasp. 
It was found in the Bois de Boulogne— 
at a vast distance from the scene of 
that butchery. How can it ever be 
suspected that a brute beast should 
have done the deed? The police are 
at fault—they have failed to procure 
the slightest clew. Should they even 
trace the animal, it would be impos- 
sible to prove me cognizant of the 
murder, or to implicate me in guilt on 
account of that cognizance. Above all, 
I am known. The advertiser designates 
me as the possessor of the beast. I am 
not sure to what limit his knowledge 
_may extend. Should I avoid claiming 
a property of so great value, which 
it is known that I possess, I will ren- 
der the animal at least, liable to sus- 
-picion. It is not my policy to attract 
attention either to myself or to the 
beast. I will answer the advertisement, 
get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it 
close until this matter has blown over.’ ” 

At this moment we heard a step 
upon the stairs. 

“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your 
pistols, but neither use them nor show 
them until at a signal from myself.” 


The front door of the house had 
been left open, and the visitor had en- 
tered, without ringing, and advanced 
several steps upon the staircase. Now, 
however, he seemed to hesitate. Pres- 
ently we heard him descending. Dupin 
was moving quickly to the door, when 
we again heard him coming up. He 
did not turn back a second time, but 
stepped up with decision, and rapped 
at the door of our chamber. 

“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheer- 
ful and hearty tone. 

A man entered. He was a sailor, 
evidently,—a tall, stout, and muscular- 
looking person, with a certain dare- 
devil expression of countenance, not 
altogether unprepossessing. His face, 
greatly sunburnt, was more than half 
hidden by whisker and mustachio. He 
had with him a huge oaken cudgel, 
but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. 
He bowed awkwardly, and bade us 
“good evening,” in French accents, 
which, although somewhat Neufchatel- 
ish, were still sufficiently indicative of 
a Parisian origin. 

“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. 
“TI suppose you have called about the 
Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I al- 
most envy you the possession of him; 
a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very 
valuable animal. How old do you sup- 
pose him to be?” 

The sailor drew a long breath, with 
the air of a man relieved of some in- 
tolerable burden, and then replied, in 
an assured tone: 

“T have no way of telling—but he 
can’t be more than four or five years 
old. Have you got him here?” 

“Oh, no; we had no conveniences for 
keeping him here. He is at a livery 
stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. 


100 


You can get him in the morning. Of 
course you are prepared to identify the 
property?” 

“To be sure I am, sir.” 

“T shall be sorry to part with him,” 
said Dupin. 

“T don’t mean that you should be 
at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” 
said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. 
Am very willing to pay a reward for 
the finding of the animal—that is to 
say, anything in reason.” 

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is 
all very fair, to be sure. Let me 
think!—what should I have? Oh! I 
will tell you. My reward shall be this. 
You shall give me all the information in 
your power about these murders in the 
Rue Morgue.” 

Dupin said the last words in a very 
low tone, and very quietly. Just as 
quietly, too, he walked toward the door, 
locked it, and put the key in his pocket. 
He then drew a pistol from his bosom 
and placed it, without the least flurry, 
upon the table. 

The sailor’s face flushed up as if he 
were struggling with suffocation. He 
started to his feet and grasped his cud- 
gel; but the next moment he fell back 
into his seat, trembling violently, and 
with the countenance of death itself. 
He spoke not a word. I pitied him 
from the bottom of my heart. 

“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind 
tone, “you are alarming yourself un- 
necessarily—you are indeed. We mean 
you no harm whatever. I pledge you 
the honor of a gentleman, and of a 
Frenchman, that we intend you no in- 
jury. I perfectly well know that you 
are innocent of the atrocities in the 
Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, 
to deny that you are in some measure 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


implicated in them. From what I have 
already said, you must know that I 
have had means of information about 
this matter—means of which you could 


never have dreamed. Now the thing © 


stands thus. You have done nothing 
which you could have avoided—noth- 
ing, certainly, which renders you cul- 
pable. You are not even guilty of 


robbery, when you might have robbed ~ 


with impunity. You have nothing to 
conceal. You have no reason for con- 
cealment. On the other hand, you are 


bound by every principle of honor to © 
An innocent — 


confess all you know. 


man is now imprisoned, charged with © 


that crime of which you can point out 
the perpetrator.” 

The sailor had recovered his presence 
of mind, in a great measure, while 
Dupin uttered these words; but his 
original boldness of bearing was all 
gone. 


a brief pause, “I will tell you all I 
know about this affiair;—but I do not 


expect you to believe one half I say— — 


I would be a fool indeed if I did, 
Still, I am innocent, and I will make a 
clean breast if I die for it.” 


What he stated was, in substance, — 


this. He had lately made a voyage to 
the Indian Archipelago. 


“So help me God!” said he, after — 


x 
. 


A party, of © 


which he formed one, landed at Borneo, — 


and passed into the interior on an ex- 
cursion of pleasure. Himself and a 
companion had captured the Ourang- 
Outang. This companion dying, the 


animal fell into his own exclusive pos- — 


session. After a great trouble, occa- 
sioned by the intractable ferocity of 


his captive during the home voyage, — 


he at length succeeded in lodging it 
safely at his own residence in Paris. 


rh 


{ 














THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 


where, not to attract toward himself 
the unpleasant curiosity of his neigh- 
bors, he kept it carefully secluded, until 
_ such time as it should recover from 
a wound in the foot, received from a 
_ splinter on board ship. His ultimate 
design was to sell it. 

Returning home from some sailor’s 
frolic on the night, or rather in the 
_ morning, of the murder, he found the 
| beast occupying his own bedroom, into 
which it had broken from a closet 
adjoining, where it had been, as was 
_ thought, securely confined. Razor in 
_ hand, and fully lathered, it was sitting 
_ before a looking-glass, attempting the 
operation of shaving, in which it had 
no doubt previously watched its master 
through the key-hole of the closet. 
_ Terrified at the sight of so dangerous 
_ a weapon in the possession of an animal 
_ so ferocious, and so well able to use it, 
_ the man, for some moments, was at a 
loss what to do. He had been ac- 
_ customed, however, to quiet the crea- 
_ ture, even in its fiercest moods, by the 
use of a whip, and to this he now 
resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang- 
Outang sprang at once through the 
_ door of the chamber, down the stairs, 

and thence, through a window, unfor- 

tunately open, into the street. 
_ The Frenchman followed in despair; 
_ the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally 
stopping to look back and gesticulate 
at his pursuer, until the latter had 
' nearly come up with it. It then again 
made off. In this manner the chase 
continued for a long time. The streets 
| were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly 
_ three o’clock in the morning. In pass- 

ing down an alley in the rear of the 
Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention 
was arrested by a light gleaming from 


101 


the open window of Madame L’Espa- 
naye’s chamber, in the fourth story of 
her house. Rushing to the building, it 
perceived the lightning-rod, clambered 
up with inconceivable agility, grasped 
the shutter, which was thrown fully 
back against the wall, and, by its 
means, swung itself directly upon the 
headboard of the bed. The whole feat 
did not occupy a minute. The shutter 
was kicked open again by the Ourang- 
Outang as it entered the room. 

The sailor, in the meantime, was both 
rejoiced and perplexed. He had strong 
hopes of now recapturing the brute, 
as it could scarcely escape from the 
trap into which it had ventured, except 
by the rod, where it might be inter- 
cepted as it came down. On the other 
hand, there was much cause for anx- 
iety as to what it might do in the 
house. This latter reflection urged the 
man still to follow the fugitive. A 
lightning-rod is ascended without diffi- 
culty, especially by a sailor; but, when 
he had arrived as high as the window, 
which lay far to his left, his career was 
stopped; the most that he could ac- 
complish was to reach over so as to 
obtain a glimpse of the interior of the 
room. At this glimpse he nearly fell 
from his hold through excess of horror. 
Now it was that those hideous shrieks 
arose upon the night, which had startled 
from slumber the inmates of the Rue 
Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her 
daughter, habited in their night clothes, 
had apparently been occupied in ar: 
ranging some papers in the iron chest 
already mentioned, which had _ been 
wheeled into the middle of the room. 
It was open, and its contents lay be- 
side it on the floor. The victims must 
have been sitting with their backs to- 


102 


ward the window; and, from the time 
elapsing between the ingress of the 
beast and the screams, it seems prob- 
able that it was not immediately per- 
ceived. The flapping to of the shutter 
would naturally have been attributed 
to the wind. 

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic 
animal had seized Madame L’Espa- 
naye by the hair (which was loose, as 
she had been combing it), and was 
flourishing the razor about her face, 
in imitation of the motions of a barber. 
The daughter lay prostrate and mo- 
tionless; she had swooned. The screams 
and struggles of the old lady (during 
which the hair was torn from her 
head) had the effect of changing the 
probably pacific purposes of the Ou- 
rang-Outang into those of wrath. With 
one determined sweep of its muscular 
arm it nearly severed her head from 
her body. The sight of blood inflamed 
its anger into frenzy. Gnashing its 
teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, 
it flew upon the body of the girl and' 
embedded its fearful talons in her 
throat, retaining its grasp until she ex- 
pired. Its wandering and wild glances 
fell at this moment upon the head of 
the bed, over which the face of its 
master, rigid with horror, was just dis- 
cernible. The fury of the beast, who 
no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded 
whip, was instantly converted into fear. 
Conscious of having deserved punish- 
ment, it seemed desirous of concealing 
its bloody deeds, and skipped about the 
chamber in an agony of nervous agi- 
tation; throwing down and_ breaking 
the furniture as it moved, and dragging 
the bed from the bedstead. In conclu- 
sion, it seized first the corpse of the 
daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


as it was found; then that of the old 
lady, which, it immediately hurled 
through the window headlong. 

As the ape approached the casement 
with its mutilated burden, the sailor 
shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather 
gliding than clambering down it, hur- 
ried at once home—dreading the con- 
sequences of the butchery, and gladly 
abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude 
about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. 
The words heard by the party upon 
the staircase were the Frenchman’s ex- 
clamations of horror and affright, com- 
mingled with the fiendish jabberings of 
the brute. 

I have scarcely any thing to add. 
The Ourang-Outang must have escaped 
from the chamber, by the rod, just 
before the breaking of the door. It 
must have closed the window as it 
passed through it. It was subsequently 
caught by the owner himself, who ob- 
tained for it a very large sum at the 
Jardin des Plantes. Le Bon was in- 
stantly released, upon our narration of 
the circumstances ‘(with some com- 
ments from Dupin) at the bureau of 
the Perfect of Police. This function- 
ary, however, well disposed to my 
friend, could not altogether conceal his 
chagrin at the turn which affairs had 
taken, and was fain to indulge in a 
sarcasm or two about the propriety of 
every person minding his own business. 

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had 
not thought it necessary to reply. “Let 
him discourse; it will ease his con- 
science. I am satisfied with having de- 
feated him in his own castle. Never- 
theless, that he failed in the solution 
of this mystery, is by no means that 
matter for wonder which he supposes 























THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


it; for, in truth, our friend the prefect 
is somewhat too cunning to be pro- 
found. In his wisdom is no stamen. 
It is all head and no body, like the pic- 
tures of the Goddess Laverna—or, at 
best, all head and shoulders, like a 
codfish. But he is a good creature 


103 


after all. I like him especially for one 
master stroke of cant, by which he has 
attained his reputation for ingenuity, 
I mean the way he has ‘de nier ce qui 
est, et dexpliquer ce qui nest pas.’”* 





* Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloise. 


. * 

The Mystery of Marie Roget 
A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE” 
(First published in Lady’s Companion, November, 1842.—Ed.) 


There are ideal series of events which 
run parallel with the real ones. They 
rarely coincide. Men and circum- 
stances generally modify the ideal 
train of events, so that it seems im- 
perfect, and its consequences _are 
equally imperfect. Thus with the 
Reformation; instead of Protestant- 
ism came Lutheranism. — Novalis. 
Moralische Ansichten. 


THERE are few persons, even among 
the calmest thinkers, who have not 


* Upon the original publication of 
“Marie Roget,” the footnotes now ap- 
pended were considered unnecessary; 
but the lapse of several years since 
the tragedy upon which the tale is 
based, renders it expedient to give 
them, and also to say a few words in 
explanation of the general design. A 
young girl, Mary Cecilia Rogers, was 
murdered in the vicinity of New York; 
and although her death occasioned an 
intense and long-enduring excitement, 
the mystery attending it had remained 
unsolved at the period when the present 
paper was written and published (No- 
vember. 1842). Herein, under pre- 


occasionally been startled into a vague 
yet thrilling half-credence in the super- 
natural, by coincidences of so seem- 
ingly marvellous a character that, as 


tence of relating the fate of a Parisian 


grisette, the author has followed, in 
minute detail, the essential, while merely 
paralleling the inessential, facts of the 
veal murder of Mary Rogers. Thus alli 
argument founded upon the fiction is 
applicable to the truth: and the investi- 
gation of the truth was the object. 

The “Mystery of Marie Roget” was 
composed at a distance from the scene 
of the atrocity, and with no other 
means of investigation than the news- 
papers afforded. Thus much escaped 
the writer of which he could have 
availed himself had he been upon the 
spot and visited the localities. It may 
not be improper to record, nevertheless, 
that the confessions of fwo persons 
(one of them the Madame Deluc of 
the narrative), made, at different pe- 
riods, long subsequent to the publica- 
tion, confirmed, in full, not only the 
general conclusion, but absolutely all 
the chief hypothetical details by which 
that conclusion was attained. 


104 


mere coincidences, the intellect has 
been unable to receive them. Such 
sentiments—for the half-credences of 
which I speak have never the full force 
of thought—such sentiments are sel- 
dom thoroughly stifled unless by refer- 
ence to the doctrine of chance, or, as 
it is technically termed, the Calculus 
of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, 
in its essence, purely mathematical; 
and thus we have the anomaly of the 
most rigidly exact in science applied 
to the shadow and spirituality of the 
most intangible in speculation. 

The extraordinary details which I 
am now called upon to make public, 
will be found to form, as regards se- 
quence of time, the primary branch of 
a series of scarcely intelligible coin- 
cidences, whose secondary or conclud- 
ing branch will be recognized by all 
readers in the late murder of Marie 
Cecilia Rogers, at New York. 

When, in an article entitled ‘The 
Murders in the Rue Morgue.” I en- 
deavored, about a year ago, to depict 
some very remarkable features in the 
mental character of my friend, the 
Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, it did not 
occur to me that I should ever resume 
the subject. This depicting of char- 
acter constituted my design; and this 
design was thoroughly fulfilled in the 
wild train of circumstances brought 
to instance Dupin’s idiosyncrasy. I 
might have adduced other examples, 

but I should have proven no more. 
Late events, however, in their surpris- 
ing development, have startled mé into 
some further details, which will carry 
with them the air of extorted confes- 
sion. Hearing what I have lately heard, 
it would be indeed strange should I 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


remain silent in regard to what I both 
heard and saw so long ago. 

Upon the winding up of the tragedy 
involved in the deaths of Madame 
L’Espanaye and her daughter, the 
Chevalier dismissed the affair at once 
from his attention, and relapsed into 
his old habits of moody revery. Prone, 
at all times, to abstraction, I readily 
fell in with his humor; and continuing 
to occupy our chambers in the Fau- 
bourg Saint Germain, we gave the Fu- 
ture to the winds, and slumbered tran- 
quilly in the Present, weaving the dull 
world around us into dreams. 

But these dreams were not altogether 
uninterrupted. It may readily be sup- 
posed that the part played by my 
friend, in the drama at the Rue Morgue, 
had not failed of its impression upon 
the fancies of the Parisian police. With 
its emissaries, the name of Dupin had 
grown into a household word. The 
simple character of those inductions by 
which he had disentangled the mystery 
never having been explained even to 
the Prefect, or to any other individual 
than myself, of course it is not sur. 
prising that the affair was regarded as 
little less than miraculous, or that the 
Chevalier’s analytical abilities acquired 
for him the credit of intuition. His 
frankness would have led him to dis- 
abuse every inquirer of such prejudice; 
but his indolent humor forbade al 
further agitation of a topic whose in- 
terest to himself had long ceased. It 
thus happened that he found himself 
the cynosure of the political eyes; and 
the cases were not few in which at- 
tempt was made to engage his services 
at the Prefecture. One of the most 
remarkable instances was that of the 








THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


murder of a young girl named Marie 
Roget. 

This event occurred about two years 
after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. 
Marie, whose Christian and family 
name will at once arrest attention from 
their resemblance to those of the un- 
fortunate “cigar-girl,” was the only 
daughter of the widow Estelle Roget. 
The father had died during the child’s 
infancy, and from the period of his 
death, until within eighteen months be- 
fore the assassination which forms the 
subject of our narrative, the mother 
and daughter had dwelt together in 
the Rue Pavee Saint Andre;* Ma- 
dame there keeping a pension, assisted 
by Marie. Affairs went on thus until 
the latter had attained her twenty- 
second year, when her great beauty 
attracted the notice of a perfumer, 
who occupied one of the shops in the 
basement of the Palais Royal, and 
whose custom lay, chiefly among the 
desperate adventurers infesting that 
neighborhood. Monsieur Le _ Blanct 
was not unaware of the advantages 
_to be derived from the attendance of 
the fair Marie in his perfumery; and 
_his liberal proposals were accepted 
eagerly by the girl, although with some- 
|_what more of hesitation by Madame. 
The anticipations of the shopkeeper 
were realized, and his rooms soon be- 
' came notorious through the charms of 
the sprightly grisette. She had been 
in his employ about a year, when her 
admirers were thrown into confusion 
_by her sudden disappearance from the 
shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable 
to account for her absence, and Ma- 


* Nassau Street. 
+ Anderson. 


105 


dame Roget was distracted with anx- 
iety and terror. The public papers 
immediately took up the theme, and 
the police were upon the point of mak- 
ing serious investigations, when, one 
fine morning, after the lapse of a week, 
Marie, in good health, but with a some- 
what saddened air, made her re-appear- 
ance at her usual counter in the per- 
fumery. All inquiry, except that of a 
private character, was of course, im: 
mediately hushed. Monsieur Le Blanc 
professed total ignorance, as_ before. 
Marie, with Madame, replied to all 
questions, that the last week had been 
spent at the house of a relation in the 
country. Thus the affair died away, 
and was generally forgotten; for the 
girl, ostensibly to relieve herself from 
the impertinence of curiosity soon 
bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and 
sought the shelter of her mother’s resi- 
dence in the Rue Pavee Saint Andre. 

It was about five months after this 
return home, that her friends were 
alarmed by her sudden disappearance 
for the second time. Three days 
elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. 
On the fourth her corpse was found 
floating in the Seine,* near the shore 
which is opposite the Quartier of the 
Rue Saint Andre, and at a point not 
very far distant from the secluded 
neighborhood of the Barriere du 
Roule.+ 

The atrocity of this murder (for it 
was at once evident that murder had 
been committed), the youth and beauty 
of the victim, and, above all her previ- 
ous notoriety, conspired to produce 
intense excitement in the minds of the 





* The Hudson. 
+ Weehawken. 


106 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sensitive Parisians. I can call to mind 
no similar occurrence producing so gen- 
eral and so intense an effect. For sev- 
eral weeks, in the discussion of this 
one absorbing theme, even the moment- 
ous political topics of the day were 
forgotten. The Prefect made unusual 
exertions; and the powers of the whole 
Parisian police were, of course, tasked 
to the utmost extent. 

Upon the first discovery of the 
corpse, it was not supposed that the 
murderer would be able to elude, for 
‘more than a very brief period, the 
inquisition which was immediately set 
on foot. It was net until the expira- 
tion of a week that it was deemed nec- 
essary to offer a reward; ‘and even then 
this reward was limited to a thousand 
francs. In the meantime the investi- 
gation proceeded with vigor, if not al- 
ways with judgment, and numerous in- 
dividuals were examined to no purpose; 
while, owing to the continual absence 
of all clew to the mystery, the popular 
excitement greatly increased. At the 
end of the tenth day it was thought 
advisable to double the sum originally 
proposed; and, at length, the second 
week having elapsed without leading 
to any discoveries, and the prejudice 
which always exists in Paris against 
the police having given vent to itself in 
several serious emeutes, the Prefect 
took it upon himself to offer the sum 
of twenty thousand francs “for the 
conviction of the assassin,” or, if more 
than one should prove to have been 


implicated, “for the conviction of any 


one of the assassins.” In the proc- 
lamation setting forth this reward, a 
full pardon was promised to any ac- 
complice who should come forward in 
evidence against his fellow; and to 


the whole was appended, wherever it 
appeared, the private placard of a com- 
mittee of citizens, offering ten thou- 
sand francs, in addition to the amount 
proposed by the Prefecture. The en- 
tire reward thus stood at no less than 
thirty thousand francs, which will be 
regarded as an extraordinary sum when 
we consider the humble condition of 
the girl, and the great frequency, in 
large cities, of such atrocities as the 
one described. 

No one doubted now that the mys- 
tery of this murder would be imme- 
diately brought to light. But although, 
in one or two instances, arrests were 
made which promised elucidation, yet 
nothing was elicited which could im- 
plicate the parties suspected; and they 
were discharged forthwith. Strange a3 
it may appear, the third week from the 
discovery of the body had passed, and 
passed without any light being thrown 
upon the subject, before even a rumor 
of the events which had so agitated 
the public mind reached the ears of 
Dupin and myself. Engaged in re- 
searches which had absorbed our whole 
attention, it had been nearly a month 
since either of us had gone abroad, or 
received a visitor, or more than glanced 
at the leading political articles in one 
of the daily papers. The first intelli- 
gence of the murder was brought us 
by G——, in person. He called upon 
us early in the afternoon of the thir- 
teenth of July, 18—, and remained with 
us until late in the night. He had been 
piqued by the failure of all his en- 
deavors to ferret out the assassins. 
His reputation—so he said with a pe- 
culiarly Parisian -air—was at stake. 
Even his honor was concerned. The 
eyes of the public were upon him; 














THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


and there was really no sacrifice which 
he would not be willing to make for 
the development of the mystery. He 
concluded a somewhat droll speech 
with a compliment upon what he was 
pleased to term the tact of Dupin, and 
made him a direct and certainly a 
liberal proposition, the precise nature 
of which I do not feel myself at lib- 
erty to disclose, but which has no 
bearing upon the proper subject of my 
narrative. 

The compliment my friend rebutted 
as best he could, but the proposition 
he accepted at once, although its ad- 


vantages were altogether provisional. - 


This point being settled, the Prefect 
broke at once into explanations of his 
own views, interspersing them. with 
long comments upon the evidence; of 
which latter we were not yet in pos- 
session. He discoursed much and, be- 
yond doubt, learnedly; while I haz- 
_arded an occasional suggestion as the 
| night wore drowsily away. Dupin, 
sitting steadily in his accustomed arm- 
chair, was the embodiment of respect- 
ful attention. He wore spectacles, dur- 
_ ing the whole interview; and an occa- 
sional glance beneath their green glasses 
sufficed to convince me that he slept 
not the less soundly, because silently, 
throughout the seven or eight leaden- 
_ footed hours which immediately pre- 
' ceded the departure of the Prefect. 

In the morning, I procured, at the 


Prefecture, a full report of all the evi- 


dence elicited, and, at the various news- 
| paper offices, a copy of every paper in 
which, from first to last, had been pub- 
lished any decisive information in re- 
_ gard to this sad affair. Freed from all 
_ that was positively disproved, this mass 
_ of information stood thus: 


107 


Marie Roget left the residence of her 
mother, in the Rue Pavee St. Andre, 
about nine o’clock in the morning of 
Sunday, June the twenty-second, 18—. 
In going out, she gave notice to a Mon- 
sieur Jacques St. Eustache,* and to 
him only, of her intention to spend the 
day with an aunt, who resided in the 
Rue des Dromes. The Rue des Dromes 
is a short and narrow but populous 
thoroughfare, not far from the banks 
of the river, and at a distance of some 
two miles, in the most direct course 
possible, from the pension of Madame 
Roget. St. Eustache was the accepted 
suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well 
as took his meals, at the pension. He 
was to have gone for his betrothed at 
dusk, and to have escorted her home. 
In the afternoon, however, it came on 
to rain heavily; and, supposing that 
she would remain all night at her aunt’s 
(as she had done under similar circum- 
stances before), he did not think it 
necessary to keep his promise. As 
night drew on, Madame Roget (who 
was an infirm old lady, seventy years 
of age) was heard to express a fear 
“that she should never see Marie 
again;” but this observation attracted 
little attention at the time. 

On Monday it was ascertained that 
the girl had not been to the Rue des 
Dromes; and when the day elapsed. 
without tidings of her, a tardy search 
was instituted at several points in the 
city and its environs. It was not, 
however, until the fourth day from 
the period of her disappearance that 
any thing satisfactory was ascertained 
respecting her. On this day (Wednes- 
day, the twenty-fifth of June) a Mon- 


* Payne. 


108 


sieur Beauvais,* who, with a friend, 
had been making inquiries for Marie 
near the Barriere du Roule, on the 
shore of the Seine which is opposite 
the Rue Pavee St. Andre, was in- 
formed that a corpse had just been 
towed ashore by some fishermen, who 
had found it floating in the river. Upon 
seeing the body, Beauvais, after some 
hesitation, identified it as that of the 
perfumery-girl. His friend recognized 
it more promptly. 

The face was suffused with dark 
blood, some of which issued from the 
mouth. No foam was seen, as in the 
case of the merely drowned. There 
was no discoloration in the cellular tis- 
sue. About the throat were bruises and 
impressions of fingers. The arms were 
bent over on the chest, and were rigid. 
The right hand was clenched; the left 
partially open. On the left wrist were 
two circular excoriations, apparently 
the effect of ropes, or of a rope in more 
than one volution. 
wrist, also, was much chafed, as well 
as the back throughout its extent, but 
more especially at the shoulder-blades. 
In bringing the body to the shore the 
fishermen had attached to it a rope, 
_ but none of the excoriations had been 
effected by this. The flesh of the neck 
was much swollen. There were no cuts 
apparent, or bruises which appeared the 
effect of blows. A piece of lace was 
found tied so tightly around the neck 
as to be hidden from sight; it was 
completely buried in the flesh, and was 
fastened by a knot which lay just 
under the left ear. This alone would 
have sufficed to produce death. The 
medical testimony spoke confidently of 


* Crommelin. 


A part of the right | 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the virtuous character of the deceased. 
She had been subjected, it said, to 
brutal violence. The corpse was in 
such condition when found, that there 
could have been no difficulty in its 
recognition by friends. 

The dress was much torn and other- 
wise disordered. In the outer gar- 
ment, a slip, about a foot wide, had 
been torn upward from the bottom hem 
to the waist, but not torn off. It was 
wound three times around the waist, 
and secured by a sort of hitch in the 
back. The dress immediately beneath 
the frock was of fine muslin; and from 
this a slip eighteen inches wide had 
been torn entirely out—torn very 
evenly and with great care. It was 
found around her neck, fitting loosely, 
and secured with a hard knot. Over 
this muslin slip and the slip of lace the 
strings of a bonnet were attached, the 
bonnet being appended. The knot by 
which the strings of the bonnet were 
fastened was not a lady’s, but a slip 
or sailor’s knot. 

After the recognition of the corpse, 
it was not, as usual, taken to the 
Morgue (this formality being super- 
fluous), but hastily interred not far 
from the spot at which it was brought 
ashore. Through the exertions of 
Beauvais, the matter was industriously 
hushed up, as far as possible; and 
several days had elapsed before any 
public emotion resulted. A weekly 
paper,* however, at length took up the 
theme; the corpse was disinterred, and 
a re-examination instituted; but nothing 
was elicited beyond what has been al- 
ready noted. The clothes, however, 
were now submitted to the mother and 


* The New York Mercury. 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


friends of the deceased, and fully iden- 
tified as those worn by the girl upon 
leaving home. 

Meantime, the excitement increased 
hourly. Several individuals were ar- 
rested and discharged. St. Eustache 
fell especially under suspicion; and he 
failed, at first, to give an intelligible 
account of his whereabouts during the 
Sunday on which Marie left home. 
Subsequently, however, he submitted 
to Monsieur G , affidavits, account- 
ing satisfactorily for every hour of the 
day in question. As time passed no 
discovery ensued, a thousand contra- 
dictory rumors were circulated, and 
journalists busied themselves in sug- 
gestions. Among these, the one which 
attracted the most notice, was the 
idea that Marie Roget still lived—that 
the corpse found in the Seine was that 
of some other unfortunate. It will be 
_ proper that I submit to the reader some 
passages which embody the suggestion 
alluded to. These passages are Jzteral 
translations from L’Etoile,* a paper 
conducted, in general, with much ability. 
“Mademoiselle Roget left her moth- 
-er’s house on Sunday morning, June 
the twenty-second, 18—, with the os- 
tensible purpose of going to see her 
aunt, or some other connection, in the 
Rue des Dromes. From that hour, 
nobody is proved to have seen her. 
There is no trace or tidings of her 
at all. * * * There has no person, 
_whatever, come forward; so far, who 
saw her at all, on that day, after she 
left her mother’s door. * * * Now, 
though we have no evidence that 
Marie Roget was in the land of the 
living after nine o’clock on Sunday, 





* The New York Brother Jonathan. 





109 


June the twenty-second, we have proof 
that, up to that hour, she was alive. 
On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a fe- 
male body was discovered afloat on the 
shore of the Barriere du Roule. This 
was, even if we presume that Marie 
Roget was thrown into the river within 
three hours after she left her mother’s 
house, only three days from the time 
she left her home—three days to an 
hour. But it is folly to suppose that 
the murder, if murder was committed 
on her body, could have been consum- 
mated soon enough to have enabled 
her murderers to throw the body into 
the river before midnight. Those who - 
are guilty of such horrid crimes choose 
darkness rather than light. * * * Thus 
we see that if the body found in the 
river was that of Marie Roget, it 
could only have been in the water two 
and a half days, or three at the outside. 
All experience has shown that drowned 


’ bodies, or bodies thrown into the water 


immediately after death by violence, 
require from six to ten days for suffi- 
cient decomposition to take place to 
bring them to the top of the water. 
Even where a cannon is fired over a 
corpse, and it rises before at least five 
or six days’ immersion, it sinks again, 
if left alone. Now, we ask, what was 
there in this case to cause a departure 
from the ordinary course of nature? 
* %* * Tf the body had been kept 
in its mangled state on shore until 
Tuesday night, some trace would be 
found on shore of the murderers. It is 
a doubtful point, also, whether the 
body would be so soon afloat, even 
were it thrown in after having been 
dead two days. And, furthermore, 
it is exceedingly improbable that any 
villains who had committed such a mur- 


110 


der as is here supposed, would have 
thrown the body in without weight to 
sink it, when such a precaution could 
have so easily been taken.” 

The editor here proceeds to argue 
that the body must have been in the 
water “not three days merely, but, at 
least, five times three days,” because 
it was so far decomposed that Beauvais 
had great difficulty in recognizing it. 
This latter point, however, was fully 
disproved. I continue the translation: 

“What, then, are the facts on which 
M. Beauvais says that he had no doubt 
the body ‘was that of Marie Roget? 
He ripped up the gown sleeve, and 
says he found marks which satisfied 
him of the identity. The public gen- 
erally supposed those marks to have 
consisted of some description of scars. 
He rubbed the arm and found hair 
upon it—something as indefinite, we 
think, as can readily be imagined— 


as little conclusive as finding an arm - 


in the sleeve. M. Beauvais did not 
return that night, but sent word to 
Madam Roget, at seven o’clock, on 
Wednesday evening, that an _ investi- 
gation was still in progress respecting 
her daughter. If we allow that Ma- 
dame Roget, from her age and grief, 
could not go over (which is allowing 
a great deal), there certainly must have 
been some one who would have thought 
it worth while to go over and attend 
the investigation, if they thought the 
body was that of Marie. Nobody 
went over. There was nothing said 
or heard about the matter in the Rue 
Pavee St. Andre, that reached even 
the occupants of the same building. 
M. St. Eustache, the lover and in- 
tended husband of Marie, who boarded 
in ber mother’s house, deposes that 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


he did not hear of the discovery of 
the body of his intended until the 
next morning, when M. Beauvais came 
into his chamber and told him of it. 
For an item of news like this, it strikes 
us it was very coolly received.” 

In this way the journal endeavored 
to create the impression of an apathy 
on the part of the relatives of Marie, 
inconsistent with the supposition that 
these relatives believed the corpse to 
be hers. Its insinuations amount to 
this: that Marie, with the connivance 
of her friends, had absented herself 
from the city for reasons involving 
a charge against her chastity; and that 
these friends upon the discovery of a 
corpse in the Seine, somewhat re- 
sembling that of the girl, had availed 
themselves of the opportunity to im- 
press the pubic with the belief of her 
death. But L’Etoile was again over 
hasty. It was distinctly proved that 
no apathy, such as was imagined, ex- 
isted; that the old lady was exceed- 
ingly feeble, and so agitated as to be 
unable to attend to any duty; that 
St. Eustache, so far from receiving 
the news coolly, was distracted with 
grief, and bore himself so frantically, 
that M. Beauvais prevailed upon a 
friend and relative to take charge of 
him, and prevent his attending the ex- 
amination at the disinterment. More- 
over, although it was stated by L’Etoile, 


‘that the corpse was re-interred at the 


public expense, that an advantageous 
offer of private sepulture was absolutely 
declined by the family, and that no 
member of the family attended the 
ceremonial—although, I say, all this 
was asserted by L’Etoile in furtherance 
of the impression it designed to con- 
vey—yet all this was satisfactorily 


THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 111 


disproved. In a subsequent number of 
ihe paper, an attempt was made to 
throw suspicion upon Beauvais himself. 

The editor says: 

“Now, then, a change comes over 
the matter. We are told that, on one 
occasion, while a Madam B was 
at Madame Roget’s house, M. Beau- 
vais, who was going out, told her that 
a gendarme was expected there, and 
that she, Madame B., must not say any 
thing to the gendarme until he re- 
| turned, but let the matter be for him. 
/%* * * In the present posture of af- 
fairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the 
whole matter locked up in his head. 
A single step cannot be taken without 
M. Beauvais, for, go which way you 
will, you run against him. * * * For 
some reason he determined that no- 
body shall have anything to do with 
the proceedings but himself, and he 
has elbowed the male relatives out of 
the way, according to their representa- 
tions, in a very singular manner. He 
seems to have been very much averse 
to permitting the relatives to see the 
body.” 

By the following fact, some color 
was given to the suspicion thus thrown 
upon Beauvais. A _ visitor at his 
office, a few days prior to the girl’s 
disappearance, and during the absence 
of its occupant, had observed a rose 
in the keyhole of the door, and the 
name “Marie” inscribed upon a slate 
which hung near at hand. 

The general impression, so far as we 
were enabled to glean it from the 
newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie 
had been the victim of a gang of 
_desperadoes—that by these she had 
_keen borne across the river, maltreated, 





and murdered. Le Commerciel,* how- 
ever, a print of extensive influence, 
was earnest in combatting this popular 
idea. I quote a passage or two from 
its columns: 

“We are persuaded that pursuit has 
hitherto been on a false scent, so far 
as it has been directed to the Barriere 
du Roule. It is impossible that a 
person so well known to thousands as 
this young woman was, should have 
passed three blocks without some one 
having seen her; and any one who saw 
her would have remembered it, for she 
interested all who knew her. It was 
when the streets were full of people, 
when she went out. * * * It is im- 
possible that she could have gone to 
the Barriere du Roule, or to the Rue 
des Dromes, without being recognized 
by a dozen persons; yet no one hag 
come forward who saw her outside her 
mother’s door, and there is no evi- 
dence, except the testimony concern- 
ing her expressed intentions, that she 
did go out at all. Her gown was 
torn, bound round her, and tied; and 
by that the body was carried as a bun- 
die. If the murder had been com- 
mitted at the Barriere du Roule, there 
would have been no necessity for any 
such arrangement. The fact that the 
body was found floating near the Bar- 
riere, is no proof as to where it was 
thrown into the water. * * * A 
piece of one of the unfortunate girl’s 
petticoats, two feet long and one foot 
wide, was torn out and tied under her 
chin around the back of her head, 
probably to prevent screams. This 
was done by fellows who had no 
pocket-handkerchief.” 


* New York Journal of Commerce. 


112 


A day or two before the Prefect 
called upon us, however, some impor- 
tant information reached the police, 
which seemed to overthrow, at least, 
the chief portion of Le Commerciel’s 
argument. Two small boys, sons of 
a Madame Deluc, while roaming among 
the woods near the Barriere du Roule, 
chanced to penetrate a close thicket, 
within which were three or four large 
stones, forming a kind of seat with a 
back and footstool. On the upper 
stone lay a white petticoat; on the sec- 
ond, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves, 
and a pocket-handkerchief were also 
here found. The handkerchief bore 
the name “Marie Roget.” Fragments 
of dress were discovered on the bram- 
bles around. The earth was trampled, 
the bushes were broken, and there was 
every evidence of a struggle. Between 
the thicket and the river, the fences 
were found taken down, and the ground 
bore evidence of some heavy burthen 
having been dragged along it. 

A weekly paper, Le Soleil,* had the 
following comments upon this ‘discov- 
ery—comments which merely echoed 
the sentiment of the whole Parisian 
press: 

“The things had all evidently been 
there at least three or four weeks; 
they were all mildewed down hard with 
the action of the rain, and stuck to- 
gether from mildew. The grass had 
grown around and over some of them. 
The silk on the parasol was strong, but 
the threads of it were run together 
within. The upper part, where it had 
been doubled and folded, was all mil- 
dewed and rotten, and tore on its being 
opened. * * * The pieces of her 





*Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


frock torn out by the bushes were 
about three inches wide and six inches 
long. One part was the hem of the 
frock, and it had been mended; the 
other piece was part of the skirt, not 
the hem. They looked like strips torn 
off, and were on the thorn bush, about 
a foot from the ground. * * * 
There can be no doubt, therefore, that 
the spot of this appalling outrage has 
been discovered.” 

Consequent upon this discovery, new — 
evidence appeared. Madame Deluc 
testified that she keeps a roadside inn 
not far from the bank of the river, 
opposite the Barriere du Roule. The 
neighborhood is secluded—particularly | 
so. It is the usual Sunday resort of 
blackguards from the city, who cross 
the river in boats. About three o’clock, 
in the afternoon of the Sunday in ques- | 
tion, a young girl arrived at the inn, 
accompanied by a young man of dark 
complexion. The two remained here 
for some time. On their departure, 
they took the road to some thick woods 
in the vicinity. Madame Deluc’s at- 
tention was called to the dress worn 
by the girl, on account of its resem- 
blance to one worn by a deceased rela- 
tive. A scarf was particularly noticed. 
Soon after the departure of the couple, 
a gang of miscreants made their ap- 
pearance, behaved boisterously, ate and 
drank without making payment, fol- 
lowed in the route of the young man 
and girl, returned to the inn about 
dusk, and re-crossed the river as if in 
great haste. 

It was soon after dark, upon this 
same evening, that Madame Deluc, as 
well as her eldest son, heard the screams 
of a female in the vicinity of the inn. 
The screams were violent but brief. 























THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 113 


Madame D. recognized not only the 
scarf which was found in the thicket, 
but the dress which was discovered upon 
the corpse. An omnibus driver, Val- 
ence,* now also testified that he saw 
Marie Roget cross a ferry on the Seine, 
on the Sunday in question, in company 
_ with a young man of dark complexion. 
_ He, Valence, knew Marie, and could not 
_ be mistaken in her identity. The arti- 
cles found in the thicket were fully 
identified by the relatives of Marie. 
The items of evidence and informa- 
_ tion thus coilected by myself, from 
_ the newspapers, at the suggestion of 
Dupin, embraced only one more point 
_—but this was a point of seemingly 
vast consequence. It appears that, im- 
mediately after the discovery of the 
clothes as above described, the lifeless 
or nearly lifeless body of St. Eustache, 
_ Marie’s betrothed, was found in the 
vicinity of what all now supposed the 
scene of the outrage. A phial labelled 
“laudanum,” and emptied, was found 
near him. His breath gave evidence of 
_ the poison. He died without speaking. 
_ Upon his person was found a letter, 
_ briefly stating his love for Marie, with 
his design of self-destruction. 
TJ need scarcely tell you,” said Dupin, 
as he finished the perusal of my notes, 
“that this is a far more intricate case 
than that of the Rue Morgue; from 
| which it differs in one important respect. 
| This is an ordinary, although an atro- 
cious, instance of crime. There is 
nothing peculiarly ouére about it. You 
_ will observe that, for this reason, the 
_ mystery has been considered easy, when, 
for this reason, it should have been con- 
sidered difficult, of solution. ‘Thus, at 





* Adam. 


first, it was thought unnecessary to 
offer a reward. The myrmidons of 
G—— were able at once to compre= 
hend how and why such an atrocity 
might have been committed. They 
could picture to their imaginations a 
mode—many modes,—and a motive— 
many motives; and because it was not 
impossible that either of these numerous 
modes or motives could have been the 
actual one, they have taken it for 
granted that one of them must. But the 
ease with which these variable fancies 
were entertained, and the very plausi- 
bility which each assumed, should have 
been understood as indicative rather of 
the difficulties than of the facilities 
which must attend elucidation.. I have, 
therefore observed that it is by promi- 
nences above the plane of the ordinary, 
that reason feels her way, if at all, in 
her search for the true, and that the 
proper question in cases such as this 
is not so much ‘what has occurred?’ 
as ‘what has occurred that has never 
occurred before?’ In the investigations 
at the house of Madame L’Espanaye,* 
the agents of G—— were discouraged 
and confounded by that very unusual- 
mess which, to a properly regulated in- 
tellect, would have afforded the surest 
omen of success; while this same intel- 
lect might have been plunged in despair 
at the ordinary character of all that. 
met the eye in the case of the per- 
fumery-girl, and yet told of nothing 
but easy triumph to the functionaries 
of the Prefecture. 

“In the case of Madame L’Espanaye 
and her daughter, there was, even at 
the beginning of our investigation, no 
doubt that murder had been committed. 


* See “Murders in the Rue Morgue.” 


114 


The idea of suicide was excluded at 
once. Here, too, we are freed, at the 
commencement, from all supposition of 
self-murder. The body found at the 
Barriere du Roule was found under such 
circumstances as to leave us no room 
for embarrassment upon this important 
point. But it has been suggested that 
the corpse discovered is not that of 
the Marie Roget for the conviction of 
whose assassin, or assassins, the reward 
is offered, and respecting whom, solely, 
our agreement has been arranged with 
the Prefect. We both know this gentle- 
man well. It will not do to trust him 
too far. If, dating our inquiries from 
the body found, and then tracing a 
murderer, we yet discover this body to 
be that of some other individual than 
Marie; or if, starting from the living 
Marie, we find her, yet find her un- 
assassinated—in either case we lose 
our labor; since it is Monsieur G 
with whom we have to deal. For our 
own purpose, therefore, if not for the 
purpose of ‘justice, it is indispensable 
that our first step should be the deter- 
mination of the identity of the corpse 
with the Marie Roget who is missing. 

“With the public the arguments of 
L’Etoile have had weight; and that the 
journal itself is convinced of their im- 
portance would appear from the man- 
ner in which it commences one of its 
essays upon the subject—‘Several of the 
morning papers of the day,’ it says, 
‘speak of the conclusive article in Mon- 
day’s Etoile.’ To me, this article ap- 
pears conclusive of little beyond the 
zeal of its inditer. We should bear in 
mind that, in generai, it is the object 
of our newspapers rather to create a 
sensation—to make a point—than to 
further the cause of truth. The latter 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


end is only pursued when it seems co- 
incident with the former. The print 
which merely falls in with ordinary 
opinion (however well founded this 
opinion may be) earns for itself no 
credit with the mob. The mass of the 
people regard as profound only him 
who suggests pungent contradictions of 
the general idea. In ratiocination, not 
less than in literature, it is the epigram 
which is the most immediately and the 
most universally appreciated. In both, 
it is of the lowest order of merit. 

“What I mean to say is, that it is the 
mingled epigram and melodrame of the 
idea, that Marie Roget still lives, rather 
than any true plausibility in this idea, 
which have suggested it to L’Etoile, 
and secured it a favorable reception 
with the public. Let us examine the 
heads of this journal’s argument; en- 
deavoring to avoid the incoherence with 
which it is originally set forth. 

“The first aim of the writer is to 
show, from the brevity of the interval 
between Marie’s disappearance and the 
finding of the floating corpse, that this 
corpse cannot be that of Marie. The 
reduction of this interval to its smallest 
possible dimension, becomes thus, at 
once, an object with the reasoner. In 
the rash pursuit of this object, he rushes 
into mere assumption at the outset. ‘It 
is folly to suppose,’ he says, ‘that the 
murder, if murder was committed on 
her body, could have been consummated 
soon enough to have enabled her mur- 
derers to throw the body into the river 
before midnight.’ We demand at once, 
and very naturally, why? Why is it 
folly to suppose that the murder was 
committed within five minutes after the 
girl’s quitting her mother’s house? Why 
is it folly to suppose that the murder 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


was committed at any given period of 
the day? There have been assassina- 
tions at all hours. But, had the murder 
taken place at any moment between 
nine o'clock in the morning of Sunday 
and a quarter before midnight, there 
would still have been time enough ‘to 
throw the body into the river before 
midnight. This assumption, then, 
amounts precisely to this—that the mur- 
der was not committed on Sunday at 
all—and, if we allow L’Eioile to assume 
this, we may permit it any liberties 
whatever. The paragraph beginning 
‘It is folly to suppose that the murder, 
etc.,’ however it appears as printed in 
L’Etoile, may be imagined to have ex- 
isted actually thus in the brain of its 
inditer: ‘It is folly to suppose that the 
murder, if murder was committed on 
the body, could have been committed 
soon enough to have enabled her mur- 
derers to throw the body into the river 
before midnight; it is folly, we say, to 
suppose all this, and to suppose at the 
same time, (as we are resolved to sup- 
pose), that the body was mot thrown 
in until after midnight’—a sentence 
sufficiently inconsequential in itself, but 
not so utterly preposterous as the one 
_ printed. 
- “Were it my purpose,” continued 
Dupin, “merely to make out a case 
against this passage of L’Etoile’s argu- 
ment, I might safely leave it where it 
is. It is not, however, with L’Etoile 
that we have to do, but with truth. 
The sentence in question has but one 
meaning, as it stands; and this mean- 
ing I have fairly stated; but it is mate- 
rial that we go behind the mere words, 
for an idea which these words have 
obviously intended, and failed to con- 


115 


vey. It was the design of the journal- 
ists to say that at whatever period of 
the day or night of Sunday this murder 
was committed, it was improbable that 
the assassins would have ventured to 
bear the corpse to the river before mid- 
night. And herein lies, really, the as- 
sumption of which I complain. It is 
assumed that the murder was committed 
at such a position, and under such cir- 
cumstances, that the bearing it to the 
river became necessary. Now, the as- 
sassination might have taken place upon 
the river’s brink, or on the river itself; 
and, thus, the throwing the corpse in 
the water might have been resorted to 
at any period of the day or night, as 
the most obvious and most immediate 
mode of disposal. You will understand 
that I suggest nothing here as probable, 
or as coincident with my own opinion. 
My design, so far, has no reference to 
the facts of the case. I wish merely to 
caution you against the whole tone of 
L’Etoile’s suggestion, by calling your 
attention to its ex-parte character at 
the outset. 

“Having prescribed thus a limit to 
suit its own preconceived notions; hav- 
ing assumed that, if this were the body 
of Marie, it could have been in the 
water but a very brief time, the journal 
goes on to say: 


All experience has shown that 
drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into 
the water immediately after death by 
violence, require from six to ten days 
for sufficient decomposition to take 
place to bring them to the top of the 
water. Even when a cannon is fired 
Over a corpse, and it rises before at 
least five or six days’ immersion, it 
sinks again if let alone. 


116 


“These assertions have been tacitly 
received by every paper in Paris, with 
the exception of Le Moniteur.* This 
latter print endeavors to combat that 
portion of the paragraph which has 
reference to ‘drowned bodies’ only, by 
citing some five or six instances in 
which the bodies of individuals known 
to be drowned were found floating after 
the lapse of less time than is insisted 
upon by L’Etoile. But there is some- 
thing excessively unphilosophical in the 
attempt, on the part of Le Moniteur, 
to rebut the general assertion of L’- 
Etoile, by a citation of particular in- 
stances militating against that assertion. 
Had it been possible to adduce fifty 
instead of five examples of bodies found 
floating at the end of two or three days, 
these fifty examples could still have 
been properly regarded only as excep- 
tions to L’Etoile’s rule, until such time 
as the rule itself should be confuted. 
Admitting the rule, (and this Le Moni- 
teur does not deny, insisting merely 
upon its exceptions,) the argument of 
L’Etoile is suffered to remain in full 
force; for this argument does not pre- 
tend to involve more than a question 
of the probability of the body having 
risen to the surface in less than three 
days; and this probability will be in 
favor of L’Etoile’s position until the 
instances so childishly adduced shall 
be sufficient in number to establish an 
antagonistical rule. 

“Vou will see at once that all argu- 
ment upon this head should be urged, 
if at all, against the rule itself; and 
for this end we must examine the 
rationale of the rule. Now the human 





* The New York Commercial Ad- 


vertiser. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


body, in general, is neither much lighter 
nor much heavier than the water of the 
Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity 
of the human body, in its natural con- 
dition, is about equal to the bulk of 
fresh water which it displaces. The 
bodies of fat and fleshy persons, with 
small bones, and of women generally, 
are lighter than those of the lean and 
large-boned, and of men; and the speci- 
fic gravity of the water of a river is 
somewhat influenced by the presence 
of the tide from the sea. But, leaving 
this tide out of the question, it may 
be said that very few human _ bodies 
will sink at all, even in fresh water, of 
their own accord. Almost any one, 
falling into a river, will be enabled to 
float, if he suffer the specific gravity 
of the water fairly to be adduced in 
comparison with his own—that is to 
say, 1f he suffer his whole person to be 
immersed, with as little exception as 
possible. The proper position for one 
who cannot swim, is the upright posi- 
tion of the walker on land, with the 
head thrown fully back, and immersed; 
the mouth and nostrils alone remaining 
above the surface. Thus circumstanced, - 
we shall find that we float without diffi- 

culty and without exertion. It is evi- 

dent, however, that the gravities of the 

body, and of the bulk of water dis- 

placed, are very nicely balanced, and > 
that a trifle will cause either to -pre- 

ponderate. An arm, for instance, up-— 
lifted from the water, and thus deprived — 
of its support, is an additional weight — 
sufficient to immerse the whole head, 
while the accidental aid of the smallest 
piece of timber will enable us to elevate — 
the head so as to look about. Now, in — 
the struggles of one unused to swimming, 

the arms are invariably thrown upward. 


é 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


while an attempt is made to keep the 
head in its usual perpendicular position. 
The result is the immersion of the 
mouth and nostrils, and the inception, 
during efforts to breathe while beneath 
the surface of the water into the lungs. 
Much is also received into the stomach, 
and the whole body becomes heavier by 
the difference between the weight of 
the air originally distending these cavi- 
ties, and that of the fluid which now 
fills them. This difference is sufficient 
to cause the body to sink, as a general 
rule; but is insufficient in the case of 
individuals with small bones and an 
abnormal quantity of flaccid or fatty 
matter. Such individuals float even 
after drowning. 

“The corpse, being supposed at the 
bottom of the river, will there remain 
until, by some means, its specific gravity 
again becomes less than that of the 
bulk of water which it displaces. This 
effect is brought about by decomposi- 
tion, or otherwise. The result of de- 
composition is the generation of gas, 
distending the cellular tissues and all 
the cavities, and giving the puffed ap- 
pearance which is so horrible. When 
this distension has so far progressed 
that the bulk of the corpse is mate- 
tially increased without a corresponding 
Increase of mass or weight, its specific 
gravity becomes less than that of the 
water displaced, and it forthwith makes 
fits appearance at the surface. But de- 
|} composition is modified by innumer- 
able circumstances—is hastened or re- 
tarded by innumerable agencies; for 
example, by the heat or cold of the 
season, by the mineral impregnation or 
purity of the water, by its depth or 
| shallowness, by its currency or stagna- 
| tion, by the temperament of the body, 


























117 


by its infection or freedom from dis- 
ease before death. Thus it is evident 
that we can assign no period, with any- 
thing like accuracy, at which the corpse 
shall rise through decomposition. Un- 
der certain conditions this result would 
be brought about within an hour; under 
others it might not take place at all. 
There are chemical infusions by which 
the animal frame can be preserved for- 
ever from corruption; the bi-chloride 
of mercury is one. But, apart from de- 
composition, there may be, and very 
usually is, a generation of gas within 
the stomach, from the acetous fermen- 
tation of vegetable matter (or within 
other cavities from other causes), suffi- 
cient to induce a distension which will 
bring the body to the surface. The 
effect produced by the firing of a can- 
non is that of simple vibration. This 
may either loosen the corpse from the 
soft mud or ooze in which it is imbed- 
ded, thus permitting it to rise when 
other agencies have already prepared it 
for so doing; or it may overcome the 
tenacity of some putrescent portions 
of the cellular tissue, allowing the cavi- 
ties to distend under the influence of 
the gas. 

“Having thus before us the whole 
philosophy of this subject, we can easily 
test by it the assertions of L’Etoile. 
‘All experience shows,’ say this paper, 
‘that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown 
into the water immediately after death 
by violence, require from six to ten 
days for sufficient decomposition to take 
place to bring them to the top of the 
water. Even when a cannon is fired 
over a corpse, and it rises before at 
least five or six days’ immersion, it 
sinks again if let alone.’ 

“The whole of this paragraph must 


118 


now appear a tissue of inconsequence 
and incoherence. All experience does 
not show that ‘drowned bodies’ require 
from six to ten days for sufficient de- 
composition to take place to bring them 
to the surface. Both science and ex- 
perience show that the period of their 
rising is, and necessarily must be, in- 
determinate. If, moreover, a body has 
risen to the surface through firing of 
cannon, it will mot ‘sink again if let 
alone,’ until decomposition has so far 
progressed as to permit the escape of the 
generated gas. But I wish to call your 
attention to the distinction which is 
made between ‘drowned bodies,’ and 
‘bodies thrown into the water immedi- 
ately after death by violence.’ Although 
the writer admits the distinction, he yet 
includes them all in the same category. 
I have shown how it is that the body 
of a drowning man becomes specifically 
heavier than its bulk of water, and that 
he would not sink at all, except for the 
struggle by which he elevates his arms 
above the surface, and his gasps for 
breath while beneath the surface— 
gasps which supply by water the place 
of the original air in the lungs. But 
these struggles and these gasps would 
not occur in the body ‘thrown into the 
water immediately after death by vio- 
lence.’ Thus, in the latter instance, 
the body, as a general rule, would not 
sink at all—a fact of which L’Etoile 
is evidently ignorant. When decompo- 
sition had proceeded to a very great 
extent—when the flesh had in a great 
measure left the bones—then, indeed, 
but not 7¢iJ then, should. we lose sight 
of the corpse. 

“And now what are we to make of 
the argument, that the body found could 
not be that of Marie Roget, because, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


three days only having elapsed, this 
body was found floating? If drowned, 
being a woman, she might never have 
sunk; or, having sunk, might have re- 
appeared in twenty-four hours or less. 
But no one supposes her to have been 
drowned; and, dying before being 
thrown into the river, she might have 
been found floating at any period after- 
ward whatever. 

“But, says L’Etoile, ‘if the body 
had been kept in its mangled state on 
shore until Tuesday night, some trace 


‘would be found on shore of the mur- 


derers.’ Here it is at first difficult to 
perceive the intention of the reasoner. 
He means to anticipate what he imagines 
would be an objection to his theory— 
viz.: that the body was kept on shore 
two days, suffering rapid decomposition 
—more rapid than if immersed in water. 
He supposes that, had this been the 
case, it might have appeared at the sur- 
face on the Wednesday, and thinks that 
only under such circumstances it coule 
have so appeared. He is accordingly 
in haste to show that it was not kept 
on shore; for, if so, ‘some trace would 
be found on shore of the murderers.’ 
I presume you smile at the sequitur. 
You cannot be made to see how the 
mere duration of the corpse on the 
shore could operate to multiply traces 
of the assassins. Nor can I. 

““And furthermore it is exceedingly 
improbable,’ continues our journal, ‘that 
any villains who had committed such a 
murder as is here supposed, would have 
thrown the body in without weight to 
sink it, when such a precaution could 
have so easily been taken.’ Observe, 
here, the laughable confusion of thought! 
No one—not even L’Etoile—disputes 
the murder committed on the body 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 119 


found. The marks of violence are too 
obvious. It is our reasoner’s object 
merely to show that this body is not 
Marie’s. He wishes to prove that Marie 
is not assassinated—not that the corpse 
was not. Yet his observation proves 
only the latter point. Here is a corpse 
without weight attached. Murderers, 
casting it in, would not have failed to 
attach a weight. Therefore it was not 
thrown in by murderers. This is all 
which is proved, if any thing is. The 
question of identity is not even ap- 
proached, and L’Etoile has been at 
great pains merely to gainsay now what 
it has admitted only a moment before. 
‘We are perfectly convinced,’ it says, 
‘that the body found was that of a mur- 
dered female.’ 

“Nor is this the sole instance. even 
in this division of his subject, where 
our reasoner unwittingly reasons against 
himself. His evident object, I have 
already said, is to reduce, as much as 
possible, the interval between Marie’s 
disappearance and the finding of the 
corpse. Yet we find him wrging the 
point that no person saw the girl from 
the moment of her leaving her mother’s 
house. ‘We have no evidence,’ he says, 
‘that Marie Roget was in the land of 
the living after nine o’clock on Sunaay; 
June the twenty-second.’ As his argu- 
ment is obviously an ex-parte one, he 
should, at least, have left this matter 
out of sight; for had any one been 
known to see Marie, say on Monday, 
or on Tuesday, the interval in question 
would have been much reduced, and, 
by his own ratiocination, the probability 
much diminished of the corpse being 
that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, 
amusing to observe that L’Etoile insists 


upon its point in the full belief of its 
furthering its general argument. 
“Re-peruse now that portion of this 
argument which has reference to the 
identification of the corpse by Beau- 
vais. In regard to the hair upon the 
arm, L’Etoile has been obviously dis- 
ingenious. M. Beauvais, not being an 
idiot, could never have urged in identi- 
fication of the corpse, simply hair upon 
its arm. No arm is without hair. The 
generality of the expression of L’Etoile 
is a mere perversion of the witness’ 
phraseology. He must have spoken of 
some peculiarity in this hair. It musé 
have been a peculiarity of color, of 
quantity, of length, or of situation. 
“Her foot,’ says the journal, ‘was 
small—so are thousands of feet. Her 
garter is no proof whatever—nor is 
her shoe—for shoes and garters are 
sold in packages. The same may be 
said of the flowers in her hat. One 
thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly 
insists is, that the clasp on the garter 
found had been set back to take it in. 
This amounts to nothing; for most 
women find it proper to take a pair of 
garters home and fit them to the size 
of the limbs they are to encircle, rather 
than to try them in the store where 
they purchase.’ Here it is difficult to 
suppose the reasoner in earnest. Had 
M. Beauvais, in his search for the body 
of Marie, discovered a corpse corre- 
sponding in general size and appearance 
to the missing girl, he would have been 
warranted (without reference to the 
question of habiliment at all) in form- 
ing an opinion that his search had been 
successful. If, in addition to the point 
of general size and contour, he had 
found upon the arm a peculiar hairy 
appearance wnich he had observed upon 


120 


the living Marie, his opinion might have 
been justly strengthened; and the in- 
crease of positiveness might well have 
been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or 
unusualness, of the hairy mark. If, the 
feet of Marie being small, those of the 
corpse were also small, the increase of 
probability that the body was that of 
Marie would not be an increase in a 
ratio merely arithmetical, but in one 
highly geometrical, or accumulative. 
Add to all this shoes such as she had 
been known to wear upon the day of 
her disappearance, and, although these 
shoes may be ‘sold in packages,’ you 
so far augment the probability as to 
verge upon the certain. What, of itself, 
would be no evidence of identity, be- 
comes through its corroborative posi- 
tion, proof most sure. Give us, then, 
flowers in the hat corresponding to those 
worn by the missing girl, and we seek 
for nothing further. If only one flower, 
we seek for nothing further—what then 
if two or three, or more? Each suc- 
cessive one is multiple evidence—proof 
not added to proof, but multiplied by 
hundreds or thousands. Let us now 
discover, upon the deceased, garters 
such as the living used, and it is almost 
folly to proceed. But these garters are 
found to be tightened, by the setting 
back of a clasp, in just such a manner 
as her own had been tightened by Marie 
shortly previous to her leaving home. 
It is now madness or hypocrisy to 
doubt. What L’Etoile says in respect 
to this abbreviation of the garters being 
an unusual occurrence, shows nothing 
beyond its own pertinacity in error. 
The elastic nature of the clasp-garter 
is self-demonstration of the wnusualness 
of the abbreviation. What is made to 
adjust itself, must of necessity require 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


foreign adjustment but rarely. It must 
have been by an acc. Jent, in its strict- 
est sense, that these garters of Marie 
needed the tightening described. They 
alone wouid have amply established her 
identity. But it is not that the corpse 
was found to have the garters of the 
missing girl, or found to have her shoes, 
or her bonnet, or the flowers of her 
bonnet, or her feet, or a peculiar mark 
upon the arm, or her general size and 
appearance—it is that the corpse had 
each, and all collectively. Could it be 
proved that the editor of L’Etoile really 
entertained a doubt, under the circum- 
stances, there would be no need, in his 
case, Of a commission de lunatico 
inquirendo. He has thought it saga- 
cious to echo the small talk of the 
lawyers, who, for the most part, con- 
tent themselves with echoing the rec- 
tangular precepts of the courts. I 
would here observe that very much of 
what is rejected as evidence by a court, 
is the best of evidence to the intellect. 
For the court, guided itself by the gen- 
eral principles of evidence~-the recog- 
nized and booked principles—is averse 
from swerving at particular instances. 
And this steadfast adherence to prin- 
ciple, with rigorous disregard of the 
conflicting exception, is a sure mode 
of attaining the maximum of attainable 
truth, in any long sequence of time. 
The practice, im mass, is therefore philo- 
sophical; but it is not the less certain 
that it engenders vast individual error. 

“In respect to the insinuations lev- 
elled at Beauvais, you will be willing 
to dismiss them in a breath. You have 
already fathomed the true character of 
this good gentleman. He is a busybody, 
with much of romance and little of 
wit. Any one so constituted will readily 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


so conduct himself, upon occasion of 
real excitement, 8s to render himself 
liable to suspicion on the part of the 
over-acute, or the ill-disposed. M. 
Beauvais (as it appears from your 
notes) had some personal interviews 
with the editor of L’Etoile, and offended 
him by venturing an opinion that the 
corpse, notwithstanding the theory of 
the editor, was, in sober fact, that of 
Marie. ‘He persists,’ says the paper, 
‘In asserting the corpse to be that of 
Marie, but cannot give a circumstance, 
in addition to those which we have 
commented upon, to make others be- 
lieve. Now, without re-adverting to 
the fact that stronger evidence ‘to make 
others believe,’ could never have been 
adduced, it may be remarked that a 
man may very well be understood to 
believe, in a case of this kind, without 
the ability to advance a single reason 
for the belief of a second party. Noth- 
ing is more vague than impressions of 
individual identity. Each man recog- 
nizes his neighbor, yet there are few 
instances in which any one is prepared 
to give a reason for his recognition. 
The editor of L’Etoile had no right to 
be offended at M. Beauvais’s unreason- 
ing belief. 

“The suspicious circumstances which 
invest him, will be found to tally much 
better with my hypothesis of romantic 
busy-bodyism, than with the reasoner’s 
suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the 
more charitable interpretation, we shall 
find no difficulty in comprehending the 
rose in the key-hole; the ‘Marie’ upon 
the slate; the ‘elbowing the male rela- 
tives out of the way’; the ‘aversion to 
permitting them to see the body’; the 
caution given to Madame B , that 
she must hold no conversation with the 





121 


gendarme until his (Beauvais’) return; 
and, lastly, his apparent determination 
‘that nobody should have any thing to 
do with the proceedings except himself.’ 
It seems to me unquestionable that 
Beauvais was a suitor of Marie’s; that 
she coquetted with him; and that he 
was ambitious of being thought to enjoy 
her fullest intimacy and confidence. I 
shall say nothing more upon this point; 
and, as the evidence fully rebuts the 
assertion of L’Etoile, touching the mat- 
ter of apathy on the part of the mother 
and other relatives—an apathy incon- 
sistent with the supposition of their 
believing the corpse to be that of the | 
perfumery girl—we shall now proceed 
as if the question of zdentity were set- 
tled to our perfect satisfaction.” 

“And what,’ I here demanded, ‘‘do 
you think of the opinions of Le Com- 
merciel?” 

“That, in spirit, they are far more 
worthy of attention than any which 
have been promulgated upon the sub; 
ject. The deductions from the prem- 
ises are philosophical and acute; but 
the premises, in two instances, at least, 
are founded in imperfect observation. 
Le Commerciel wishes to intimate that 
Marie was seized by some gang of low 
ruffians not far from her mother’s door. 
‘It is impossible,’ it urges, ‘that a per- 
son so well known to thousands as this 
young woman was, should have passed 
three blocks without some one having 
seen her.’ This is the idea of a man 
long resident in Paris—~—a public man— 
and one whose walks to and fro in the 
city have been mostly limited to the 
vicinity of the public offices. He is 
aware that he seldom passes so far as 
a dozen blocks from his own bureau, 
without being recognized and accosted. 


122 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And, knowing the extent of his per- 
sonal acquaintance with others, and of 
others with him, he compares his noto- 
riety with that of the perfumery-girl, 
finds no great difference between them, 
and reaches at once the conclusion that 
she, in her walks, would be equally 
liable to recognition with himself in 
his. This could only be the case were 
her walks of the same _ unvarying, 
methodical character, and within the 
same species of limited region as are 
his own. He passes to and fro, at 
regular intervals, within a _ confined 
periphery, abounding in individuais who 
_are led to observation of his person 
through interest in the kindred nature 
of his occupation with their own. But 
the walks of Marie may, in general, 
be supposed discursive. In this par- 
ticular instance, it will be understood 
as most probable, that she proceeded 
upon a route of more than average 
diversity from her accustomed ones. 
The parallel which we imagine to have 
existed in tne mind of Le Commerciel 
would only be sustained in the event 
of the two individuals traversing the 
whole city. In this case, granting the 
personal acquaintances to be equal, the 
chances would be also equal that an 
equal number of personal rencontres 
would be made. For my own part, I 
should hold it not only as possible, but 
as far more than probable, that Marie 
might have proceeded, at any given 
period, by any one of the many routes 
between her own residence and that of 
her aunt, without meeting a single indi- 
vidual whom she knew, or by whom 
she was known. In viewing this ques- 
tion in its full and proper light, we 
must hold steadily in mind the great 
disproportion between the personal ac- 


quaintances of even the most notea 
individual in Paris, and the entire popu- 
lation of Paris itself. 

“But whatever force there may still 
appear to be in the suggestion of Le 
Commerciel, will be much diminished 
when we take into consideration the 
hour at which the girl went abroad. 
‘It was when the streets were full of 
people,’ says Le Commerciel, ‘that she 
went out.’ But not so. It was at nine 
o’clock in the morning. Now at nine 
o’clock of every morning in the week, 
with the exception of Sunday, the 
streets of the city are, it is true, 
thronged with people. At nine on Sun- 
day, the populace are chiefly within 
doors preparing for church. No ob- 
serving person can have failed to notice 
the peculiarly deserted air of the town, 
from about eight until ten on the morn- 
ing of every Sabbath. Between ten and 
eleven the streets are thronged, but not 
at so early a period as that designated. 

“There is another point at which 
there seems a deficiency of observation 
on the part of Le Commerciel. ‘A 
piece, it says, ‘of one of the unfortu- 
nate girl’s petticoats, two feet long, and 
one foot wide, was torn out and tied 
under her chin, and around the back 
of her head, probably to _ prevent 
screams. This was done by fellows who 
had no pocket-handkerchiefs.’? Whether 
this idea is or is not well founded, we 
will endeavor to see hereafter; but by 
‘fellows who have no pocket-handker- 
chiefs,’ the editor intends the lowest 
class of ruffans. ‘These, however, are 
the very description of people who 
will always be found to have handker- 
chiefs even when destitute of shirts. 
You must have had occasion to observe 
how absolutely indispensable, of late 








THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 123 


years, to the thorough blackguard, has 
become the pocket-handkerchief.”’ 

“And what are we to think,” I asked, 
“of the article in Le Soleil?” 

“That it is a vast pity its inditer was 
not born a parrot—in which case he 
would have been the most illustrious 
parrot of his race. He has merely re- 
peated the individual items of the 
already published opinion; collecting 
them, with a laudable industry, from 
this paper and from that. ‘The things 
had all evidently been there,’ he says, 
‘at least three or four weeks, and there 
can be no doubt that the spot of this 
appalling outrage has been discovered.’ 
The facts here re-stated by Le Soleil, 
are very far indeed from removing my 
own doubts upon this subject, and we 
will examine them more particularly 
hereafter in connection with another 
division of the theme. 

“At present we must occupy our- 
selves with other investigations. You 
cannot fail to have remarked the ex- 
treme laxity of the examination of the 
corpse. To be sure, the question of 
identity was readily determined, or 
should have been; but there were other 
points to be ascertained. Had the body 
been in any respect despoiled? Had 
the deceased any articles of jewelry 
about her person upon leaving home? 
If so, had she any when found? These 
are important questions utterly un- 
touched by the evidence; and there are 
others of equal moment, which have 
met with no attention. We must en- 
deavor to satisfy ourselves by personal 
inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must 
be re-examined. I have no suspicion 
of this person; but let us proceed 
methodically. We will ascertain beyond 
a doubt the validity of the affidavits 


in regard to his whereabouts on the 
Sunday. Affidavits of this character are 
readily made matter of mystification. 
Should there be nothing wrong here, 
however, we will dismiss St. Eustache 
from our investigations. His suicide, 
however, corroborative of suspicion, 
were there found to be deceit in the 
affidavits, is, without such deceit, in no 
respect an unaccountable circumstance, 
or one which need cause us to deflect 
from the line of ordinary analysis. 
“In that which I now propose, we 
will discard the interior points of this 
tragedy, and concentrate our attention 
upon its outskirts. Not the least usual 
error in investigations such as this is 
the limiting of inquiry to the imme- 
diate, with total disregard of the col- 
lateral or circumstantial events. It is 
the malpractice of the courts to con- 
fine evidence and discussion to the 
bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet ex- 
perience has shown, and a true philoso- 
phy will always show, that a vast, per- 
haps the larger, portion of truth arises 
from the seemingly irrelevant. It is 
through the spirit of this principle, if 


not precisely through its letter, that 


modern science has resolved to calcu- 
late upon the unforeseen. But perhaps 
you do not comprehend me. The his- 
tory of human knowledge has so unin- 
terruptedly shown that to collateral, or 
incidental, or accidental events we are 
indebted for the most numerous and 
most valuable discoveries, that it has at 
length become necessary, in prospective 
view of improvement, to make not only 
large, but the largest, allowances for 
inventions that shall arise by chance, 
and quite out of the range of ordinary 
expectation. It is no longer philosophi- 
cal to base upon what has been a vision 


124 


of what is to be. Accident is admitted 
as a portion of the substructure. We 
make chance a matter of absolute cal- 
culation. We subject the unlooked for 
and unimagined to the mathematical 
formule of the schools. 

“T repeat that it is no more than 
fact that the Jarger portion of all truth 
has sprung from the collateral; and it 
is but in accordance with the spirit of 
the principle involved in this fact that 
I would divert inquiry, in the present 
case, from the trodden and hitherto un- 
fruitful ground of the event itself to 
the contemporary circumstances which 
surround it. While you ascertain the 
validity of the affidavits, I will examine 
the newspapers more generally than you 
have as yet done. So far, we have 
only reconnoitred the field of investi- 
gation; but it will be strange, indeed, 
if a comprehensive survey, such as I 
propose, of the public prints will not 
afford us some minute points which 
shall establish a direction for inquiry.” 

In pursuance of Dupin’s suggestion, 
I made scrupulous examination of the 
affair of the affidavits. The result was 


a firm conviction of their validity, and 


of the consequent innocence of St. 
Eustache. In the meantime my friend 
occupied himself, with what seemed to 


me a minuteness altogether objectless, — 


in a scrutiny of the various newspaper 
files. At the end of a week he placed 
before me the following extracts: 
“About three years and a half ago, 
a disturbance very similar to the pres- 
ent was caused by the disappearance 
of this same Marie Roget from the 
parfumerie of Monsieur Le Blanc, in 
the Palais Royal. At the end of a 
week, however, she re-appeared at her 
customary comptoir, as well as ever, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with the exception of a slight paleness 
not altogether usual. It was given out 
by Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother 
that she had merely been on a visit 
to some friend in the country; and the 
affair was speedily hushed up. We 
presume that the present absence is a 
freak of the same nature, and that, at 
the expiration of a week or, perhaps, of 
a month, we shall have her among us 
again.” —Evening Paper, Monday, June 
pee 

“An evening journal of yesterday 
refers to a former mysterious disap- 
pearance of Mademoiselle Roget. It is 
well known that, during the week of 
her absence from Le Blanc’s parfum- 
erie, she was in the company of a young 
naval officer much noted for his de- 
baucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, 
providentially, led to her return home. 
We have the name of the Lothario in 
question, who is at present stationed in 
Paris, but for obvious reasons forbear 
to make it public.’—Le Mercure, Tues- 
day Morning, June 24.} 

“An outrage of the most atrocious 
character was perpetrated near this city 
the day before yesterday. A _ gentle- 
man, with his wife and daughter, en- 
gaged, about dusk, the services of six 
young men, who were idly rowing a 
boat to and fro near the banks of the 
Seine, to convey him across the river. 
Upon reaching the opposite shore the 
three passengers stepped out, and had 
proceeded so far as to be beyond the 
view of the boat, when the daughter 
discovered that she had left in it her 


parasol. She returned for it, was seized ~~ 


by the gang, carried out into the stream, 





* New York Exbress. 
+ New York Herald. 


THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 125 


gagged, brutally treated, and finally 
taken to the shore at a point not far 
from that at which she had originally 
entered the boat with her parents. The 
villains have escaped for the time, but 
the police are upon their trail, and 
some of them will soon be taken.”— 
Morning Paper, June 25.* 

“We have received one or two com- 
munications, the object of which is to 
fasten the crime of the late atrocity 
upon Mennais;+ but as this gentleman 
has been fully exonerated by a legal 
inquiry, and as the arguments of our 
several correspondents appear to be 
more zealous than profound, we do not 
think it advisable to make them pub- 
lic.’—Morning Paper, June 28.¢ 

“We have received several forcibly 
written communications, apparently 
from various sources, and which go far 
to render it a matter of certainty that 
the unfortunate Marie Roget has be- 
come a victim of one of the numerous 
bands of blackguards which infest the 
vicinity of the city upon Sunday. Our 
own opinion is decidedly in favor of 
this supposition. We shall endeavor to 
make room for some of these arguments 
hereafter.”—Evening Paper, Tuesday, 
June 31.8 

“On Monday, one of the bargemen 
connected with the revenue service saw 
an empty boat floating down the Seine. 
Sails were lying in the bottom of the 
boat. The bargeman towed it under 


* New York Courier and Inquirer. 

+ Mennais was one of the parties 
originally suspected and arrested, but 
discharged through total lack of evi- 
dence. 

4+ New York Courier and Inquirer. 

§ New York Evening Post. 


the barge office. The next morning it 
was taken from thence without the 
knowledge of any of the officers. The 
rudder is now at the barge office.”—Le 
Diligence, Thursday, June 26.* 

Upon reading these various extracts, 
they not only seemed to me irrelevant, 
but I could perceive no mode in which 
any one of them could be brought to 
bear upon the matter in hand. [ 
waited for some explanation from 
Dupin. 

“Tt is not my present design,” hy; 
said, “to dwell upon the first and second 
of these extracts. I have copied them 
chiefly to show you the extreme remiss- 
ness of the police, who, as far as I can 
understand from the Prefect, have not 
troubled themselves, in any respect, 
with an examination of the naval offi- 
cer alluded to. Yet it is mere folly to 
say that between the first and second 
disappearance of Marie there is'no sup- 
posable connection. Let us admit the 
first elopement to have resulted in a 
quarrel between the lovers, and the 
return home of the betrayed. We are 
now prepared to view a second elope- 
ment (if we know that an elopement 
has again taken place) as indicating a 
renewal of the betrayer’s advances, 
rather than as the result of new pro- 
posals by a second individaul—we are 
prepared to regard it as a ‘making up’ 
of the old amour, rather than as the 
commencement of a new one. The 
chances are ten to one, that he who 
had once eloped with Marie would 
again propose an elopement, rather than 
that she to whom proposals of an 
elopement had been made by one indi- 
vidual, should have them made to her 





* New York Standard. 


126 


by another. And here let me call your 
attention to the fact, that the time 
elapsing between the first ascertained 
and the second supposed elopement is 
a few months more than the general 
period of the cruises of our men-of- 
war. Had the lover been interrupted in 
his first villainy by the necessity of 
departure to sea, and had he seized the 
first moment of his return to renew the 
base designs not yet altogether accom- 
plished—or not yet altogether accom- 
plished by him? Of all these things 
we know nothing. 

“Vou will say, however, that, in the 
second instance, there was no elope- 
ment as imagined. Certainly not—but 
are we prepared to say that there was 
not the frustrated design? Beyond St. 
Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we 
find no recognized, no open, no honor- 
able suitors of Marie. Of none other 
is there. any thing said. Who, then, 
is the secret lover, of whom the rela- 
tives (at least most of them) know 
nothing, but whom Marie meets upon 
the morning of Sunday, and who is so 
deeply in her confidence, that she hesi- 
tates not to remain with him until the 
shades of the evening descend, amid 
the solitary groves of the Barriere du 
Roule? Who is that secret lover, I 
ask, of whom, at least, most of the 
relatives know nothing? And _ what 
means the singular prophecy of Madam 
Roget on the morning Marie’s depar- 
turePp—I fear that I shall never see 
Marie again.’ 

“But if we cannot imagine Madame 
Roget privy to the design of elopement, 
may we not at least suppose this design 
entertained by the girl? Upon quitting 
home, she gave it to be understood that 
she was about to visit her aunt in the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Rue des Dromes, and St. Eustache was 
requested to call for her at dark. Now, 
at first glance, this fact strongly mili- 
tates against my suggestion;—but let 
us reflect. That she did meet some 
companion, and proceed with him across 
the river, reaching the Barriere du 
Roule at so late an hour as three o’clock 
in the afternoon, is known. But in 
consenting so to accompany this indi- 
vidual, (for whatever purpose—to her 
mother known or unknown,) she must 
have thought of her expressed intention 
when leaving home, and of the surprise 
and suspicion aroused in the bosom of 
her affianced suitor, St. Eustache, when, 
calling for her, at the hour appointed, 
in the Rue des Dromes, he should find 
that she had not been there, and when, 
moreover, upon returning to the pension 
with this alarming intelligence, he 
should become aware of her continued 
absence from home. . She must have 
thought of these things, I say. She 
must have foreseen the chagrin of St. 
Eustache, the suspicion of all. She 
could not have thought of returning to 
brave this suspicion; but the suspicion 
becomes a point of trivial importance 
to her, if we suppose her noé intending 
LOsretumn: 

“We may imagine her thinking thus— 
‘IT am to meet a certain person for the 
purpose of elopement, or for certain 
other purposes known only to myself. 
It is necessary that there be no chance 
of interruption—there must be sufficient 
time given us to elude pursuit—I will 
give it to be understood that I shall 
visit and spend the day with my aunt 
at the Rue des Dromes—I will tell St. 
Eustache not to call for me until dark 
—in this way, my absence from home 
for the longest possible period, without 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


causing suspicion or anxiety, will be ac- 
counted for, and J shall gain more time 
than in any other manner. If I bid 
St. Eustache call for me at dark, he 
will be sure not to call before; but if 
I wholly neglect to bid him call, my 
time for escape will be diminished, since 
it will be expected that I return the 
earlier, and my absence will the sooner 
excite anxiety. Now, if it were mv 
design to return at all—if I had in 
contemplation merely a stroll with the 
individual in question—it ‘would not be 
my policy to bid St. Eustache call; 
for, calling, he will be sure to ascertain 
that I have played him false—a fact 
of which I might keep him forever in 
ignorance, by leaving home without 
notifying him of my intention, by re- 
turning before dark, and by then stating 
that I had been to visit my aunt in 
the Rue des Dromes. But, as it is 
my design never to return—or not for 
some weeks—or not until certain con- 
cealments are effected—the gaining of 
time is the only point about which I 
need give myself any concern.’ 

“You have observed, in your notes, 
that the most general opinion in rela- 
tion to this sad affair is, and was from 
the first, that the girl had been the 
victim of a gang of blackguards. Now, 
the popular opinion, under certain con- 
ditions, is not to be disregarded. When 
arising of itseli—when manifesting it- 
self in a strictly spontaneous manner— 
we should look upon it as analogous 
with that intuition which is the idio- 
syncrasy of the individual man of 
genius. In ninety-nine cases from the 
hundred I would abide by its decision. 
But it is important that we find no pal- 
pable traces of suggestion. ‘The opinion 
must be rigorously the public’s own; 


127 


and the distinction is often exceedingly 
difficult to perceive and to maintain. 
In the present instance, it appears to 
me that this ‘public opinion,’ in respect 
to a gang, has been superinduced by 
the collateral event which is detailed 
in the third of my extracts. All Paris 
is excited by the discovered corpse of 
Marie, a girl young, beautiful, and no- 
torious. ‘This corpse is found, bearing 
marks of violence, and floating in the 
river. But it is now made known that, 
at the very period, or about the very 
period, in which it is supposed that the 
girl was assassinated, an outrage simi- 
lar in nature to that endured by the 
deceased, although less in extent, was 
perpetrated by a gang of young ruf- 
fians, upon the person of a _ second 
young female. Is it wonderful that the 
one known atrocity should influence the 
popular judgment in regard to the other 
unknown? This judgment awaited di- 
rection, and the known outrage seemed 
so opportunely to afford it! Marie, 
too, was found in the river; and upon 
this very river was this known outrage 
committed. The connection of the two 
events had about it so much of the 
palpable, that the true wonder would 
have been a failure of the populace to 
appreciate and to seize it. But, in fact, 
the one atrocity, known to be so com- 
mitted, is, if any thing, evidence that 
the other, committed at a time nearly 
coincident, was not so committed. It 
would have been a miracle indeed, if, 
while a gang of ruffians were perpe- 
trating, at a given locality, a most 
unheard of wrong, there should have 
been another similar gang, in a similar 
locality, in the same city, under the 
same circumstances, with the same 
means and appliances, engaged in a 


128 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


wrong of precisely the same aspect, at 
precisely the same period of time! Yet 
in what, if not in this marvellous train 
of coincidence, does the accidentally 
suggested opinion of the populace call 
upon us to believe? 

“Before proceeding further, let us 
consider the supposed scene of the as- 
sassination, in the thicket at the Bar- 
riere du Roule. This thicket, although 
dense, was in the close vicinity of a 
public road. Within were three or four 
large stones, forming a kind of seat 
with a back and a footstool. On the 
upper stone was discovered a white 
petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. 
A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-hand- 
kerchief were also here found. The 
handkerchief bore the name ‘Marie 
Roget.’ Fragments of dress were seen 
on the branches around. The earth 
was trampled, the bushes were broken, 
and there was every evidence of a vio- 
lent struggle. . 

“Notwithstanding the acclamation 
with which the discovery of this thicket 
was received by the press, and the 
unanimity with which it was supposed 
to indicate the precise scene of the 
outrage, it must be admitted that there 
was some very good reason for doubt. 
That it was the scene, I may or I may 
not believe—but there was excellent 
reason for doubt. Had the ¢rue scene 
been, as Le Commerciel suggested, in 
the neighborhood of the Rue Pavee St. 
Andre, the perpetrators of the crime, 
supposing them still resident in Paris, 
would naturally have been stricken with 
terror at the public attention thus 
acutely directed into the proper chan- 
nel; and, in certain classes of minds, 
there would have arisen, at once, a 
sense of the necessity of some exertion 


to redivert this attention. And thus, 
the thicket of the Barriere du Roule 
having been already suspected, the idea 
of placing the articles where they were 
found, might have been naturally en- 
tertained. ‘There is no real evidence, 
although Le Soleil so supposes, that the 
articles discovered had been more than 
a very few days in the thicket; while 
there is much circumstantial proof that 
they could not have remained there, 
without attracting attention, during the 
twenty days ‘elapsing between the fatal 
Sunday and the afternoon upon which 
they were found by the boys. ‘They 
were all mildewed down hard,’ says 
Le Soleil, adopting the opinions of its 
predecessors, ‘with the action of the 
rain and stuck together from mildew. 
The grass had grown around and over 
some of them. The silk of the parasol 
was strong, but the threads of it were 
run together within. The upper part, 
where it had been doubled and folded, 
was all mildewed and rotten, and tore 
on being opened.’ In respect to the 
grass having ‘grown around and over 
some of them,’ it is obvious that the 
fact could only have been ascertained 
from the words, and thus from the 
recollections, of two small boys; for 
these boys removed the articles and 
took them home before they had been 
seen by a third party. But the grass 
will grow, especially in warm and damp 
weather (such as was that of the period 
of the murder), as much as two or 
three inches in a single day. A parasol 
lying upon a newly turfed ground, 
might, in a single week, be entirely 
concealed from sight by the upspring- 
ing grass. And touching that mildew 
upon which the editor of Le Soleil so 
pertinaciously insists, that he employs 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 129 


the word no less than three times in 
the brief paragraph just quoted, is he 
really unaware of the nature of this 
mildew? Is he to be told that it is 
one of the many classes of fungus, of 
which the most ordinary feature is its 
upspringing and decadence within 
twenty-four hours? 

“Thus: we see, at a glance, that what 
has been most triumphantly adduced in 
support of the idea that the articles had 
been ‘for at least three or four weeks’ 
in the thicket, is most absurdly null as 
regards any evidence of that fact. On 
the other hand, it is exceedingly diffi- 
cult to believe that these articles could 
have remained in the thicket specified 
for a longer period than a single week— 
for a longer period than from one Sun- 
day to the next. Those who know any 
thing of the vicinity of Paris, know 
the extreme difficulty of finding seclu- 
sion, unless at a great distance from its 
suburbs. Such a thing as an unex- 
plored or even an unfrequently visited 
recess, amid its woods or groves, is not 
for a moment to be imagined. Let any 
one who, being at heart a lover of 
nature, is yet chained by duty to the 
dust and heat of this great metropolis— 
let any such one attempt, even during 
the week-days, to slake his thirst for 
solitude amid the scenes of natural 
loveliness which immediately surround 
us. At every second step, he will find 
the growing charm dispelled by the 
voice and personal intrusion of some 
ruffian or party of carousing black- 
guards. He will seek privacy amid the 
densest foliage, all in vain. Here are 
the very nooks where the unwashed 
most abound—here are the temples 
most desecrate. With sickness of the 
heart the wanderer will flee back to 


the polluted Paris as to a less odious 
because less incongruous sink of pollu- 
tion. But if the vicinity of the city 
is so beset during the working days 
of the week, how much more so on 
the Sabbath! It is now especially that, 
released from the claims of labor, or 
deprived of the customary opportuni- 
ties of crime, the town blackguard seeks 
the precincts of the town, not through 
love of the rural, which in his heart 
he despises, but by way of escape from 
the restraints and conventionalities of 
society. He desires less the fresh aiz 
and the green trees, than the utter 
license of the country. MHere, at the 
road-side inn, or beneath the foliage 
of the woods, he indulges unchecked 
by any eye except those of his boon 
companions, in all the mad excess of 
a counterfeit hilarity—the joint off- 
spring of liberty and of rum. I say 
nothing more than what must be obvi- 
ous to every dispassionate observer, 
when I repeat that the circumstance of 
the articles in question having remained 
undiscovered, for a longer period than 
from one Sunday to another, in any 
thicket in the immediate neighborhood 
of Paris, is to be looked upon as little 
less than miraculous. 

“But there are not wanting other 
grounds for the suspicion that the arti- 
cles were placed in the thicket with the 
view of diverting attention from the 
real scene of the outrage. And first, 
let me direct your notice to the date 
of the discovery of the articles. Col- 
late this with the date of the fifth 
extract made by myself from the news- 
papers. You will find that the discov- 
ery followed, almost immediately, the 
urgent communications sent to the eve- 
ning paper. These communications, 


130 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


although various, and apparently from 
various sources, tended all to the same 
point—viz., the directing of attention 
to a gang as the perpetrators of the 
outrage, and to the neighborhood of 
the Barriere du Roule as its scene. 
Now, here, of course, the ‘situation is 
not that, in consequence of these com- 
munications, or of the public attention 
by them directed, the articles were 
found by the boys; but the suspicion 
right and may well have been, that 
the articles were not before found by 
the boys, for the reason that the arti- 
cles had not before been in the thicket; 
having been deposited there only at so 
late a period as at the date, or shortly 
prior to the date of the communica- 
tions, by the guilty authors of these 
communications themselves. 

“This thicket was a singular—an ex- 
ceedingly singular one. It was unusu- 
ally dense. Within its naturally walled 
enclosure were three extraordinary 
stones, forming a seat with a back and 
a footstool. And this thicket, so full 
of art, was in the immediate vicinity, 
within a few rods, of the dwelling of 
Madame Deluc, whose boys were in 
the habit of closely examining the 
shrubberies about them in search of 
the bark of the sassafras. Would it 
be a rash wager—a wager of one thou- 
sand to one—that a day never passed 
over the heads of these boys without 
finding at least one of thera ensconced 
in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned 
upon its natural throne? ‘Those who 
would hesitate at such a wager, have 
either never been boys themselves, or 
have forgotten the boyish nature. I 
repeat—it is exceedingly hard to com- 
prehend how the articles could have 
remained in this thicket undiscovered, 


for a longer period than one or two 
days; and that thus there is good 
ground for suspicion, in spite of the 
dogmatic ignorance of Le Soleil, that 
they were, at a comparatively late date, 
deposited where found. 

“But there are still other and stronger 
reasons for believing them so deposited. 
than any which I have as yet urged. 
And, now, let me beg your notice to 
the highly artificial arrangement of the 
articles. On the upper stone lay a 
white petticoat; on the second, a silk 
scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, 
gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief bear- 
ing the name ‘Marie Roget.’ Here is 
just such an arrangement as would 
naturally be made by a not over-acute 
person wishing to dispose the articles 
naturally. But it is by no means a 
really natural arrangement. I should 
rather have looked to see the things all 
lying on the ground and trampled under 
foot. In the narrow limits of that 
bower, it would have been scarcely pos- 
sible that the petticoat and scarf should 
have retained a position upon the 
stones, when subjected to the brushing 
to and fro of many struggling persons. 
‘There was evidence,’ it is said, ‘of a 
struggle; and the earth was trampled, 
the bushes were broken,’-—but the pet- 
ticoat and the scarf are found deposited 
as if upon shelves. ‘The pieces of the 
frock torn out by the bushes were 
about three inches wides and six inches 
long. One part was the hem of the 
frock and it had been mended. They 
looked like strips torn off. Here, inad- 
vertently, Le Soleil has employed an 
exceedingly suspicious phrase. The 
pieces, as described, do indeed ‘look like 
strips torn off’; but purposely and by 
hand. It is one of the rarest of acci- 


THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 131 


dents that a piece is ‘torn off,’ from 
any garment such as is now in question, 
by the agency of a thorn. From the 
very nature of such fabrics, a thorn 
or nail becoming tangled in them, tears 
them rectangularly—divides them into 
two longitudinal rents, at right angles 
with each other, and meeting at an 
apex where the thorn enters—but it is 
scarcely possible to conceive the piece 
‘torn off.’ I never so knew it, nor did 
you. To tear a piece off from such 
fabric, two distinct forces, in different 
directions, will be, in almost every case, 
required. If there,be two edges to the 
fabric—it, for example, it be a pocket- 
handkerchief, and it is desired to tear 
from it a slip, then, and then only, will 
the one force serve the purpose. But 
in the present case the question is of 
a dress, presenting but one edge. To 
tear a piece from the interior, where 
no edge is presented, could only be 
effected by a miracle through the 
agency of thorns, and no one thorn 
could accomplish it. But, even where 
an edge is presented, two thorns will 
be necessary, operating, the one in two 
distinct directions, and the other in one. 
And this in the supposition that the 
edge is unhemmed. If hemmed, the 
matter is nearly out of the question. 
We thus see the numerous and great 
obstacles in the way of pieces being 
‘torn off? through the simple agency of 
‘thorns’; yet we are required to believe 
not only that one piece but that many 
have been so torn. ‘And one part,’ too, 
‘was the hem of the frock’! Another 
piece was ‘part of the skirt, not the 
hem,—that is to say, was torn com- 
pletely out, through the agency of 
thorns, from the unedged interior of 
the dress! These, I say, are things 


which one may well be pardoned for 
disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they 
form, perhaps, Jess of reasonable 
ground for suspicion, than the one 
startling circumstance of the articles 
having been left in this thicket at all, 
by any murderers who had enough pre- 
caution to think of removing the corpse. 
You will not have apprehended me 
rightly, however, if you suppose it my 
design to deny this thicket as the scene 
of the outrage. There might have been 
a wrong here, or more possibly, an 
accident at Madame Deluc’s. But, in 
fact, this is a point of minor impor- 
tance. We are not engaged in an at- 
tempt to discover the scene, but to 
produce the perpetrators of the murder. 
What I have adduced, notwithstanding 
the minuteness with which I have ad- 
duced it, has been with the view, first, 
to show the folly of the positive and 
headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but 
secondly and chiefly, to bring you, by 
the most natural route, to a further 
contemplation of the doubt whether this 
assassination has, or has not, been the 
work of a gang. 

“We will resume this question by 
mere allusion to the revolting details of 
the surgeon examined at the inquest. 
It is only necessary to say that his 
published inferences, in regard to the 
number of the ruffians, have been prop- 
erly ridiculed as unjust and _ totally 
baseless, by ali the reputable anatomists 
of Paris. Not that the matter might 
not have been as inferred, but that 
there was no ground for the _ infer- 
ence:—was there not much for an- 
other? 

“Let us reflect now upon ‘the traces 
of a struggle’; and let me ask what 
these traces have been supposed to 


132 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


demonstrate. A gang. But do they 
not rather demonstrate the absence of 
a gang? What struggle could have 
taken place—what struggle so violent 
and so enduring as to have left its 
‘traces’ in all directions—between a 
weak and defenceless girl and a gang 
of ruffians imagined? The silent grasp 
of a few rough arms and all would 
have been over. The victim must have 
been absolutely passive at their will. 
You will here bear in mind that the 
arguments urged against the thicket as 
the scene, are applicable, in chief part, 
only against it as the scene of an out- 
rage committed by more than a single 
individual. Jf we imagine but one vio- 
lator, we can conceive, and thus only 
conceive, the struggle of so violent and 
so obstinate a nature as to have left 
the ‘traces’ apparent. 

“And again. I have already men- 
tioned the suspicion to be excited by 
the fact that the articles in question 
were suffered to remain at all in the 
thicket where discovered. It seems al- 
most impossible that these evidences 
of guilt should have been accidentally 
left where found. There was sufficient 
presence of mind (it is supposed) to 
remove the corpse; and yet a more 
positive evidence than the corpse itself 
(whose features might have been 
quickly obliterated by decay), is al- 
lowed to lie conspicuously in the scene 
of the outrage—I allude to the hand- 
kerchief with the mame of the deceased. 
If this was accident, it was not the 
accident of a gang. We can imagine 
it only the accident of an individual. 
Let us see. An individual has com- 
mitted the murder. He is alone with 
the ghost of the departed. He is 
appalled by what lies motionless before 


him. The fury of his passion is over, 
and there is abundant room in his 
heart for the natural awe of the deed. 
His is none of that confidence which 
the presence of numbers inevitably 
inspires. He is alone with the dead. 
He trembles and is bewildered. Yet 
there is a necessity for disposing of 
the corpse. He bears it to the river, 
and leaves behind him the other evi- 
dences of his guilt; for it is difficult, 
if not impossible to carry all the bur- 
then at once, and it will be easy to 
return for what is left. But in his 
toilsome journey to the water his fears 
redouble within him. The sounds of 
life encompass his path. A _ dozen 
times he hears or fancies he hears the 
step of an observer. Even the very 
lights from the city bewilder him. Yet, 
in time, and by long and frequent 
pauses of deep agony, he reaches the 
river’s brink, and disposes of his ghastly 
charge—perhaps through the medium 
of a boat. But zow what treasure does 
the world hold—what threat of ven- 
geance could it hold out—which would 
have power to urge the return of that 
lonely murderer over that toilsome and 
perilous path, to the thicket and its 
blood-chilling recollections? He _ re- 
turns not, let the consequences be what 
they may. He could not return if he 
would. His sole thought is immediate 
escape. He turns his back forever 
upon those dreadful shrubberies, and 
flees as from the wrath to come. 
“But how with a gang? Their num- 
ber would have inspired them with 
confidence; if, indeed, confidence is 
ever wanting in the breast of the arranc 
blackguard; and of arrant blackguards 
alone are the supposed gangs ever con- 
stituted. ‘Their number, I say, would 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


have prevented the bewildering and 
unreasoning terror which I have imag- 
ined to paralyze the single man. Could 
we suppose an oversight in one, or two, 
or three, this oversight would have been 
remedied by a fourth. They would 
have left nothing behind them; for 
¢heir number would have enabled them 
to carry all at once. There would have 
been no need of return. 

“Consider now the circumstance that, 
in the outer garment of the corpse 
when found, ‘a slip, about a foot wide, 
had been torn upward from the bottom 
hem to the waist, wound three times 
around the waist, and secured by a sort 
of hitch in the back.’ This was done 
with the obvious design of affording a 
handle by which to carry the body. 
But would any number of men have 
(reamed of resorting to such an ex- 
pedient? To three or four, the limbs 
of the corpse would have afforded not 
only a sufficient, but the best possible, 
hold. The device is that of a single 
individual; and this brings us to the 
fact that ‘between the thicket and the 
river the rails of the fences were found 
taken down, and the ground bore evi- 
dent traces of some heavy burden hav- 
ing been dragged along it!’ But would 
a number of men have put themselves 
to the superfluous trouble of taking 
down a fence, for the purpose of drag- 
ging through it a corpse which they 
might have lifted over any fence in an 
instant? Would a number of men have 
so dragged a corpse at all as to have 
left evident traces of the dragging? 

“And here we must refer to an ob- 
servation of Le Commerciel; an obser- 
vation upon which I have already, in 
some measure, commented. ‘A piece,’ 
gays this journal, ‘of one of the unfor- 


183 


tunate girl’s petticoats was torn out and 
tied under her chin, and around the 
back of her head, probably to prevent 
screams. This was done by fellows 
who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.’ 

“T have before suggested that a genu- 
ine blackguard is never without a 
pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to 
this fact that I now especially advert. 
That it was not through want of a 
handkerchief for the purpose imagined 
by Le Commerciel, that this bandage 
was employed, is rendered apparent by 
the handkerchief left in the thicket; 
and that the object was not ‘to prevent 
screams’ appears, also, from the band- 
age having been employed in prefer- 
ence to what would so much better 
have answered the purpose. But the 
language of the evidence speaks of the 
strip in question as ‘found around the 
neck, fitting loosely, and secured with 
a hard knot.’ These words are suffi- 
ciently vague, but differ materially from 
those of Le Commerciel. The slip was 
eighteen inches wide, and _ therefore, 
although of muslin, would form a strong 
band when folded or rumpled longi- 
tudinally. And thus rumpled it was 
discovered. My inference is this. The 
solitary murderer, having borne the 
corpse for some distance (whether from 
the thicket or elsewhere) by means of 
the bandage itched around its middle, 
found the weight, in this mode of pro- 
cedure, too much for his strength. He 
resolved to drag the burthen—the evi- 
dence goes to show that it was dragged. 
With this object in view, it became 
necessary to attach something like a 
rope to one of the extremities. It could 
be best attached about the neck, where 
the head would prevent its slipping off. 
And now the murderer bethought him, 


134 


unquestionably, of the bandage about 
the loins. He would have used this, but 
for its volution about the corpse, the 
hitch which embarrassed it, and the 
reflection that it had not been ‘torn off’ 
from the garment. It was easier to 
tear a new slip from the petticoat. He 
tore it, made it fast about the neck, 
and so dragged his victim to the brink 
of the river. That this ‘bandage,’ only 
attainable with trouble and delay, and 
but imperfectly answering its purpose— 
that this bandage was employed at all, 
demonstrates that the necessity for its 
employment sprang from circumstances 
arising at a period when the handker- 
chief was no longer attainable—that is 
to say, arising, as we have imagined, 
after quitting the thicket (if the thicket 
it was), and on the road between the 
thicket and the river. 

“But the evidence, you will say, of 
Madame Deluc(!) points especially to 
the presence of a gang in the vicinity 
of the thicket, at or about the epoch 
of the murder. This I grant. I doubt 
if there were not a dozen gangs, such 
as described by Madame Deluc, in and 
about the vicinity of the Barriere du 
Roule at or about the period of this 
tragedy. But the gang which has 
drawn upon itself the pointed ani- 
madversion, although the somewhat 
tardy and very suspicious evidence, of 
Madame Deluc, is the only gang which 
is represented by that honest and 
scrupulous old lady as having eaten 
her cakes and swallowed her brandy, 
without putting themselves to the trou- 
ble of making her payment. Ez hinc 
ille ire? 

“But what is the precise evidence of 
Madame Deluc? ‘A gang of miscreants 
made their appearance. .behaved boister- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ously, ate and drank without making 
payment, followed in the route of the 
young man and the girl, returned te the 
inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river 
as if in great haste.’ 

“Now this ‘great haste’ very possibly 
seemed greater haste in the eyes of 
Madame Deluc, since she dwelt linger- 
ingly and lamentingly upon her violated 
cakes and ale,—cakes and ale for which 
she might still have entertained a faint 
hope of compensation. Why, otherwise, 
since it was about dusk, should she 
make a point of the haste? It is no 
cause for wonder, surely, that even a 
gang of blackguards should make haste 
to get home when a wide river is to be 
crossed in small boats, when storm im- 
pends, and when night approaches. 

“T say approaches; for the night had 
not yet arrived. It was only about dusk 
that the indecent haste of these ‘mis- 
creants’ offended the sober eyes of Mad- 
ame Deluc. But we are told that it was 
upon this very evening that Madame 
Deluc, as well as her eldest son, ‘heard 
the screams of a female in the vicinity 
of the inn.’ And in what words does 
Madame Deluc designate the period of 
the evening at which these screams were 
heard? ‘It was soon after dark, she 
says. But ‘soon after dark’ is, at least, 
dark; and ‘about dusk’ is as certainly 
daylight. Thus it is abundantly clear 
that the gang quitted the Barriere du 
Roule prior to the screams overheard 
(?) by Madame Deluc. And although, 
in all the many reports of the evidence, 
the relative expressions in question are 
distinctly and invariably employed just 
as I have employed them in this con- 
versation with yourself, no notice what- 
ever of the gross discrepancy has, as 
yet, been taken by any of the public 





THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


Journals, or by any of the myrmidons 
of police. 

“JT shall add but one to the argu- 
ments against a gang; but this one has, 
to my own understanding at least, a 
weight altogether irresistible. Under 
the circumstances of large reward of- 
fered, and full pardon to any king’s ev- 
idence, it is not to be imagined, for a 
moment, that some member of a gang 
of low ruffians, or of any body of men 
would not long ago have betrayed his 
accomplices. Each one of a gang, so 
placed, is not so much greedy of reward, 
or anxious for escape, as fearful of be- 
trayal. He betrays eagerly and early 
that he may not himself be betrayed. 
That the secret has not been divulged 
is the very best of proof that it is, in 
fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark 
deed are known only to one, or two, liv- 
ing human beings, and to God. 

“Let us sum up now the meagre yet 
certain fruits of our long analysis. We 
have attained the idea either of a fatal 
accident under the roof of Madame 
Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in 
the thicket at the Barriere du Roule, by 
a lover, or at least by an intimate and 
secret associate of the deceased. This 
associate is of swarthy complexion. This 
complexion, the ‘hitch’ in the bandage, 
and the ‘sailor’s knot’ with which the 
bonnet-ribbon is tied, point to a seaman. 
His companionship with the deceased— 
a gay but not an abject young girl— 
designates him as above the grade of 
the common sailor. Here the well- 
written and urgent communications to 
the journals are much in the way of 
corroboration. The circumstance of the 
first elopement, as mentioned by Le 
Mercure, tends to blend the idea of 
this seaman with that of that ‘naval 


135 


officer’ who is first known to have led 
the unfortunate into crime. 

“And here, most fitly, comes the con- 
sideration of the continued absence of 
him of the dark complexion. Let me 
pause to observe that the complexion of 
this man is dark and swarthy; it was no 
common swarthiness which constituted 
the sole point of remembrance, both as 
regards Valence and Madame Deluc. 
But why is this man absent? Was he 
murdered by the gang? If so, why are 
there only traces of the assassinated 
girl? The scene of the two outrages 
will naturally be supposed identical. 
And where is his corpse? The assassins 
would. most probably have disposed of 
both in the same way. But it may be 
said that this man lives, and is deterred 
from making himself known, through 
dread of being charged with the mur- 
der. This consideration might be sup- 
posed to operate upon him now—at this 
late period—since it has been given in 
evidence that he was seen with Marie, 
but it would have had no force at the 
period of the deed. The first impulse of 
an innocent man would have been to 
announce the outrage, and to aid in 
identifying the ruffians. This policy 
would have suggested. He had been 
seen with the girl. He had crossed the 
river with her in an open ferry-boat. 
The denouncing of the assassins would 
have appeared, even to an idiot, the 
surest and sole means of relieving him- 
self from suspicion. We cannot sup- 
pose him, on the night of the fatal 
Sunday, both innocent himself and in- 
cognizant of an outrage committed. 
Yet only under such circumstances is it 
possible to imagine that he would have 
failed, if alive, in the denouncement of 
the assassins. 


136 


“And what means are ours of attain- 
ing the truth? We shall find these 
means multiplying and gathering dis- 
tinctness as we proceed. Let us sift to 
the bottom this affair of the first elope- 
ment. Let us know the full history of 
‘the officer,’ with his present circum- 
stances, and his whereabouts at the pre- 
cise period of the murder. Let us care- 
fully compare with each other the var- 
ious communications sent to the eve- 
ning paper, in which the object was to 
inculpate a@ gang. This done, let us 
compare these communications, both as 
regards style and MS., with those sent 
to the morning paper, at a previous pe- 
riod, and insisting so vehemently upon 
the guilt of Mennais. And, all this 
done, let us again compare these various 
communications with the known MSS. 
of the officer. Let us endeaver to as- 
certain, by repeated questionings of 
Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as 
of the omnibus-driver, Valence, some- 
thing more of the personal appearance 
and bearing of the ‘man of dark com- 
plexion.’ Queries, skillfully directed 
will not fail to elicit, from some of 
these parties, information on this par- 
ticular point (or upon  others)—in- 
formation which the parties themselves 
may not even be aware of possessing. 
And let us now trace the boat picked 
up by the bargeman on the morning of 
Monday the twenty-third of June, and 
which was removed from the barge-of- 
fice, without the cognizance of the offi- 
cer in attendance, and without the rud- 
der, at some period prior to the dis- 
covery of the corpse. With a proper 
caution and perseverance we shall in- 
fallibly trace this boat; for not only 
can the bargeman who picked it up 
identify it, but the rudder is at hand. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The rudder of a sail boat would not 
have been abandoned, without inquiry, 
by one altogether at ease in heart. And 
here let me pause to insinuate a ques- 
tion. There was no advertisement of 
the picking up of this boat. It was si-_ 
lently taken to the barge-office and as 
silently removed. But its owner or 
employer—how happened he, at so early 
a period as Tuesday morning, to be in- 
formed, without the agency of adver- 
tisement, of the locality of the boat 
taken up on Monday, unless we imagine 
some connection with the navy—some 
personal permanent connection leading 
to cognizance of its minute interests— 
its petty local news? 

“In speaking of the lonely assassin 
dragging his burden to the shore, I 
have already suggested the probability 
of his availing himself of a boat. Now 
we are to understand that Marie Roget 
was precipitated from a boat. This 
would naturally have been the case. The 
corpse could not have been trusted to 
the shallow waters of the shore. The 
peculiar marks on the back and shoul- 
ders of the victim tell of the bottom 
ribs of a boat. That the body was 
found without weight is also corrobora- 
tive of the idea. If thrown from the 
shore a weight would have been at- 
tached. We can only account for its 
absence by supposing the murderer to 
have neglected the precaution of sup- 
plying himself with it before pushing 
off. In the act of consigning the corpse 
to the water, he would unquestionably 
have noticed his oversight; but then no 
remedy would have been at hand. Any 
risk would have been preferred to a re- 
turn to that accursed shore. Having 
rid himself of his ghastly charge, the 
murderer would have hastened to the 








THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 


city. There, at some obscure wharf, 
he would have leaped on land. But the 
boat—would he have secured it? He 
would have been in too great haste for 
such things as securing a boat. More- 
over, in fastening it to the wharf, he 
would have felt as if securing evidence 
against himself. His natural thought 
would have been to cast from him, as 
far as possible, all that had held con- 
nection with his crime. He would not 
only have fled from the wharf, but he 
would not have permitted the boat to 
remain. Assuredly he would have cast 
it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies.— 
In the morning, the wretch is stricken 
with unutterable horror at finding that 
the boat has been picked up and de- 
tained at a locality which he is in the 
daily habit of frequenting—at a local- 
ity, perhaps, which his duty compels 
him to frequent. The next night, with- 
out daring to ask for the rudder, he re- 
moves it. Now where is that rudder- 
less boat? Let it be one of our first 
purposes to discover. With the first 
glimpse we obtain of it, the dawn of our 
success shall begin. This boat shall 
guide us, with a rapidity which will 
surprise even ourselves, to him who 
employed it in the midnight of the fatal 
Sabbath. Corroboration will rise upon 
corroboration, and the murderer will be 
traced.” 

[For reasons which we shall not spec- 
ify, but which to many readers will ap- 
pear obvious, we have taken the liberty 
of here omitting, from the MSS. placed 
in our hands, such portion as details the 
following up of the apparently slight 
clew obtained by Dupin. We feel it ad- 
visable only to state, in brief, that the 
result desired was brought to pass; and 
that the Prefect fulfilled punctually, al- 


5 


137 


though with reluctance, the terms of his 
compact with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe’s 
article concludes with the following 
words.—Eds.* | 

It will be understood that I speak of 
coincidences and no more. What I have 
said above upon this topic must suffice. 
In my own heart there dwells no faith 
in preter-nature. That Nature and its 
God are two, no man who thinks will 
deny. That the latter, creating the for- 
mer, can, at will, control or modify it, 
is also unquestionable. I say “‘at will’; 
for the question is of will, and not, as 
the insanity of logic has assumed, of 
power. It is not that the Deity cannot 
modify his laws, but that we insult him 
in imagining a possible necessity for 
modification. In their origin these laws 
were fashioned to embrace all contin- 
gencies which could lie in the Future. 
With God all is Now. 

I repeat, then, that I speak of these 
things only as of coincidences. And 
further: in what I relate it will be seen 
that between the fate of the unhappy 
Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate 
is known, and the fate of one Marie 
Roget up to a certain epoch in her his- 
tory, there has existed a parallel in the 
contemplation of whose wonderful exact- 
itude the reason becomes embarrassed. 
I say all this will be seen. But let 
it not for a moment be supposed that, 
in proceeding with the sad narrative of 
Marie from the epoch just mentioned, 
and in tracing to its denouement the 
mystery which enshrouded her, it is my 
covert design to hint at an extension of 
the parallel, or even to suggest that the 
measures adopted in Paris for the dis 


*Of the Magazine in which the ar- 
ticle was originally published. 


138 


covery of the assassin of a grisette, or 
measures founded in any similar ratio- 
cination would produce any similar re- 
sult. 

For, in respect to the latter branch 
of the supposition, it should be consid- 
ered that the most trifling variation in 
the facts of the two cases might give 
rise to the most important miscalcula- 
tions, by diverting thoroughly the two 
courses of events; very much as, in 
arithmetic, an error which, in its own 
individuality, may be inappreciable, pro- 
duces, at length, by dint of multiplica- 
tion at all points of the process, a re- 
sult enormously at variance with truth. 
And, in regard to the former branch, 
we must not fail to hold in view that 
the very Calculus of Probabilities to 
which I have referred, forbids all idea 
of the extension of the parallel,—for- 
bids it with a positiveness strong and 
decided just in proportion as this par- 
allel has already been long-drawn and 
exact. This is one of those anomalous 
propositions which, seemingly appeal- 
ing to thought altogether apart from the 
mathematical, is yet one which only the 
mathematician can fully entertain. 
Nothing, for example, is more difficult 
than to convince the merely general 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


reader that the fact of sixes having been 
thrown twice in succession by a player 
at dice, is sufficient cause for betting. 
the largest odds that sixes will not be 
thrown in the third attempt. A sugges- 
tion to this effect is usually rejected by 
the intellect at once. It does not ap- 
pear that the two throws which have 
been completed, and which lie now ab- 
solutely in the Past, can have influence 
upon the throw whick exists only in the 
Future. The chance for throwing sixes 
seems to be precisely as it was at any 
ordinary time—that is to say, subject 
only to the influence of the various 
other throws which may be made by the 
dice. And this is a reflection which ap- 
pears so exceedingly obvious that at- 
tempts to controvert it are received 
more frequently with a derisive smile 
than with any thing like respectful at- 
tention. The error here involved—a 
gross error redolent of mischief—I can- 
not pretend to expose within the limits 
assigned me at present; and with the 
philosophical it needs no exposure. It 
may be sufficient here to say that it 
forms one of an infinite series of mis- 
takes which arise in the path of Rea- 
son through her propensity for seeking 
truth zm detail. 


Lhe Purloined Letter 


(First appeared in The Gift, 1845) 


At Paris, just after dark one gusty 
evening in the autumn of 18—, I was 
enjoying the twofold luxury of medita- 
tion and a meerschaum, in company 
with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in 
his little back library. or book-closet, 


au troisieme, No. 33 Rue Dunot, Fau- 
bourg St. Germain. For one hour at 
least we had maintained a profound si- 
lence; while each, to any casual ob- 
server, might have seemed intently and 
exclusively occupied with the curling 


THE PURLOINED LETTER 


eddies of smoke that oppressed the at- 
mosphere of the chamber. For myself, 
however, I was mentally discussing cer- 
tain toyvics which had formed matter 
for conversation between us at an ear- 
lier period of the evening; I mean the 
affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mys- 
tery attending the murder of Marie Ro- 
get. I looked upon it, therefore, as 
something of a coincidence, when the 
door of our apartment was thrown open 
and admitted our old acquaintance, 
Monsieur G , the Prefect of the 
Parisian police. 

We gave him a hearty welcome; for 
there was nearly half as much of the 
entertaining as of the contemptible 
about the man, and we had not seen 
him for several years. We had been 
sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose 
for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but 
sat down again, without doing so, upon 
G.’s saying that he had called to con- 
sult us, or rather to ask the opinion of 
my friend, about some official business 
which had occasioned a great deal of 
trouble. 

“If it is any point requiring reflec- 
tion,” observed Dupin, as he forebore 
to enkindle the wick, ‘we shall exam- 
ine it to better purpose in the dark.” 

“That is another of your odd _ no- 
tions,” said the Prefect, who had the 
fashion of calling every thing “odd” 
that was beyond his comprehension, and 
thus lived amid an absolute legion of 
“oddities.” 

“Very true,” said Dupin, as he sup- 
plied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled 
toward him a comfortable chair. 

“And what is the difficulty now?” I 
asked. ‘Nothing more in the assassi- 
nation way I hope?” 

“Oh, no; nothing of that nature. The 





139 


fact is, the business is very simple in- 
deed, and I make no doubt that we can 
manage it sufficiently well ourselves; 
but then I thought Dupin would like to 
hear the details of it, because it is so 
excessively odd.” 

“Simple and odd,” said Dupin. 

“Why, yes; and not exactly that 
either. The fact is, we have all been a 
good deal puzzled because the affair ¢s 
so simple, and yet baffles us altogether.” 

“Perhaps it is the very simplicity of 
the thing which puts you at fault,” said 
my friend. 

“What nonsense you do talk!” replied 
the Prefect, laughing heartily. 

“Perhaps the mystery is a little too 
plain,” said Dupin. 

“Oh, good heavens! who ever heard 
of such an idea?” 

“A little too self-evident.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! 
ho!” roared our visitor, profoundly 
amused, “oh, Dupin, you will be the 
death of me yet!” 

“And what, after all, zs the matter on 
hand?” I asked. 

“Why, I will tell you,” replied the 
Prefect, as he gave a long, steady, and 
contemplative puff, and settled himself 
in his chair. “I will tell you in a few 
words; but, before I begin, let me cau- 
tion you that this is an afiair demand- 
ing the greatest secrecy, and that I 
should. most probably lose the position 
I now hold, were it known that I cone 
fided it to any one.” 

“Proceed,” said I. 

“Or not,” said Dupin. 

“Well, then; I have received personal 
information, from a very high quarter, 
that a certain document of the last im- 
portance has been purloined from the 
royal apartments. The individual who 


140 


purloined it is known; this beyond a 
doubt; he was seen to take it. It is 
known, also, that it still remains in his 
possession.” 

“How is this known?” asked Dupin. 

“Tt is clearly inferred,” replied the 
Prefect, “from the nature of the doc- 
ument, and from the non-appearance of 
certain results which would at once 
arise from its passing out of the rob- 
ber’s possession—that is to say, from 
his employing it as he must design in 
the end to employ it.” 

“Be a little more explicit,” I said. 

“Well, I may venture so far as to 
say that the paper gives its holder a 
certain power in a certain quarter where 
such power is immensely valuable.” The 
Prefect was fond of the cant of diplo- 
macy. 

“Still I do not quite understand,” said 
Dupin. . 

“No? Well; the disclosure of the doc- 
ument to a third person, who shall be 
nameless, would bring in question the 
honor of a personage of most exalted 
station; and this fact gives the holder 
of the document an ascendancy over the 
illustrious personage whose honor and 
peace are so jeopardized.” 

“But this ascendancy,’ I interposed, 
“ould depend upon the robber’s knowl- 
edge of the loser’s knowledge of the 
robber. Who would dare—” 

“The thief,” said G., “is the Minister 
D——, who dares all things, those un- 
becoming as well as those becoming a 
man. The method of the theft was not 
less ingenious than bold. The document 
in question—a letter, to be frank—had 
been received by the personage robbed 
while alone in the royal boudoir. Dur- 
ing its perusal she was suddenly inter- 
rupted by the entrance of the other ex- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


alted personage from whom especially 
it was her wish to conceal it. After a 
hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it 
in a drawer, she was forced to place it, 
open as it was, upon a table. The ad- 
dress, however, was uppermost, and, the 
contents thus unexposed, the letter es- 
caped notice. At this juncture enters 
the Minister D His lynx eye im- 
mediately perceives the paper, recog- 
nizes the handwriting of the address, 
observes the confusion of the person- 
age addressed, and fathoms her secret. 
After some business transactions, hur- 
ried through in his ordinary manner, he 
produces a letter somewhat similar to 
the one in question, opens it, pretends to 
read it, and then places it in close jux- 
taposition to the other. Again he con- 
verses, for some fifteen minutes, upon 
the public affairs. At length, in taking 
leave, he takes also from the table the 
letter to which he had no claim. Its 
rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared 
not call attention to the act, in the pres- 
ence of the third personage who stood 
at her elbow. The ministev decamped; 
leaving his own letter—one of no im- 
portance—upon the table.” 

“Here, then,” said Dupin to me, “you 
have precisely what you demand to 
make the ascendancy complete—the 
robber’s knowledge of the loser’s knowl- 
edge of the robber.” 

“Ves,” replied the Prefect; “and the 
power thus attained has, for some 
months past, been wielded, for political 
purposes, to a very dangerous extent. 
The personage robbed is more thor- 
oughly convinced, every day, of the 
necessity of reclaiming her letter. But 
this, of course; cannot be done openly. 
In fine, driven to despair, she has come 
mitted the matter to me.” 





THE PURLOINED LETTER 


“Than whom,” said Dupin, amid a 
perfect whirlwind of smoke, “no more 
sagacious agent could, I suppose, be 
desired, or even imagined.” 

“Vou flatter me,’ replied the Pre- 
fect; ‘but it is possible that some such 
opinion may have been entertained.” 

“Tt is clear,” said I, ‘“‘as you observe, 
that the letter is still in the possession 
of the minister; since it is this posses- 
sion, and not any employment of the 
letter, which bestows the power. With 
the employment the power departs.” 

“True,” said G.; “and upon this con- 
viction I proceeded. My first care was 
to make thorough search of the minis- 
ter’s hotel; and here my chief embar- 
rassment lay in the necessity of search- 
ing without his knowledge. Beyond all 
things, I have been warned of the dan- 
ger which would result from giving him 
reason to. suspect our design.” 

“But,” said I, “you are quite au fait 
in these investigations. The Parisian 
police have done this thing often be- 
fore.” 

“Oh, yes; and for this reason I did 
not despair. The habits of the minister 
gave me, too, a great advantage. He is 
frequently absent from home all night. 
His servants are by no means numerous. 
They sleep at a distance from their mas- 
ter’s apartment, and, being chiefly 
Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I 
have keys, as you know, with which I 
can open any chamber or cabinet in 
Paris. For three months a night has 
not passed, during the greater part of 
which I have not been engaged, person- 
ally, in ransacking the D Hotel. 
My honor is interested, and, to men- 
tion a great secret, the reward is enor- 
mous. So I did not abandon the search 
until I had become fully satisfied that 





141 


the thief is a more astute man than my- 
self. I fancy that I have investigated 
every nook and corner of the premises 
in which it is possible that the paper 
can be concealed.” 

“But is it not possible,’ I suggested, 
“that although the letter may be in pos- 
session of the minister, as it unques- 
tionably is, he may have concealed it 
elsewhere than upon his own premises?” 

“This is barely possible,’ said Dupin. 
“The present peculiar condition of af- 
fairs at court, and especially of those 
intrigues in which D is known to 
be involved, would render the instant 
availability of the document—its sus- 
ceptibility of being produced at a mo- 
ment’s notice—a point of nearly equal 
importance with its possession.” 

“Its susceptibility of being pro- 
duced?” said I. 

“That is to say, of being destroyed,” 
said Dupin. 

“True,’ I observed; “the paper is 
clearly then upon the premises. As for 
its being upon the person of the min- 
ister, we may consider that as out of 
the question.” 

“Entirely,” said the Prefect. “He 
has been twice waylaid, as if by foot- 
pads, and his person rigidly searched 
under my own inspection.” 

“You might have spared yourself this 
trouble,” said Dupin. ‘“D , I pre- 
sume, is not altogether a fool, and, if 
not, must have anticipated these way- 
layings, as a matter of course.” 

“Not altogether a fool,” said G., “but 
then he is a poet, which I take to be 
only one remove from a fool.” 

“True,” said Dupin, after a long and 
thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, 
“although I have been guilty of certain 
doggerel myself,” 








142 


“Suppose you detail,” said I, “the 
particulars of your search.” 

“Why, the fact is, we took our time, 
and we searched: everywhere. I have 
had long experience in these affairs. I 
took the entire building, room by room; 
devoting the nights of a whole week to 
each. We examined, first, the furniture 
of each apartment. We opened every 
possible drawer; and I presume you 
know that, to a properly trained police- 
agent, such a thing as a ‘secret’. drawer 
is impossible. Any man is a dolt who 
permits a ‘secret’ drawer to escape him 
in a search of this kind. The thing is 
so plain. There is a certain amount of 
bulk—of space—to be accounted for in 
every cabinet. Then we have accurate 
rules. The fiftieth part of a line could 
not escape us. After the cabinets we 
took the chairs. The cushions we 
probed with the fine long needles you 
have seen me employ. From the tables 
we removed the tops.” 

“Why so?” 

“Sometimes the top of a table, or 
other similarly arranged piece of fur- 
niture, is removed by the person wish- 
ing to conceal an article; then the leg 
is excavated, the article deposited with- 
in the cavity, and the top replaced. The 
bottoms and tops of bedposts are em- 
ployed in the same way.” 

“But could not the cavity be detected 
by sounding?” I asked. 

“By no means, if, when the article 
is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cot- 
ton be placed around it. Besides, in 
our case, we were obliged to proceed 
without noise.” 

“But you could not have removed— 
you could not have taken to pieces all 
articles of furniture in which it would 
have been possible to make a devosit in 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the manner you mention. A letter may 
be compressed into a thin spiral roll, 
not differing much in shape or bulk from 
a large knitting-needle, and in this form 
it might be inserted into the rung of a 
chair, for example. You did not take to 
pieces all the chairs?” 

“Certainly not; but we did better— 
we examined the rungs of every chair 
in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings 
of every description of furniture, by the 
aid of a most powerful microscope. Had 
there been any traces of recent distur- 
bance we should not have failed to de- 
tect it instantly. A single grain of gim- 
let-dust, for example, would have been 
as obvious as an apple. Any disorder 
in the gluing—any unusual gaping in 
the joints—would have sufficed to in- 
sure detection.” 

“T presume you looked to the mirrors, 
between the boards and the plates, and 
you probed the beds and the _ bed- 
clothes, as well as the curtains and car- 
pets.” 

“That of course; and when we had 
absolutely completed every particle of 
the furniture in this way, then we ex- 
amined the house itself. We divided 
its entire surface into compartments, 
which we numbered, so that none might 
be missed; then we scrutinized each in- 
dividual square inch throughout the 
premises, including the two houses im- 
mediately adjoining, with the micro- 
scope, as before.” 

“The two houses adjoining!” I ex- 
claimed; “‘you must have had a great 
deal of trouble.” 

“We had; but the reward offered is 
prodigious.” ; 

“You include the grounds about the 
houses?” 

“All the grounds are paved with brick. 


THE PURLOINED LETTER 


They gave us comparatively little 
trouble. We examined the moss be- 
tween the bricks, and found it undis- 
turbed.”’ 

“You looked among D "Ss papers, 
of course, and into the books of the 
library?” 

“Certainly; we opened every pack- 
age and parcel; we not only opened 
every book, but we turned over every 
leaf in each volume, not contenting our- 
selves with a mere shake, according to 
the fashion of some of our police offi- 
cers. We also measured the _ thick- 
ness of every book-cover, with the most 
accurate admeasurement, and applied 
to each the most jealous scrutiny of the 
microscope. Had any of the bindings 
been recently meddled with, it would 
have been utterly impossible that the 
fact should have escaped observation. 
Some five or six volumes, just from the 
hands of the binder, we carefully 
probed, longitudinally, with the 
needles.” 

“¥'ou explored the floors beneath the 
carpets?” 

“Beyond doubt. We removed every 
carpet, and examined the boards with 
the microscope.” 

“And the paper on the walls?” 

Ves,” 

“Vou looked into the cellars?” 

“We did.” 

“Then,” I said, “you have been mak- 
ing a miscalculation, and the letter is 
aot upon the premises, as you suppose.” 

“J fear you are right there,” said the 
Prefect. “And now, Dupin, what would 
you advise me to do?” 

“To make a thorough research of the 
premises.” 

“That is absolutely needless,” replied 
G——. “I am not more sure that 7 





y] 


143 


breathe than I am that the letter is not 
at the hotel.” 

“T have no better advice to give you,” 
said Dupin. “You have, of course, an 
accurate description of the letter?” 

“Oh, yes!”—And here the Prefect, 
producing a memorandum-book, pro, 
ceeded to read aloud a minute account 
of the internal, and especially of the 
external appearance of the missing doc- 
ument. Soon after finishing the perusal 
of this description, he took his depar- 
ture, more entirely depressed in spirits 
than I had ever known the good gentle- 
man before. 

In about a month afterward he paid 
us another visit, and found us occupied 
very nearly as before. He took a pipe 
and a chair and entered into some or- 
dinary conversation. At length I said: 

“Well, but G , what of the pur- 
loined letter? I presume you have at 
last made up your mind that there is no 
such thing as over-reaching the Min- 
ister?” 

“Confound him, say I—yes; I made 
the re-examination, however, as Dupin 
suggested—but it was all labor lost, as 
I knew it would be.” 

“How much was the reward offered, 
did you say?” asked Dupin. 

“Why, a very great deal—a very lib- 
eral reward—I don’t like to say how 
much, precisely; but one thing I will 
say, that I wouldn’t mind giving my in- 
dividual check for fifty thousand francs 
to any one who could obtain me that 
letter. The fact is, it is becoming of 
more and more importance every day; 
and the reward has been lately doubled. 
If it were trebled, however, I could do 
no more than I have done.” 

“Why, yes,” said Dupin, drawlingly 
between the whiffs of his meerschaum 





144 


“T really—think, G——, you have not 
exerted yourself—to the utmost in this 
matter. You might—do a little more, I 
think, eh?” 

“Howr—in what way?” 

“Why—puff, puff—you might—puff, 
puff—employ counsel in the matter, eh? 
—puff, puff, puff. Do you remember 
the story they tell of Abernethy?” 

“No; hang Abernethy!” 

“To be sure! hang him and welcome. 
But, once upon a time, a certain rich 
miser conceived the design of spong- 
ing upon this Abernethy for a medical 
opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, 
an ordinary conversation in a private 
company, he insinuated his case to the 
physician, as that of an imaginary in- 
dividual. 

‘““‘We will suppose,’ said the miser, 
‘that his symptoms are such and such; 
now, doctor, what would you have di- 
rected him to take?” 

““Take!’ said Abernethy, ‘why, take 
advice, to be sure.’ ” 

“But,” said the Prefect, a little dis- 
composed, “J am perfectly willing to 
take advice, and to pay for it. I 
would really give fifty thousand francs 
to any one who would aid me in the 
matter.” 

“In that case,” replied Dupin, open- 
ing a drawer, and producing a check- 
book, “you may as well fill me up a 
check for the amount mentioned. When 
you have signed it, I will hand you the 
letters 

I was astounded. The Prefect ap- 
peared absolutely thunder-stricken. For 
some minutes he remained speechless 
and motionless, looking incredulously 
at my friend with open mouth, and 
eyes that seemed starting from their 
sockets; then apparently recovering 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


himself in some measure, he seized a 
pen, and after several pauses and va- 
cant stares, finally filled up and signed 
a check for fifty thousand francs, and 
handed it across the table to Dupin. 
The latter examined it carefully and 
deposited it in his pocket-book; then, 
unlocking an escritoire, took thence a 
letter and gave it to the Prefect. This 
functionary grasped it in a_ perfect 
agony of joy, opened it with a trem- 
bling hand, cast a rapid glance at its 
contents, and then scrambling and strug- 
gling to the door, rushed at length un- 
ceremoniously from the room and from 
the house, without having uttered a sy!- 
lable since Dupin had requested him to 
fill up the check. 

When he had gone, my friend entered 
into some explanations. 

“The Parisian police,” he said, “are 
exceedingly able in their way. They are 
persevering, ingenious, cunning, and 
thoroughly versed in the knowledge 
which their duties seem chiefly to de- 
mand. Thus, when G detailed to 
us his mode of searching the premises 
at the Hotel D , 1 felt entire confi- 
dence in his having made a satisfactory 
investigation—so far as his labors ex: 
tended.” 

“So far as his labors extended?” said I. 

“Ves,” said Dupin. ‘The measures 
adopted were not only the best of their 
kind, but carried out to absolute per- 
fection. Had the letter been deposited 
within the range of their search, these 
fellows would, beyond a question, have 
found it.” 

I merely laughed—but he seemed 
quite serious in all that he said. 

“The measures then,’ he continued, 
“were good in their kind, and well ex- 








THE PURLOINED LETTER 


ecuted; their defect lay in their being 
inapplicable to the case and to the 
man. A certain set of highly ingenious 
resources are, with the Prefect, a sort 
of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly 
adapts his designs. But he perpetually 
errs by being too deep or too shallow 
for the matter in hand; and many a 
school-boy is a better reasoner than he. 
I knew one about eight years of age, 
whose success at guessing in the game of 
‘even and odd’ attracted universal ad- 
miration. This game is simple, and is 
played with marbles. One player holds 
in his hand a number of these toys, 
and demands of another whether that 
number 1s even or odd. If the guess is 
right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, 
he loses one. The boy to whom I al- 
lude won all the marbles of the school. 
Of course he had some principle of 
guessing; and this lay in mere observa- 
tion and admeasurement of the astute- 
ness of his opponents. For example. 
an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, 
holding up his closed hand, asks, ‘Are 
they even or odd?’ Our school-boy re- 
plies, ‘Odd,’ and loses; but upon the 
second trial he wins, for he then says 
to himself: ‘The simpleton had them 
even upon the first trial, and his amount 
of cunning is just sufficient to make 
him have them odd upon the second; I 
will therefore guess odd’;—he guesses 
odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton 
a degree above the first, he would have 
reasoned thus: ‘This fellow finds that 
in the first instance I guessed odd, and, 
in the second, he will propose to him- 
self, upon the first impulse, a simple 
variation from even to odd, as did the 
first simpleton; but then a_ second 
thought will suggest that this is too 
simple a variation, and finally he will 


145 


decide upon putting it even as before. 
I will therefore guess even’ ;—he guesses 
even, and wins. Now this mode of rea- 
soning in the school-boy, whom his fel- 
lows termed ‘lucky,—what, in its last 
analysis, is it?” 

“Tt is merely,” I said, “an identifi- 
cation of the reasoner’s intellect with 
that of his opponent.” 

“Tt is,’ said Dupin; “and, upon in- 
quiring of the boy by what means he 
effected the thorough identification in 
which his success consisted, I received 
answer as follows: ‘When I wish to 
find out how wise, or how stupid, or 
how good, or how wicked is any one, 
or what are his thoughts at the moment, 
I fashion the expression of my face, as 
accurately as possible, in accordance 
with the expression of his, and then 
wait to see what thoughts or sentiments 
arise in my mind or heart, as if to 
match or correspond with the expres- 
sion. This response of the school-boy 
lies at the bottom of all the spurious 
profundity which has been attributed 
to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to 
Machiavelli, and to Campanella.” 

“And the identification,’ I said, “of 
the reasoner’s intellect with that of his 
opponent, depends, if I understand you 
aright, upon the accuracy with which the 
opponent’s intellect is admeasured.” 

“For its practical value it depends 
upon this,” replied Dupin; “and the 
Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, 
first by default of this identification, 
and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or 
rather through non-admeasurement, of 
the intellect with which they are en- 
gaged. They consider only their own 
ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching 
for anything hidden advert only to the 
modes in which they would have hidden 


146 


it. They are right in this much—that 
their own ingenuity is a faithful rep- 
resentative of that of the mass; but 
when the cunning of the individual 
felon is diverse in character from their 
own, the felon foils them, of course. 
This always happens when it is above 
their own, and very usually when it is 
below. They have no variation of 
principle in their investigations; at best, 
when urged by some unusual emergency 
—by some extraordinary reward—they 
extend or exaggerate their old modes of 
practice, without touching their prin- 
ciples. What, for example, in this case 
of D , has been done to vary the 
principle of action? What is all this 
boring, and probing, and sounding, and 
' scrutinizing with the microscope, and 
dividing the surface of the building into 
registered square inches—what is it all 
but an exaggeration of the application 
of the one principle or set of principles 
of search, which are based upon the 





One set of notions regarding human in-: 


zenuity, to which the Prefect, in tlie 
long routine of his duty, has been ac- 
customed? Do you not see he has taken 
it for granted that al] men proceed to 
conceal a letter, not exactly in a gim- 
let-hole bored in a chair-leg, but, at 
least, in some out-of-the-way hole or 
corner suggested by the same tenor of 
thought which would urge a man to 
secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored 
in a chair-leg? And do you not see 
also that such recherches nooks for con- 
cealment are adapted only for ordinary 
occasions, and would be adopted only by 
ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of 
concealment, a disposal of the article 
concealed—a disposal of it in this 
recherche manner,—is in the very first 
instance, presumable and presumed; and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thus its discovery depends, not at all 
upon the acumen, but altogether upon 
the mere care, patience, and determina- 
tion of the seekers; and where the case 
is of importance—or, what amounts to 
the same thing in the political eyes, 
when the reward is of magnitude,—the 
qualities in question have never been 
known to fail. You will now under- 
stand what I meant in suggesting that, 
had the purloined letter been hidden 
anywhere within the limits of the Pre- 
fect’s examination—in other words, 
had the principle of its concealment 
been comprehended within the prin- 
ciples of the Prefect—its discovery 
would have been a matter altogether 
beyond question. This functionary, 
however, has been thoroughly mystified, 
and the remote source of his defeat lies 
in the supposition that the Minister is 
a fool, because he has acquired renown 
as a poet. All fools are poets; this the 
Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty 
of a non distributio medii in thence in- 
ferring that all poets are fools.” 

“But is this really the poet?” I asked. 
“There are two brothers, I know; and 
both have attained reputation in letters. 
The minister I believe has written 
learnedly on the Differential Calculus. 
He is a mathematician, and no poet.” 

“You are mistaken; I know him well; 
he is both. As poet and mathematician, 
he would reason well; as mere mathe- 
matician, he could not have reasoned at 
all, and thus would have been at the 
mercy of the Prefect.” 

“You surprise me,” I said, “by these 
opinions, which have been contradicted 
by the voice of the world. You do not 
mean to set at naught the well-digested 
idea of centuries. The mathematical? 


THE PURLOINED LETTER 


reason has long been regarded as the 
reason par excellence.” 

“Tl y a parier,” replied Dupin, 
quoting from Chamfort, “‘que toute 
idee publique, toute convention recue, 
est une sottise, car elle a convenue au 
plus grand nombre” The mathema- 
ticlans, I grant you, have done their 
best to promulgate the popular error to 
which you allude, and which is none the 
less an error for its promulgation as 
truth. With an art worthy a better 
cause, for example, they have insinu- 
ated the term ‘analysis’ into application 
to algebra. The French are the orig- 
inators of this particular deception; but 
if a term is of any importance—if words 
derive any value from applicability— 
then ‘analysis’ conveys ‘algebra’ about 
as much as, in Latin ‘ambitus’ implies 
‘ambition,’ religio’ ‘religion,’ or ‘ho- 
mines honest’ a set of honorable men.” 

“You have a quarrel on hand, I see,” 
said I, “with some of the algebraists of 
Paris; but proceed.” 

“I dispute the availability, and thus 
the value, of that reason which is cui- 
tivated in any especial form other than 
the abstractly logical. I dispute, in 
particular, the reason educed by math- 
ematical study. The mathematics are 
the science of form and quantity; math- 
ematical reasoning is merely logic ap- 
plied to observation upon form and 
quantity. The great error lies in sup- 
posing that even the truths of what is 
called pure algebra are abstract or gen- 
eral truths. And this error is so egre- 
gious that I am confounded at the uni- 
versality with which it has been re- 
ceived. Mathematical axioms are not 
axiom; of general truth. What is true 
of relation—of form and quantity—is 
often grossly false in regard to morals, 


147 


for example. In this latter science it 
is very usually wntrue that the aggre- 
gated parts are equal to the whole. In 
chemistry also the axiom fails. In the 
consideration of motive it fails; for two: 
motives, each of a given value, have not 
necessarily, a value when united, equal 
to the sum of their values apart. There 
are numerous other mathematical 
truths which are only truths within the 
limits of relation. But: the mathema- 
tician argues from his finite truths, 
through habit, as if they were of an 
absolutely general applicability—as the 


. world indeed imagines them to be. 


Bryant, in his very learned ‘Mythology,’ 
mentions an analogous source of error, 
when he says that ‘although the pagan 
fables are not believed, yet we forget 
ourselves continually, and make infer- 
ences from them as existing realities.’ 
With the algebraists, however, who are 
pagans themselves, the ‘pagan fables’ 
are believed, and the inferences are 
made, not so much through lapse of 
memory as through an unaccountable 
addling of the brains. In short, I never 
yet encountered the mere mathematician 
who could be trusted out of equal roots,’ 
or one who did not clandestinely hold it 
as a point of his faith that «° + px was 
absolutely and unconditionally equal 
to g. Say to one of these gentlemen, 
by way of experiment, if you please, 
that you believe occasions may occur 
where x + px is not altogether equal to 
gq, and, having made him understand 
what you mean, get out of his reach as 
speedily as convenient, for, beyond 
doubt, he will endeavor to knock you 
down. 

“I mean to say,” continued Dupin, 
while I merely laughed at his last ob- 
servations, “that if the minister had 


148 


been no more than a mathematician, 
the Prefect would have been under no 
necessity of giving me this check. I 
knew him, however, as both mathema- 
ticlan and poet, and my measures were 
adapted to his capacity, with reference 
to the circumstances by which he was 
surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, 
too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a 
man, I considered, could not fail to be 
aware of the ordinary political modes of 
action. He could not have failed to an- 
ticipate—and events have proved that 
he did not fail to anticipate—the way- 


layings to which he was subjected. He. 


must have foreseen, I reflected, the se- 
cret investigations of his premises. His 
frequent absences from home at night, 
which were hailed by the Prefect as cer- 
tain aids to his success, I regarded only 
as ruses, to afford opportunity for thor- 
ough search to the police, and thus the 
sooner to impress them with the con- 
viction to which G , in fact, did 
finally arrive—the conviction that the 
letter was not upon the premises. [I 
felt, also, that the whole train of 
thought, which I was at some pains in 
detailing to you just now, concerning 
the invariable principle of political ac- 
tion in searches for articles concealed— 
I felt that this whole train of thought 
would necessarily pass through the mind 
of the minister. It would imperatively 
lead him to despise all the ordinary 
nooks of concealment. He could not, I 
reflected, be so weak as not to see that 
the most intricate and remote recess of 
his hotel would be as open as his com- 
monest closets to the eyes, to the 
probes, to the gimlets, and to the mi- 
croscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, 
that he would be driven, as a matter of 
course, to simplicity. if not deliberately 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


induced to it as a matter of choice. 
You will remember, perhaps, how des- 
perately the Prefect laughed when I 
suggested, upon our first interview, that 
it was just possible this mystery 
troubled him so much on account of its 
being so very self-evident.” 

“Ves,” said I, “I remember his merri- 
ment well. I really thought he would 
have fallen into convulsions.” 

“The material world,” continued Du- 
pin, “abounds with very strict analo- 
gies to the immaterial; and thus some 
color of truth has been given to the rhe- 
torical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, 
may be made to strengthen an argu- 
ment as well as to embellish a descrip- 
tion. The principle of the vis inertie, 
for example, seems to be identical in 
physics and metaphysics. It is not 
more true in the former, that a large 
body is with more difficulty set in mo- 
tion than a smaller one, and that its 
subsequent momentum is commensu- 
rate with this difficulty, than it is, in the 
latter, that intellects of the vaster ca- 
pacity, while more forcible, more con- 
stant, and more eventful in their move- 
ments than those of inferior grade, are 
yet the less readily moved, and more 
embarrassed, and full of hesitation in 
the first few steps of their progress. 
Again: have you ever noticed which of 
the street signs, over the shop doors, 
are the most attractive of attention?” 

“I have never given the matter a 
thought,” I said. 

“There is a game of puzzles,” he re- 
sumed, “which is played upon a map. 
One party playing requires another to 
find a given word—the name of town, 
river, state, or empire—any word, in 
short, upon the motley and perplexed 
surface of the chart. A novice in the 


THE PURLOINED LETTER 


game generally seeks to embarrass his 
opponents by giving them the most 
minutely lettered names; but the adept 
selects such words as stretch, in large 
characters, from one end of the chart 
to the other. These, like the over- 
largely lettered signs and placards of the 
street, escape observation by dint of 
being excessively obvious; and here the 
physical oversight is precisely analo- 
gous with the moral inapprehension by 
which the intellect suffers to pass un- 
noticed those considerations which are 
too obtrusively and too palpably self- 
evident. But this is a point, it appears, 
somewhat above or beneath the under- 
standing of the Prefect. He never once 
thought it probable, or possible, that 
the minister had deposited the letter 
immediately beneath the nose of the 
whole world by way of best preventing 
any portion of that world from perceiv- 
ing it. 

“But the more I reflected upon the 
daring, dashing, and discriminating in- 
genuity of D ; upon the fact that 
the document must always have been 
at hand, if he intended to use it to 
good purpose; and upon the decisive 
evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that 
it was not hidden within the limits of 
that dignitary’s ordinary search—the 
more satisfied I became that, to con- 
ceal this letter, the minister had re- 
sorted to the comprehensive and sa- 
gacious expedient of not attempting to 
conceal it at all. 

“Full of these ideas, I prepared my- 
self with a pair of green spectacles, and 
called one fine morning quite by acci- 
dent, at the Ministerial hotel. I found 
D at home, yawning, lounging, and 
dawdling, as usual, and pretending to 
be in the last extremity of exmzi. He 








149 


is, perhaps, the most really energetic 
human being now alive—but that is only 
when nobody sees him, 

“To be even with him, I complained 
of my weak eyes, and lamented the 
necessity of the spectacles, under cover 
of which I cautiously and thoroughly 
surveyed the whole apartment, while 
seemingly intent only upon the conver- 
sation of my host. 

“T paid especial attention to a large 
writing-table near which he sat, and 
upon which lay confusedly, some mis- 
cellaneous letters and other papers, with 
one or two musical instruments and a 
few books. Here, however, after a long 
and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw 
nothing to excite particular suspicion. 

“At length my eyes, in going the cir- 
cuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery 
filigree cardrack of pasteboard, that 
hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, 
from a little brass knob just beneath the 
middle of the mantel-piece. In this 
rack, which had three or four compart~ 
ments; were five or six visiting cards 
and a solitary letter. This last * was 
much soiled and crumpled. It was torn 
nearly in two, across the middle—as if 
a design, in the first instance, to tear 
it entirely up as worthless, had been 
altered or stayed. in the second. It had 
a large black seal, bearing the D—— 
cipher very conspicuously, and was ad- 
dressed, in a diminutive female hand. 
to D , the minister, himself. It was 
thrust carelessly, and even, as_ it 
seemed, contemptuously, into one of the 
uppermost divisions of the rack. 

“No sooner had I glanced at this 
jetter than I concluded it to be that of 
which I was in search. To be sure, it 
was, to all appearance, radically differ- 
nt from the one of which the Prefect 





150 


had read us so minute a description. 
Here the seal was large and black, with 
the D cipher; there it was small 
and red, with the ducal arms of the 
Ss family. Here, the address, to 
the minister, was diminutive and fem- 
inine; there the superscription, to a cer- 
tain royal personage, was markedly bold 
and decided; the size alone formed a 
point of correspondence. But, then, the 
radicalness of these differences, which 
was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and 
torn condition of the paper, so incon- 
sistent with the true methodical habits 
of D , and so suggestive of a design 
to delude the beholder into an idea of 
the worthlessness of the document ;— 
these things, together with the hyper- 
obtrusive situation of this document, 
full in the view of every visitor, and 
thus exactly in accordance with the 
conclusions to which I had previously 
arrived; these things, I say, were 
strongly corroborative of suspicion, in 
one who came with the intention to sus- 
pect. 

“J protracted my visit as long as pos- 
sible, and, while I maintained a most 
animated discussion with the minister, 
upon a topic which I knew well had 
never failed to interest and excite him, 
I kept my attention really riveted upon 
the letter. In this examination, I com- 
mitted to memory its external appear- 
ance and arrangement in the rack; and 
also fell, at length, upon a discovery 
which set at rest whatever trivial doubt 
I might have entertained. In scrutiniz- 
ing the edges of the paper, I observed 
them to be more chafed than seemed 
necessary. They presented the broken 
appearance which is manifested when a 
stiff paper, having been once folded and 
pressed with a folder, is refolded in a 











WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


reversed direction, in the same creases 
or edges which had formed the original 
fold. This discovery was sufficient. It 
was clear to me that the letter had 
been turned as a glove, inside out, re- 
directed and resealed. I bade the min- 
ister good-morning, and took my depar- 
ture at once, leaving a gold snuff-box 
upon the table. 

“The next morning I called for the 
snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eag- 
erly, the conversation of the preceding 
day. While thus engaged, however, a 
loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard 
immediately beneath the windows of 
the hotel, and was succeeded by a series 
of fearful screams, and the shoutings 
of a terrified mob. D rushed to a 
casement, threw it open, and looked 
out. In the meantime I stepped to the 
card-rack, took the letter, put it In my 
pocket, and replaced it by a fac-simile, 
(so far as regards externals) which I 
had carefully prepared at my lodgings 
—imitating the D cipher, very 
readily, by means of a seal formed of 
bread. 

“The disturbance in the street had 
been occasioned by the frantic behavior 
of a man with a musket. He had fired 
it among a crowd of women and chil- 
dren. It proved, however, to have been 
without ball, and the fellow was suf- 
fered to go his way as a lunatic or a 
drunkard. When he had gone, D 
came from the window, whither I had 
followed him immediately upon secur- 
ing the object in view. Soon afterward 
I bade him farewell. The pretended 
lunatic was a man in my own pay.” 

“But what purpose had you,” I 
asked, “in replacing the letter by a fac- 
simile? Would it not have been better 























THE OBLONG BOX 


at the first visit, to have seized it open- 
ly, and departed?” 

“D——,” replied Dupin, “is a des- 
perate man, and a man of nerve. His 
hotel, too, is not without attendants de- 
voted to his interests. Had I made the 
wild attempt you suggest, I might never 
have left the Ministerial presence alive. 
The good people of Paris might have 
heard of me no more. But I had an 
object apart from these considerations. 
You know my political prepossessions. 
- In this matter, I act as a partisan of 
_ the lady concerned. For eighteen 
months the minister has had her in his 
power. She has now him in hers— 
since, being unaware that the letter is 
not in his possession, he will proceed 
with his exactions as if it was. Thus 
will he inevitably commit himself, at 
once, to his political destruction. His 
downfall, too, will not be more precip- 
itate than awkward. It is all very well 
to talk about the facilis descensus 
Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as 
Catalani said of singing, it is far more 
easy to get up than to come down. In 
the present instance I have no sym- 
pathy—at least no pity—for him who 


151 


descends. He is that monstrum hor- 
rendum, an unprincipled man of genius. 
I confess, however, that I should like 
very well to know the precise character 
of his thoughts, when, being defied by 
her whom the Prefect terms ‘a certain 
personage, he is reduced to opening the 
letter which I left for him in the card 
rack.” 

“How? did you put any thing partic- 
ular in it?” 

“Why—it did not seem altogether 
right to leave the interior blank—that 
would have been insulting. D } ab 
Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which 
I told him, quite good-humoredly, that 
I should remember. So, as I knew he 
would feel some curiosity in regard to 
the identity of the person who had out- 
witted him, I thought it a pity not to 
give him a clew. He is well acquainted 
with my MS., and I just copied into the 
middle of the blank sheet the words— 

‘_— —Un dessein si funeste, 

S’ il n’ est digne d’ Atree, est digne 
de Thyeste.’ 

They are to be found in Crebillon’s 
‘Atree.’ ” 





The Oblong box 


(First published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, September, 1844) 


SomE years ago, I engaged passage 
from Charleston, S. C., to the city of 
New York, in the fine packet-ship “In- 
dependence,” Captain Hardy. We were 
to sail on the fifteenth of the month 
(June), weather permitting; and on 
the fourteenth, I went on board to 
arrange some matters in my state-room. 


I found that we were to have a great 
many passengers, including a more than 
usual number of ladies. On the list 
were several of my acquaintances; and 
among other names, I was rejoiced to 
see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a 
young artist, for whom I entertained 
feelings of warm friendship. He had 


152 


been with me a fellow-student at C—— 
University, where we were very much 
together. He had the ordinary tem- 
perament of genius, and was a com- 
pound of misanthropy, sensibility, and 
‘enthusiasm. To these qualities he 
united the warmest and truest heart 
which ever beat in a human bosom. 

I observed that his name was carded 
upon three state-rooms: and, upon 
again referring to the list of passengers, 
I found that he had engaged passage 
for himself, wife, and two sisters— 
his own. The state-rooms were suffi- 
ciently roomy, and each had two berths, 
one above the other. These berths, 
to be sure, were so exceedingly narrow 
as to be insufficient for more than one 
person; still, I could not comprehend 
why there were three state-rooms for 
these four persons. I was, just at that 
epoch, in one of those moody frames 
of mind which make a man abnormally 
inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, 
with shame, that I busied myself in a 
variety of ill-bred and preposterous 
conjectures about this matter of the 
supernumerary state-room. It was no 
business of mine, to be sure; but with 
none the less pertinacity did I occupy 
myself in attempts to resolve the 
enigma. At last I reached a conclu- 
sion which wrought in me great wonder 
why I had not arrived at it before. 
“Tt is a servant, of course,” I said; 
“what a fool I. am, not sooner to 
have thought of so obvious a solution!” 
And then I again repaired to the list— 
but here I saw distinctly that uo serv- 
ant was to come with the party: al- 
though, in fact, it had been the original 
design to bring one—for the words 
“and servant” had been first written 
and then overscored. “Oh, extra bag- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


gage, to be sure,” I now said to myself 
—‘“something he wishes not to be put 
in the hold—something to be kept 
under his own eye—ah, I have it—a 
painting or so—and this is what he has 
been bargaining about with Nicolino, 
the Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied 
me, and I dismissed my curiosity for 
the nonce. 

Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, 
and most amiable and clever girls they 
were. His wife he had newly married, 
and I had never yet seen her. He had 
often talked about her in my pres- 
ence, however, and in his usual style 
of enthusiasm. He described her as of 
surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplish- 
ment. I was, therefore, quite anxious 
to make her acquaintance. 

On the day in which I visited the 
ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt and party 
were also to visit it—so the captain 
informed me—and I waited on board 
an hour longer than I had designed, in 
hope of being presented to the bride; 
but then an apology came. “Mrs. W. 
was a little indisposed, and would de- 
cline coming on board until to-morrow, 
at the hour of sailing.” 

The morrow having arrived, I was 
going from my hotel to the wharf, 
when Captain Hardy met me and said - 
that, “owing to circumstances” (a 
stupid but convenient phrase), “he 
rather thought the ‘Independence’ 
would not sail for a day or two, and 
that when all was ready, he would send 
up and let me know.” This I thought 
strange, for there was a stiff southerly 
breeze; but as “the circumstances” 
were not forthcoming, although I 
pumped for them with much persever- 
ance, I had nothing to do but to return 





THE OBLONG BOX 


home and digest my impatience at 
leisure. 

I did not receive the expected mes- 
sage from the captain for nearly a 
week. It came at length, however, and 
I immediately went on board. The 
ship was crowded with passengers, and 
every thing was in the bustle attendant 
upon making sail. Wyatt’s party ar- 
rived in about ten minutes after my- 
self. There were the two sisters, the 
bride, and the artist—the latter in 
one of his customary fits of moody 
misanthropy. I was too well used to 
these, however, to pay them any spe- 
cial attention. He did not even intro- 
duce me to his wife—this courtesy 
devolving, per force, upon his sister 
Marian—a very sweet and intelligent 
girl, who, in a few hurried words, made 
us acquainted. 

Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; 
and when she raised her veil, in ac- 
knowledging my bow, I confess that I 
was very profoundly astonished. I 
should have been much more so, how- 
ever, had not long experience advised 
me not to trust, with too implicit a 
reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions 
of my friend, the artist, when indulg- 
ing in comments upon the loveliness of 
woman. When beauty was the theme, 
I well knew with what facility he 
soared into the regions of the purely 
ideal. | 

The truth is, I could not help regard- 
ing Mrs. Wyatt as a decidedly plain- 
looking woman. If not positively ugly, 
she was not, I think, very far from it. 
She was dressed, however, in exquisite 
'taste—and then I had no doubt that 
' she had captivated my friend’s heart 
by the more enduring graces of the 
intellect and soul. She said very few 


15) 


words, and passed at once into her 
state-room with Mr. W. 

My old inquisitiveness now returned. 
There was no servant—that was a set- 
tled point. I looked, therefore, for 
the extra baggage. After some delay, 
a cart arrived at the wharf, with an 
oblong pine box, which was every thing 
that seemed to be expected. Imme- 
diately upon its arrival we made sail, 
and in a short time were safely over 
the bar and standing out to sea. 

The box in question was, as I say, 
oblong. It was about six feet in 
length by two and a half in breadth— 
I observed it attentively, and like to 
be precise. Now this shape was pe- 
culiar; and no sooner had I seen it, 
than I took credit to myself for the 
accuracy of my _ guessing. JI had 
reached the conclusion, it will be re- 
membered, that the extra baggage of 
my friend, the artist, would prove to 
be pictures, or at least a picture; for 
I knew he had been for several weeks 
in conference with Nicolino—and now 
here was a box, which, from its shape, 
could possibly contain nothing in the 
world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last 
Supper;” and a copy of this very “Last 
Supper,’ done by Rubini the younger, 
at Florence, I had known, for some 
time, to be in the possession of Nico- 
lino. This point, therefore, I consid- 
ered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled 
excessively when I thought of my acu: 
men. It was the first time I had ever 
known Wyatt to keep from me any 
of his artistical secrets; but here he 
evidently intended to steal a march 
upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to 
New York, under my very nose; ex- 
pecting me to know nothing of the 


154 


matter. I resolved to quiz him well, 
now and hereafter. 

One thing, however, annoyed me not 
a little. The box did not go into the 
extra state-room. It was deposited in 
Wyatt’s own; and there, too, it re- 
mained, occupying very nearly the 
whole of the floor—no doubt to the 
exceeding discomfort of the artist and 
his wife—this the more especially as 
the tar or paint with which it was let- 
tered in sprawling capitals, emitted a 
strong, disagreeable, and, to my fancy, 
a peculiarly disgusting odor. On the 
lid were painted the words—“Mrs. 
Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New York. 
Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This 
side up. To be handled with care.” 

Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide 
Curtis, of Albany, was the artist’s wife’s 
mother—but then I looked upon the 
whole address as a mystification, in- 
tended especially for myself. J made 
up my mind, of course, that the box 
and contents would never get farther 
north than the studio of my misan- 
thropic friend, in Chambers Street, 
New York. 

For the first three or four days we 
had fine weather, although the wind 
was dead ahead; having chopped round 
to the northward, immediately upon 
our losing sight of the coast. The 
passengers were, consequently, in high 
spirits and disposed to be social. I 
must except, however, Wyatt and his 
sisters, who behaved stiffly, and, I 
could not help thinking, uncourteously 
to the rest of the party. Wyatt’s con- 
duct I did not so much regard. He 
was gloomy, even beyond his usual 
habit—-in fact he was morose—but in 
him I was prepared for eccentricity. 
For the sisters, however, I could make 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


no excuse. They secluded themselves 
in their state-rooms during the greater 


part of the passage, and absolutely re. ~ 


fused, although I repeatedly urged 
them, to hold communication with any 
person on board. 

Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more 
agreeable. That is to say, she was 
chatty; and to be chatty is no slight 
recommendation at sea. She became 
excessively intimate with most of the 
ladies; and, to my profound astonish- 
ment, evinced no equivocal disposition 
to coquet with the men. She amused 
us all very much. I say “amused’— 
and scarcely know how to- explain 
myself. The truth is, I soon found 
that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed 
at than with. The gentlemen said little 
about her; but the ladies, in a little 
while, pronounced her “a good-hearted 
thing, rather indifferent-looking, totally 
uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” 
The great wonder was, how Wyatt had 
been entrapped into such a match. 
Wealth was the general solution—but 
this I knew to be no solution at all; 
for Wyatt had told me that she neither 
brought him a dollar nor had any ex- 
pectations from any source whatever. 
“He had married,” he said, ‘for love, 
and for love only; and his bride was 
far more than worthy of his love.” 
When I thought of these expressions, 
on the part of my friend, I confess that 
I felt indescribably puzzled. Could it 
be possible that he was taking leave of 
his senses? What else could I think? 
He, so refined, so intellectual, so fas- 
tidious, with sa exquisite a perception 
of the faulty, and so keen an appre- 
ciation of the beautiful! To be sure, 
the lady seemed especially fond of him 
—- particularly so in his absence—when 














THE OBLONG BOX 


she made herself ridiculous by frequent 
quotations of what had been said by 
her “beloved husband, Mr. Wyatt.” 
The word “husband” seemed forever— 
to use one of her own delicate ex- 
pressions—forever ‘‘on the tip of her 
tongue.” In the meantime, it was ob- 
served by all on board, that he avoided 
her in the most pointed manner, and, 
for the most part, shut himself up alone 
in his state-room, where, in fact, he 
might have been said to live altogether, 
leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse 
herself as she thought best, in the pub- 
lic society of the main cabin. 

My conclusion, from what I saw and 
heard, was, that the artist, by some 
unaccountable freak of fate, or per- 
haps in some fit of enthusiastic and 
fanciful passion, had been induced to 
unite himself with a person altogether 
beneath him, and that the natural re- 
sult, entire and speedy disgust had 
ensued. I pitied him from the bottom 
of my heart—but could not, for that 
reason, quite forgive his incommuni- 
cativeness in the matter of the “Last 
Supper.” For this I resolved to have 
my revenge. 

One day he came upon deck, and, 
taking his arm as had been my wont, I 
sauntered with him backward and for- 
ward. His gloom, however (which I 
considered quite. natural under the cir- 
cumstances), seemed entirely unabated. 
He said little, and that moodily, and 
with evident effort. I ventured a jest 
or two, and he made a sickening at- 
tempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I 
thought of his wife, I wondered that 
he could have heart to put on even the 
semblance of mirth. At last I ven- 
tured a home thrust. I determined to 
commence a series of covert insinua- 


155 


tions, or innuendoes, about the oblong 
box—just to let him perceive, gradually, 
that I was not altogether the butt, or 
victim, of his little bit of pleasant mys- 
tification. My first observation was 
by way of opening a masked battery. 
I said something about the “peculiar 
shape of that box;” and, as I spoke 
the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, 
and touched him gently with my fore- 
finger in the ribs. 

The manner in which Wyatt received 
this harmless pleasantry convinced me, 
at once, that he was mad. At first he 
stared at me as if he found it im- 
possible to comprehend the witticism 
of my remark; but as its point seemed 
slowly to make its way into his brain, 
his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed 
protruding from their sockets. Then 
he grew very red—then hideously pale 
—then, as if highly amused with what 
I had insinuated, he began a loud and 
boisterous laugh, which, to my aston- 
ishment, he kept up, with gradually 
increasing vigor, for ten minutes or 
more. In conclusion, he fell flat and 
heavily upon the deck. When I ran 
to uplift him, to all appearance he was 
dead. 

I called assistance, and, with much 
difficulty, we brought him to himself 
Upon reviving he spoke incoherently 
for some time. At length we bled him 
and put him to bed. The next morning 
he was quite recovered, so far as re- 
garded his mere bodily health. Of his 
mind I say nothing, of course. ° I 
avoided him during the rest of the pas- 
sage, by advice of the captain, who 
seemed to coincide with me altogether 
in my views of his insanity, but cau- 
tioned me to say nothing on this head 
to any person on board. 


156 


Several circumstances occurred im- 
mediately after this fit of Wyatt 
which contributed to heighten the cu- 
riosity with which I was already pos- 
sessed. Among other things, this: I 
had been nervous—drank too much 
strong green tea, and slept ill at night 
—in fact, for two nights I could not 
be properly said to sleep at all. Now, 
my state-room opened into the main 
cabin, or dining-room, as did those of 
all the single men on board. Wyatt’s 
three rooms were in the after-cabin, 
which was separated from the main 
one by a slight sliding door, never 
locked even at night. As we were al- 
most constantly on a wind, and the 
breeze was not a little stiff, the ship 
heeled to leeward very considerably; 
and whenever her starboard side was to 
leeward, the sliding door between the 
cabins slid open, and so remained, no- 
body taking the trouble to get up and 
shut it. But my berth was in such 
a position, that when my own state- 
room door was open, as well as the 
sliding door in question, (and my own 
door was always open on account of 
the heat,) I could see into the after- 
cabin quite distinctly, and just at that 
portion of it, too, where were situated 
the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Weil, 
during two nights (mot consecutive) 
while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. 
W., about eleven o’clock upon each 
night, steal cautiously from the state- 
room of Mr. W., and enter the extra 
room, where she remained until day- 
break, when she was called by her hus- 
band and went back. That they were 
virtually separated was clear. They 
had separate apartments—no doubt in 
contemplation of a more permanent 
divorce; and here, after all, I thought 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


was the mystery of the extra state- 
room. 

There was another circumstance, too, 
which interested me much. During 
the two wakeful nights in question, and 
immediately after the disappearance of 
Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, 
I was attracted by certain singular, 
cautious, subdued noises in that of he: 
husband. After listening to them fcr 
some time, with thoughtful attention, 
I at length succeeded perfectly in trans- 
lating their import. They were sounds 
occasioned by the artist in prying open 
the oblong box, by means of a chisel 
and mallet—the latter being apparently 
muffled, or deadened, by some soit 
woollen or cotton substance in which 
its head was enveloped. 

In this manner I fancied I could dis- 
tinguish the precise moment when he 
fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I 
could determine when he removed it 
altogether, and when he deposited it 
upon the lower berth in his room; this 
latter point I knew, for example, by 
certain slight taps which the lid made 
in striking against the wooden edges of 
the berth, as he endeavored to lay it 
down very gently—there being no room 
for it on the floor. After this there 
was a dead stillness, and I heard noth- 
ing more, upon either occasion, until 
nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I 
may mention a low sobbing, or mur- 
muring sound, so very much suppressed 
as to be nearly inaudible—if, indeed, 
the whole of this latter noise were not 
rather produced by my own imagina- 
tion. I say it seemed to resemble 
sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it 
could not have been either. I rather 
think it was a ringing in my own ears. 
Mr. Wyatt, no doubt, according to cus- 














THE OBLONG BOX 157 


tom, was merely giving the rein to one 
of his hobbies—indulging in one of his 
fits of artistic enthusiasm. He had 
opened his oblong box, in order to feast 
his eyes on the pictorial treasure 
within. There was nothing in this how- 
ever, to make him sob. I repeat, 
therefore, that it must have been 
simply a freak of my own fancy, dis- 
tempered by good Captain Hardy’s 
green tea. Just before dawn, on each 
of the two nights of which I speak, I 
distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the 
lid upon the oblong box, and force the 
nails into their old places by means of 
the muffled mallet. Having done this, 
he issued from his state-room, fully 
dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. 
W. from hers. 

We had been at sea seven days, and 
were now off Cape Hatteras, when there 
came a tremendously heavy blow from 
the southwest. We were, in a meas- 
ure, prepared for it, however, as the 
weather had been holding out threats 
for some time. Every thing was made 
snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind 
steadily freshened, we lay to, at length, 
under spanker and foretopsail, both 
double-reefed. 

In this trim we rode safely enough 
for forty-eight hours—the ship proving 
herself an excellent sea-boat in many 
respects, and shipping no water of any 
consequence. At the end of this pe- 
riod, however, the gale had freshened 
into a hurricane, and our after-sail split 
into ribbons, bringing us so much in 
the trough of the water that we shipped 
several prodigious seas, one immedi- 
ately after the other. By this acci- 
dent we lost three men overboard with 
the caboose, and nearly the whole of 
the larboard bulwarks. Scarcely had 


we recovered our senses, before the 
foretopsail went into shreds, when we 
got up a storm stay-sail, and with this 
did pretty well for some hours, the 
ship heading the sea much more stead- 
ily than before. 

The gale still held on, however, and 
we saw no signs of its abating. The 
rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and 
greatly strained; and on the third day 
of the blow, about five in the afternoon, 
our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to 
windward, went by the board. For an 
hour or more, we tried in vain to get 
rid of it, on account of the prodigious 
rolling of the ship; and, before we 
had succeeded, the carpenter came aft 
and announced four feet of water in the 
hold. To add to our dilemma, we 
found the pumps choked and _ nearly 
useless. 

All was now confusion and despair—- 
but an effort was made to lighten the 
ship by throwing overboard as much 
of her cargo as could be reached, and 
by cutting away the two masts that 
remained. This we at last accom- 
plished—but we were still unable to 
do any thing at the pumps; and, in 
the meantime, the leak gained on us 
very fast. 

At sundown, the gale had sensibly 
diminished in violence, and, as the sea 
went down with it, we still enter- 
tained faint hopes of saving ourselves 
in the boats. At eight Pp. m., the clouds 
broke away to windward, and we had 
the advantage of a full moon—a piece 
of good fortune which served wonder- 
fullv to cheer our drooping spirits. 

After incredible labor we succeeded, 
at length, in getting the long-boat over 
the side without material accident, and 
into this we crowded the whole of the 


158 


crew and most of the passengers. This 
party made off immediately, and, after 
undergoing much suffering, finally ar- 
rived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on 
the third day after the wreck. 

Fourteen passengers, with the cap- 
tain, remained on board, resolving to 
trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat 
at the stern. We lowered it without 
difficulty, although it was only by a 
miracle that we prevented it from 
swamping as it touched the water. It 
contained, when afloat, the captain and 
his wife, Mr. Wyatt and party, a Mexi- 
can officer, wife, four children, and 
myself, with a negro valet. 

We had no room, of course, for any 
thing except a few positively necessary 
instruments, some provisions, and the 
clothes upon our backs. No one had 
thought of even attempting to save any 
thing more. What must have been 
the astonishment of all, then, when 
having proceeded a few fathoms from 
the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up in the 
stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of 
Captain Hardy that the boat should 
be put back for the purpose of taking 
in his oblong box! 

“Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the 
captain, somewhat sternly, ‘“‘you will 
capsize us if you do not sit quite still. 
Our gunwhale is almost in the water 
now.” 

“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, 
still standing-—‘‘the box, I say! Cap- 
tain Hardy, you cannot, you will not 
refuse me. Its weight will be but a 
trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. 
By the mother who bore you—for the 
love of Heaven—by your hope of salva- 
tion, I implore you to put back for the 
box!” 

The captain, for a moment, seemed 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


touched by the earnest appeal of the 
artist, but he regained his stern com- 
posure, and merely said: 

“Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot 
listen to you. Sit down, I say, or you 
will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him— 
seize him!—he is about to spring over- 
board! There—I knew it—he is over!” 

As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, 
in fact, sprang from the boat, and, as 
we were yet in the lee of the wreck, 
succeeded, by almost superhuman ex- 
ertion, in getting hold of a rope which 
hung from the fore-chains. In another 
moment he was on board, and rushing 
frantically down into the cabin. » 

In the meantime, we had been swept 
astern of the ship, and being quite out 
of her lee, were at the mercy of the tre- 
mendous sea which was still running. 
We made a determined effort to put 
back, but our little boat was like a 
feather in the breath of the tempest. 
We saw at a glance that the doom of 
the unfortunate artist was sealed. 

As our distance from the wreck rap- 
idly increased, the madman (for as such 
only could we regard him) was seen 
to emerge from the companion-way, up 
which by dint of strength that ap- 
peared gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the 
oblong box. While we gazed in the 
extremity of astonishment, he passed, 
rapidly, several turns of a three-inch 
rope, first around the box and then 
around his body. In another instant 
both body and box were in the sea— 
disappearing suddenly, at once and 
forever. 

We lingered awhile sadly upon our 
oars, with our eyes riveted upon the 
spot. At length we pulled away. The 
silence remained unbroken for an hovr. 
Finally, I hazarded a remark. 





THE OBLONG BOX 


“Did you observe, captain, how sud- 
denly they sank? Was not that an 
exceedingly singular thing? I confess 
that I entertained some feeble hope 
of his final deliverance, when I saw 
him lash himself to the box, and com- 
mit himself to the sea.” 

“They sank as a matter of course,” 
replied the captain, ‘and that like a 
shot. They will soon rise again, how- 
ever—but not till the salt melts.” 

“The salt!” I ejaculated. 

“Hush!” said the captain, pointing 

to the wife and sisters of the deceased. 
“We must talk of these things at some 
more appropriate time.” 
We suffered much, and made a nar- 
_ row escape; but fortune befriended us, 
as well as our mates in the long-boat. 
We landed, in fine, more dead than 
alive, after four days of intense dis- 
tress, upon the beach opposite Roa- 
noke Island. We remained here a 
week, were not ill-treated to the wreck- 
ers, and at length obtained a passage 
to New York. 

About a month after the loss of the 
‘Independence,’ I happened to meet 
Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our con- 
versation turned, naturally, upon the 
disaster, and especially upon the sad 
fate of poor Wyatt. I thus learned 
the following particulars. 

The artist had engaged passage for 
himself, wife, two sisters and a servant. 
His wife was, indeed, as she had been 
represented, a most lovely, and most 
accomplished woman. On the morning 
of the fourteenth of June (the day in 
which I first visited the ship), the lady 
suddenly sickened and died. The young 





159 


husband was frantic with grief—but 
circumstances imperatively forbade the 
deferring his voyage to New York. It 
was necessary to take to her mother 
the corpse of his adored wife, and, on 
the other hand, the universal prejudice 
which would prevent his doing so 
openly was well known. Nine-tenths 
of the passengers would have aban- 
doned the ship rather than take pas- 
sage with a dead body. 

In this dilemma, Captain Hardy ar- 
ranged that the corpse, being first par- 
tially embalmed, and packed, with a 
large quantity of salt, in a box of suit- 
able dimensions, should be conveyed on 
board as merchandise. Nothing was 
to be said of the lady’s decease; and, 
as it was well understood that Mr. 
Wyatt had engaged passage for his 
wife, it became necessary that some 
person should personate her during the 
voyage. This the deceased’s lady’s- 
maid was easily prevailed on to do. 
The extra state-room, originally en- 
gaged for this girl, during her mistress’ 
life, was now merely retained. In this 
state-room the pseudo-wife, slept, of 
course, every night. In the daytime 
she performed, to the best of her abil- 
ity, the part of her mistress—whose 
person, it had been carefully ascer- 
tained, was unknown to any of the 
passengers on board. 

My own mistake arose, naturally 
enough, through too careless, too in- 
quisitive, and too impulsive a tempera- 
ment. But of late, it is a rare thing 
that I sleep soundly at night. There 
is a countenance which haunts me, turn 
as I will. There is an hysterical laugh 
which will forever ring within my ears. 


“Thou Art the Man’ 


(First published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, November, 1844) 


_" wILt now play the Cdipus to the 
Rattleborough enigma. I will expound 
to you—as I alone can—the secret of 
the enginery that effected the Rattle- 
borough miracle—the one, the true, the 
admitted, the undisputed, the indisputa- 
ble miracle, which put a definite end 
to infidelity among the Rattleburghers 
and converted to the orthodox of the 
grandames all the carnal-minded who 
had ventured to be sceptical before. 

This event—which I should be sorry 
to discuss in a tone of unsuitable levity 
—occurred in the summer of 18—. Mr. 
Barnabas Shuttleworthy—one of the 
wealthiest and most respectable citizens 
pf the borough—had been missing for 
several days under circumstances which 
gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. 
Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattle- 
borough very early one Saturday morn- 
ing, on horseback, with the avowed 
intention of proceeding to the city 
of , about fifteen miles distant, and 
of returning the night of the same day. 
Two hours after his departure, how- 
ever, his horse returned without him, 
and without the saddle-bags which had 
been strapped on his back at starting. 
The animal was wounded, too, and cov- 
ered with mud. ‘These circumstances 
naturally gave rise to much alarm 
among the friends of the missing man; 
and when it was found, on Sunday 
morning, that he had not yet made his 
appearance, the whole borough arose 
en masse to go and look for his body. 

The foremost and most energetic in 
instituting this search was the bosom 





friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a Mr. 
Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was uni- 
versally called, “Charley Goodfellow,” 
or “Old Charley Goodfellow.” Now, 
whether it is a marvellous coincidence, 
or whether it is that the name itself 
has an imperceptible effect upon the 
character, I have never yet been able 
to ascertain; but the fact is unques- 
tionable, that there never yet was any 
person named Charles who was not an 
open, manly, honest, good-natured, and 
frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear 
voice, that did you good to hear it, 
and an eye that looked you always 
straight in the face, as much as to say: 
“I have a clear conscience myself, am 
afraid of no man, and am altogether 
above doing a mean action.” And thus 
all the hearty, careless, “walking gen- 
tlemen” of the stage are very certain 
to be called Charles. 

Now, “Old Charley Goodfellow,” al- 
though he had been in Rattleborough 
not longer than six months or there- 
abouts, and although nobody knew any 
thing about him before he came to 
settle in the neighborhood, had experi- 
enced no difficulty in the world in mak- 
ing the acquaintance of all the respect- 
able people in the borough. Not a man 
of them but would have taken his bare 
word for a thousand at any moment; 
and as for the women, there is no saying 
what they would not have done to 
oblige him. And all this came of his 
having been christened Charles, and of 
his possessing, in consequence, that 
ingenuous face which is proverbially 


160 








THOU ART THE MAN 161 


the very “best letter of recommenda- 
tion.” 

I have already said that Mr. Shut- 
tleworthy was one of the most respecta- 
ble and, undoubtedly, he was the most 
wealthy man in Rattleborough, while 
“Old Charley Goodfellow” was upon as 
intimate terms with him as if he had 
been his own brother. The two old 
gentlemen were next-door neighbors, 
and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy sel- 
dom, if ever, visited ‘Old Charley,” and 
never was known to take a meal in his 
house, still this did not prevent the 
two friends from being exceedingly 
intimate, as I have just observed; for 
“Old Charley” never let a day pass 
without stepping in three or four times 
to see how his neighbor came on, and 
very often he would stay to breakfast 
or tea, and almost always to dinner; 
and then the amount of wine that was 
made way with by the two cronies at 
a sitting, it would really be a difficult 
thing to ascertain. ‘Old Charley’s” 
favorite beverage was Chateau Mar- 
gaux, and it appeared to do Mr. Shut- 
tleworthy’s heart good to see the old 
fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after 
quart; so that, one day, when the wine 
was 7m and the wit, as a natural conse- 
quence, somewhat out, he said to his 
crony, as he slapped him upon the 
back; “I tell you what it is, ‘Old 
Charley,’ you are, by all odds, the 
neartiest old fellow I ever came across 
in all my born days; and, since you 
love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, 
Ill be darned if I don’t have to make 
thee a present of a big box of the 
Chateau Margaux. Od rot me,”’—(Mr. 
Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of 
swearing, although he seldom went be- 
yond “Od rot me,” or “By gosh,” or 


“By the jolly golly,’)—‘‘Od rot me,” 
says he, “if I don’t send an order to 
town this very afternoon for a double 
box of the best that can be got, and 
Tl make ye a present of it, I will!— 
ye needn’t say a word now—I will, I 
tell ye, and there’s an end of it; so 
look out for it—it will come to hand 
some of these fine days, precisely when 
ye are looking for it the least!” I men- 
tion this little bit of liberality on the 
part of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by 
way of showing you how very intimate 
an understanding existed between the 
two friends. 

Well, on the Sunday morning in ques 
tion, when it came to be fairly under- 
stood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met 
with foul play, I never saw any one so 
profoundly affected as “Old Charley 
Goodfellow.” When he first heard that 
the horse had come home without his 
master, and without his master’s saddle- 
bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, 
that had gone clean through and 
through the poor animal’s chest with- 
out quite killing him,—when he heard 
all this, he turned as pale as if the 
missing man had been his own dear 
brother or father, and shivered and 
shook all over as if he had had a fit 
of the ague. 

At first he was too much overpow- 
ered with grief to be able to do any 
thing at all, or to decide upon any plan 
of action; so that for a long time he 
endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttle- 
worthy’s other friends from making a 
stir about the matter, thinking it best 
to wait awhile—say for a week or two, 
or a month, or two—to see if some- 
thing wouldn’t turn up, or if Mr. Shut- 
tleworthy wouldn’t come in the natural 
way, and explain his reasons for sending 


162 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE | 


his horse on before. JI dare say you 
have often observed this disposition to 
temporize, or to procrastinate, in people 
who are laboring under any very poig- 
nant sorrow. Their powers of mind 
seem to be rendered torpid, so that they 
have a horror of any thing like action, 
and like nothing in the world so well 
as to lie quietly in bed and “nurse their 
grief,’ as the old ladies express it— 
that is to say, ruminate over the 
trouble. 

The people of Rattleborough had, 
indeed, so high an opinion of the wis- 
dom and discretion of “Old Charley,” 
that the greater part of them felt dis- 
posed to agree with him, and not make 
a stir in the business “until something 
should turn up,” as the honest old gen- 
tleman worded it; and I believe that, 
after all, this would have been the gen- 
eral determination, but for the very 
suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttle- 
worthy’s nephew, a young man of very 
dissipated habits, and otherwise of 
yather bad character. This nephew, 
whose name was Pennifeather, would 
listen to nothing like reason in the 
matter of “lying quiet,’ but insisted 
upon making immediate search for the 
“corpse of the murdered man.” This 
was the expression he employed; and 
Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at 
the time, that it was “a singular expres- 
sion, to say no more.” This remark 
of “Old Charley’s,” too, had great effect 
upon the crowd; and one of the party 
was heard to ask, very impressively, 
“how it happened that young Mr. Pen- 
nifeather was so intimately cognizant 
of all the circumstances connected with 
his wealthy uncle’s disappearance, as to 
feel authorized to assert, distinctly and 
unequivocally, that his uncle was ‘a 


murdered man.’”’ Hereupon some little 
squibbling and bickering occurred 
among various members of the crowd, 
and especially between “Old Charley” 
and Mr. Pennifeather—although this 
latter occurrence was, indeed, by no 
means a novelty, for little good-will 
had subsisted between the parties for 
the last three or four months; and mat- 
ters had even gone so far that Mr. 
Pennifeather had actually knocked 
down his uncle’s friend for some alleged 
excess of liberty that the latter had 
taken in the uncle’s house, of which the 
nephew was an inmate. Upon this 
occasion “Old Charley” is said to have 
behaved with exemplary moderation 
and Christian charity. He arose from 
the blow, adjusted his clothes, and 
made no attempt at retaliation at all— 
merely muttered a few words about 
“taking summary vengeance at the first 
convenient opportunity,’—a natural 
and very justifiable ebullition of anger, 
which meant nothing, however, and, 
beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent 
to than forgotten. 

However these matters may be 
(which have no reference to the point 
now at issue), it is quite certain that 
the people of Rattleborough, princi- 
pally through the persuasion of Mr. 
Pennifeather, came at length to the 
determination of dispersion over the 
adjacent country in search of the miss- 
ing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they 
came to this determination in the first 
instance. After it had been fully re- 
solved that a search should be made, it 
was considered almost a> matter of 
course that the seekers should disperse 
—that is to say, distribute themselves 
in parties—for the more thorough ex- 
amination of the region round about. 





THOU ART THE MAN 163 


I forgot, however, by what ingenious 
train of reasoning it was that “Old 
Charley” finally convinced the assembly 


that this was the most injudicious plan’ 


that could be pursued. Convince them, 
however, he did—all except Mr. Penni- 
feather; and, in the end, it was ar- 
ranged that a search should be insti- 
tuted, carefully and very thoroughly, by 
the burghers en masse, “Old Charley” 
himself leading the way. 

As for the matter of that, there could 
have been no better pioneer than “Old 
Charley,” whom everybody knew to 
have the eye of a lynx; but, although 
he led them into ail manner of out-of- 
the-way: holes and corners, by routes 
that nobody had ever suspected of ex- 
isting in the neighborhood, and although 
the search was incessantly kept up day 
and night for nearly a week, still no 
trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be 
discovered. When I say no trace, how- 
ever, I must not be understood to speak 
literally; for trace, to some extent, 
there certainly was. The poor gentle- 
man had been tracked, by his horse’s 
shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot 
about three miles to the east of the 
borough, on the main road leading to 
the city. Here the track made off into 
a by-path through a piece.of woodland 
—the path coming out again into the 
main road, and cutting off about half 
a mile of the regular distance. Fol- 
lowing the shoe-marks down this lane, 
the party came at length to a pool of 
stagnant water, half hidden by the 
brambles, to the right of the lane, and 
opposite this pool all vestige of the 
track was lost sight of. It appeared, 
however, that a struggle of some nature 
had here taken place, and it seemed as 
if some large and heavy body, much 


larger and heavier than a man, had been 
drawn from the by-path to the pool. 
This latter was carefully dragged twice, 
but nothing was found; and the party 
was upon the point of going away, 
in despair of coming to any result, 
when Providence suggested to Mr. 
Goodfellow the expediency of draining 
the water off altogether. This project 
was received with cheers, and many 
high compliments to “Old Charley” 
upon his sagacity and consideration. 
As many of the burghers had brought 
spades with them, supposing that they 
might possibly be called upon to dis- 
inter a corpse, the drain was easily 
and speedily effected; and no sooner 
was the bottom visible, than right in 
the middle of the mud that remained 
was discovered a black silk velvet 
waistcoat, which nearly every one pres- 
ent immediately recognized as the prop- 
erty of Mr. Pennifeather. This waist- 
coat was much torn and stained with 
blood, and there were several persons 
among the party who had a distinct 
remembrance of its having been worn 
by its owner on the very morning of 
Mr. Shuttleworthy’s departure for the 
city; while there were others, again, 
ready to testify upon oath, if required, 
that Mr. P. did mot wear the garment 
in question at any period during the 
remainder of that memorable day; nor 
could any one be found to say that 
he had seen it upon Mr. P.’s person 
at any period at all subsequent to Mr. 
Shuttleworthy’s disappearance. 

Matters now wore a very serious 
aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was 
observed, as an indubitable confirma- 
tion of the suspicions which were ex~ 
cited against him, that he grew exceed- 
ingly pale, and when asked what he 


164 


had to say for himself, was utterly 
incapable of saying a word. Hereupon, 
the few friends his riotous mode of 
living had left him, deserted him at 
once to a man, and were even more 
tlamorous than his ancient and avowed 
enemies for his instantaneous arrest. 
But, on the other hand, the magnanim- 
ity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with 
only the more brilliant lustre through 
contrast. He made a warm and in- 
tensely eloquent defence of Mr. Penni- 
feather, in which he alluded more than 
once to his own sincere forgiveness of 
that wild young gentleman—“‘the heir 
of the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy,’— 
for the insult which he (the young 
gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat 
of passion, thought proper to put upon 
him (Mr. Goodfellow). “He forgave 
him for it,’ he said, “from the very 
bottom of his heart; and for himself 
(Mr. Goodfellow), so far from push- 
ing the suspicious circumstances to 
extremity, which he was sorry to say, 
really had arisen against Mr. Penni- 
feather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would 
make every exertion in his power, 
would employ all the little eloquence 
in his possession to—to—to—soften 
down, as much as he could conscien- 
tiously do so, the worst features of 
_ this really exceedingly perplexing piece 
of business.” 

Mr. Goodfellow went on for some 
half hour longer in this strain, very 
much to the credit both of his head 
and of his heart; but your warm- 
hearted people are seldom apposite in 
their observations—they run into all 
sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal 
apropos-isms, in the hot-headedness of 
their zeal to serve a friend—thus, often 
with the kindest intentions in the world, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


doing infinitely more to prejudice his 
cause than to advance it. 
So, in the present instance, it turned 


‘out with all the eloquence of “Old 


Charley”; for, although he labored 
earnestly in behalf of the suspected, yet 
it so happened, somehow or other, that 
every syllable he uttered of which the 
direct but unwitting tendency was not 
to exalt the speaker in the good opinion 
of his audience, had the effect of deep- 
ening the suspicion already attached to 
the individual whose cause he pled, and 
of arousing against him the fury of 
the mob. 

One of the most unaccountable errors 
committed by the orator was his allu- 
sion to the suspected as “the heir of 
the worthy old gentleman Mr. Shuttle- 
worthy.” The people had really never 
thought of this before. They had only 
remembered certain threats of disin- 
heritance uttered a year or two previ- 
ously by the uncle (who had no living 
relative except the nephew), and they 
had, therefore, always looked upon this 
disinheritance as a rmatter that was set- 
tled—so single-minded a race of beings 
were the Rattleburghers; but the re- 
mark of “Old Charley” brought them 
at once to a consideration of this point, 
and thus gave them to see the possi- 
bility of the threats having been nothing 
more than a threat. And straightway 
hereupon, arose the natural question of 
cui bono?—a question that tended even 
more than the waist coat to fasten the 
terrible crime upon the young man. 
And here, lest I may be misunderstood, 
permit me to digress for one moment 
merely to observe that the exceedingly 
brief and simple Latin phrase which I 
have emvloyed, is invariably mistrans- 


THOU ART 


lated and misconceived. “Cui bono?” 
in all the crack novels and elsewhere,— 
in those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the 
author of ‘“Cecil,’’) a lady who quotes 
all tongues from the Chaldean to 
Chickasaw, and is helped to her learn- 
ing, “as needed,’ upon a systematic 
plan, by Mr. Beckford,—in all the crack 
novels, I say, from those of Bulwer 
and Dickens to those of Turnapenny 
and Ainsworth, the two little Latin 
words cui bono are rendered ‘to what 
purpose?” or, (as if quo bono,) “to 
what good?” ‘Their true meaning, nev- 
ertheless, is “for whose advantage.” 
Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit? 
It is a purely legal phrase, and applica- 
ble precisely in cases such as we have 
now under consideration, where the 
probability of the doer of a deed hinges 
upon the probability of the benefit ac- 
cruing to this individual or to that 
from the deed’s accomplishment. Now 
in the present instance, the question 
cut bono? very pointedly implicated 
Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had 
threatened him, after making a will in 
his favor, with disinheritance. But the 
threat had not been actually kept; the 
original will, it appeared, had been al- 
tered. Had it been altered, the only 
supposable motive for murder on the 
part of the suspected would have been 
the ordinary one of revenge; and even 
this would have been counteracted by 
the hope of reinstation into the good 
graces of the uncle. But the will be- 
ing unaltered, while the threat to alter 
remained suspended over the nephew’s 
head, there appears at once the very 
strongest possible inducement for the 
atrocity; and so concluded. very saga- 


THE MAN 165 


ciously, the worthy citizens of the bor- 
ough of Rattle. 

Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, 
arrested upon the spot, and the crowd, 
after some further search, proceeded 
homeward, having him in custody. On 
the route, however, another circum- 
stance occurred tending to confirm the 
suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfel- 
low, whose zeal led him to be always 
a little in advance of the party, was 
seen suddenly to run forward a few 
paces, stoop, and then apparently to 
pick up some small object from the 
grass. Having quickly examined it, he 
was observed, too, to make a sort of 
half attempt at concealing it in his 
coat pocket; but this action was no- 
ticed, as I say, and consequently pre- 
vented, when the object picked up was 
found to be a Spanish knife which a 
dozen persons at once recognized as 
belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. More- 
over, his initials were engraved upon. 
the handle. The blade of this knife 
was open and bloody. 

No doubt now remained of the guilt 
of the nephew, and immediately upon 
reaching Rattleborough he was taken 
before a magistrate for examination. 

Here matters again took a most un- 
favorable turn. The prisoner, being 
questioned as to his whereabouts on 
the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s 
disappearance, had absolutely the au- 
dacity to acknowledge that on that 
very morning he had been out with 
his rifle deer-stalking, in the immedi- 
ate neighborhood of the pool where 
the blood-stained waistcoat had been 
discovered through the sagacity of Mr, 
Goodfellow. 

This latter now came forward, and 
with tears in his eyes, asked permission 


166 


to be examined. He said that a stern 
sense of the duty he owed his Maker, 
not less than his fellow-men, would 
permit him no longer to remain silent. 
Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the 
young man (notwithstanding the latter’s 
ill-treatment of himself, Mr. Goodfel- 
low) had induced him to make every 
hypothesis which imagination could 
suggest, by way of endeavoring to ac- 
count for what appeared suspicious in 
the circumstances that told so seriously 
against Mr. Pennifeather; but these 
circumstances were now altogether too 
convincing—too damning; he would 
hesitate no longer—he would tell all 
he knew, although his heart (Mr. 
Goodfellow’s) should absolutely burst 
asunder in the effort. He then went 
on to state that, on the afternoon of 
the day previous to Mr. Shuttleworthy’s 
departure for the city, that worthy old 
gentleman had mentioned to his nephew, 
in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow’s), that 
his object in going to town on the 
morrow was to make a deposit of an 
unusually large sum of money in the 
“Farmers and Merchants’ Bank,” and 
that, then and there, the said Mr. Shut- 
tleworthy had distinctly avowed to the 
said nephew his irrevocable determina- 
tion of rescinding the will originally 
made, and of cutting him off with a 
shilling. He (the witness) now sol- 
emnly called upon the accused to state 
whether what he (the witness) had 
just stated was or was not the truth 
in every substantial particular. Much 
to the astonishment of every one pres- 
ent, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted 
tiiat 2 was. 

The magistrate now considered it his 
duty to send a couple of constables 
to search the chamber of the accused 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in the house of his uncle. From this 
search they almost immediately re- 
turned with the well-known - steel- 
bound, russet leather pocket-book 
which the old gentleman had been in 
the habit of carrying for years. Its 
valuable contents, however, had been 
abstracted, and the magistrate in vain 
endeavored to extort from the prisoner 
the use which had been made of them, 
or the place of their concealment. In- 
deed, he obstinately denied all knowl- 
edge of the matter. The constables, 
also, discovered, between the bed and 
sacking of the unhappy man, a shirt 
and neck-handkerchief both marked 
with the initials of his name, and both 
hideously besmeared with the blood 
of the victim. ' 

At this juncture, it was announced 
that the horse of the murdered man 
had just expired in the stable from 
the effects of the wound he had re- 
ceived, and it was proposed by Mr. 
Goodfellow that a post-mortem exami- 
nation of the beast should be imme- 
diately made, with the view, if pos- 
sible, of discovering the ball. This was 
accordingly done; and, as if to demon- 
strate beyond a question the guilt of 
the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after con- 
siderable searching in the cavity of the 
chest, was enabled to detect and te 
pull forth a bullet of very extraordi- 
nary size, which, upon trial, was found 
to be exactly adapted to the bore of 
Mr. Pennifeather’s rifle, while it was 
far too large for that of any other per- 
son in the borough or its vicinity. To 
render the matter even surer yet, how- 
ever, this bullet was discovered to have 
a flaw or seam at right angles to the 
usual suture, and upon examination, 
this seam corresponded precisely with 


THOU ART THE MAN 


an accidental ridge or elevation in a 
pair of moulds acknowledged by the 
accused himself to be his own property. 
Upon finding of this bullet, the exam- 
ining magistrate refused to listen to 
any further testimony, and immediately 
committed the prisoner for trial—de- 
clining resolutely to take any bail in 
the case, although against this severity 
Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remon- 
strated, and offered to become surety 
in whatever amount might be required. 
This generosity on the part of “Old 
Charley” was only in accordance with 
the whole tenor of his amiable and 
chivalrous conduct during the entire 
period of his sojourn in the borough 
of Rattle. In the present instance the 
worthy man was so entirely carried 
away by the excessive warmth of his 
sympathy, that he seemed to have quite 
forgotten, when he offered to go bail 
ior his young friend, that he himself 
(Mr. Goodfellow) did not possess a 
single dollar’s worth of property upon 
the face of the earth. 

The result of the committal may be 
readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather, 
amid the loud execrations of all Rat- 
tleborough, was brought to trial at 
the next criminal sessions, when the 
chain of circumstantial evidence 
(strengthened as it was by some addi- 
tional damning facts, which Mr. Good- 
fellow’s sensitive conscientiousness for- 
bade him to withhold from the court) 
was considered so unbroken and so thor- 
oughly conclusive, that the jury, with- 
out leaving their seats, returned an 
immediate verdict of “Guilty of mur- 
der in the first degree.” Soon after- 
ward the unhappy wretch received sen- 
tence of death, and was remanded to 


167 


the county jail to await the inexorable 
vengeance of the law. 

In the meantime, the noble behavior 
of “Old Charley Goodfellow” had dou- 
bly endeared him to the honest citizens 
of the borough. He became ten times 
a greater favorite than ever; and, as 
a natural result of the hospitality with 
which he was treated, he relaxed, as it 
were, perforce, the extremely parsimo- 
nious habits which his poverty had 
hitherto impelled him to observe, and 
very frequently had little reunions at 
his own house, when wit and _jollity 
reigned supreme—dampened a little, of 
course, by the occasional remembrance 
of the untoward and melancholy fate 
which impended over the nephew of 
the late lamented bosom friend of the 
generous host. 

One fine day, this magnanimous old 
gentleman was agreeably surprised at 
the receipt of the following letter. 


“Charles Goodfellow, Esquire: 

“Dear Sir—In conformity with an 
order transmitted to our firm about 
two months since, by our esteemed cor- 
respondent, Mr. Barnabas  Shuttle- 
worthy, we have the honor of forward- 
ing this morning, to your address, a 
double box of Chateau-Margaux, of the 
antelope brand, violet seal. Box num- 
bered and marked as per margin. 

“We remain, Sir, 
“Your most ob’nt ser’ts, 
“Hoccs, Frocs, Bocs, & Co. 

“City of , June 21, 18—. 

“P, S—The box will reach you by 
wagon, on the day after your receipt 
of this letter. Our respecis to Mr. 
Shuttleworthy. 





“H. F., B., & Co.” 


168 


The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow 
had, since the death of Mr. Shuttle- 
worthy, given over all expectation of 
ever receiving the promised Chateau- 
Margaux; and he, therefore, looked 
upon it mow as a sort of especial dis- 
pensation of Providence in his behalf. 
He was highly delighted, of course, 
and in the exuberance of his joy in- 
vited a large party of friends to a petit 
souper on the morrow, for the pur- 
pose of broaching the good old Mr. 
Shuttleworthy’s present. Not that he 
said any thing about “the good old Mr. 
Shuttleworthy” when he issued the in- 
vitations. The fact is, he thought much 
and concluded to say nothing at all. 
He did not mention to any one—if I 
remember aright—vhat he had received 
a present of Chateau-Margaux. He 
merely asked his friends to come and 
help him drink some of a remarkable 
fine quality and rich flavor that he 
had ordered up from the city a couple 
of months ago, and of which he would 
be in the receipt upon the morrow. I 
have often puzzled myself to imagine 
why it was that “Old Charley” came 
to the conclusion to say nothing about 
having received the wine from his old 
friend, but I could never precisely 
understand his reason for the silence, 
although he had some excellent and 
very magnanimous reason, no doubt. 

The morrow at length arrived, and 
with it a very large and highly respect- 
able company at Mr. Goodfellow’s 
house. Indeed, half the borough was 
there,—I myself among the number,— 
but, much to the vexation of the host, 
the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive 
until a late hour, and when the sump- 
tuous supper supplied by “Old Charley” 
had been done very ample justice by 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the guests. It came at length, how- 
ever,—a monstrously big box of it 
there was, too—and as the whole party 
were in excessively good humor, it was 
decided, mem. con., that it should be 
lifted upon the table and its contents 
disembowelled forthwith. 

No sooner said than done. I lent 
a helping hand; and, in a trice we had 
the box upon the table, in the midst 
of all the bottles and glasses, not a 
few of which were demolished in the 
scuffle. ‘Old Charley,” who was pretty 
much intoxicated, and excessively red 
in the face, now took a seat, with an 
air of mock dignity, at the head of 
the board, and thumped furiously upon 
it with a decanter, calling upon the 
company to keep order ‘during the 
ceremony of disinterring the treasure.” 

After some vociferation, quiet was at 
length fully restored. and, as very often 
kappens in similar cases, a profound 
and remarkable silence ensued. Being 
then requested to force open the lid, 
I complied, of course, ‘‘with an infi- 
nite deal of pleasure.” I inserted a 
chisel, and giving it a few slight taps 
with a hammer, the top of the box 
flew suddenly off, and at the same ins 
stant, there sprang up into a sitting pe- 
sition, directly facing the host, the 
bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid 
corpse of the murdered Mr. Shuttle- 
worthy himself. It gazed for a few sec- 
onds, fixedly and sorrowfully, with its 
decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into 
the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; ut- 
tered slowly, but clearly and impres- 
sively, the words—‘Thou art the man!” 
and then, falling over the side of the 
chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched 
out its limbs quiveringly upon the table. 

The scene that ensued is altogether 





THOU ART THE MAN 


beyond description. The rush for the 
doors and windows was terrific, and 
many of the most robust men in the 
room fainted outright through sheer 
horror. But after the first wild, shriek- 
ing burst of affright, all eyes were di- 
rected to Mr. Goodfellow. If I live a 
thousand years, I can never forget the 
more than mortal agony which was 
depicted in that ghastly face of his, so 
lately rubicund with triumph and wine. 
For several minutes he sat rigidly as 
a statue of marble; his eyes seeming, 
in the intense vacancy of their gaze, 
to be turned inward and absorbed in 
the contemplation of his own miser- 
able, murderous soul. At length their 
expression appeared to flash suddenly 
out into the external world, when, with 
a quick leap, he sprang from his chair, 
and falling heavily with his head and 
shoulders upon the table, and in contact 
with the corpse, poured out rapidly 
and vehemently a detailed confession 
of the hideous crime for which Mr. 
Pennifeather was then imprisoned and 
doomed to die. 

What he recounted was in substance 
this:—He followed his victim to the 
vicinity of the pool; there shot his 
horse with a pistol; despatched its rider 
with the butt end; possessed himself 
of the pocket-book; and, supposing the 
horse dead, dragged it with great labor 
to the brambles by the pond. Upon 
his own beast he slung the corpse of 
Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it 
to a secure place of concealment a 
long distance off through the woods. 

The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket- 
book, and bullet, had been placed by 
himself where found, with the view of 
avenging himself upon Mr. Penni- 
feather. He had also contrived the dis- 


169 


covery of the stained handkerchief and 
shirt. 

Toward the end of the blood-chilling 
recital, the words of the guilty wretch 
faltered and grew hollow. When the 
record was finally exhausted, he arose, 
staggered backward from the table, and 
fell—dead. 





The means by which this happily- 
timed confession was extorted, although 
efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. 
Goodfellow’s excess of frankness had 
disgusted me, and excited my suspi- 
cions from the first. I was present 
when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, 
and the fiendish expression which then 
arose upon his countenance, although 
momentary, assured me that his threat 
of vengeance would, if possible, be rig- 
idly fulfilled. I was thus prepared to 
view the maneuvring of “Old Charley” 
in a very different light from that in 
which it was regarded by the good citi- 
zens of Rattleborough. I saw at once 
that all the criminating discoveries 
arose, either directly or indirectly, from 
himself. But the fact which clearly 
opened my eyes to the true state of 
the case, was the affair of the bullet, 
found by Mr. G. in the carcass of 
the horse. J had not forgotten, al- 
though the Rattleburghers had, that 
there was a hole where the ball had 
entered the horse, and another where it 
went out. If it were found in the ani- 
mal then, after having made its exit, 
I saw clearly that it must have been 
deposited by the person who found it. 
The bloody shirt and handkerchief con- 
firmed the idea suggested by the bullet; 
for the blood on examination proved to 
be capital claret, and no more. When 
I came to think of these things, and 


170 


also of the late increase of liberality 
and expenditure on the part of Mr. 
Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion 
which was none the less strong because 
I kept it altogether to myself. 

In the meantime, I instituted a rig- 
orous private search for the corpse of 
Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good rea- 
sons, searched in quarters as divergent 
as possible from those to which Mr. 
Goodfellow conducted his party. The 
result was that, after some days, I 
came across an old dry well, the mouth 
of which was nearly hidden by bram- 
bles; and here, at the bottom, I dis- 
covered what I sought. 

Now it so happened that I had over- 
heard the colloquy between the two 
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had con- 
trived to cajole his host into the prom- 
ise of a box of Chateau-Margaux. Upon 
this hint I acted. I procured a stiff 
piece of whalebone, thrust it down the 
throat of the corpse, and deposited 
the latter in an old wine box—taking 
care so to double the body up as to 
double the whalebone with it. In this 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


manner I had to press forcibly upon 
the lid to keep it down while I se- 
cured it with nails; and I anticipated, 
of course, that as soon as these latter 
were removed, the top would fly of 
and the body up. 

Having thus arranged the box, I 
marked, numbered, and addressed it as 
already told; and then writing a let- 
ter in the name of the wine-merchants 
with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, 
I gave instructions to my servant to 
wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow’s door, 
in a barrow, at a given signal from 
myself. For the words which I in- 
tended the corpse to speak, I confi- 
dently depended upon my ventriloquial 
abilities; for their effect, I counted 
upon the conscience of the murderous 
wretch. 

I believe there is nothing more to 
be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was 
released upon the spot, inherited the 
fortune of his uncle, profited by the 
lessons of experience, turned over a 
new leaf, and led happily ever after- 
ward a new life. 


~The Pit and the Pendulum 


(First published in The Gift, 1843) 


Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores 

Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit. 

Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris 
antro, 

Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent. 


(Quatrain composed for the gates of a 
market to be erected upon the site 
of the Jacobin Club House at Paris.) 


I was sick—sick unto death with 
that long agony; and when they at 


length unbound me, and I was permitted 
to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving 
me. ‘The sentence—the dread sentence 
of death—was the last of distinct accen- 
tuation which reached my ears. After 
that, the sound of the inquisitorial 
voices seemed merged in one dreamy 
indeterminate hum. It conveyed te 
my soul the idea of revolution—per- 
haps from its association in fancy with 
the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 171 


a brief period, for presently I heard no 
more. Yet, for a while, I saw—but 
with how terrible an exaggeration! I 
saw the lips of the black-robed judges. 
They appeared to me white—whiter 
than the sheet upon which I trace these 
words—and thin even to grotesqueness; 
thin with the intensity of their ex- 
pression of firmness—of immovable 
resolution—of stern contempt of human 
torture. I saw that the decrees of what 
to me was Fate were still issuing from 
those lips. I saw them writhe with a 
deadly locution. I saw them fashion 
the syllables of my name; and I shud- 
dered because no sound succeeded. I 
saw, too, for a few moments of delirious 
horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible 
waving of the sable draperies which 
enwrapped the walls of the apartment. 
And then my vision fell upon the seven 
tall candles upon the table. At first 
they wore the aspect of charity, and 
seemed white slender angels who would 
save me; but then, all at once, there 
came a most deadly nausea over my 
spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame 
thrill as if I had touched the wire of 
a galvanic battery, while the angel 
forms became meaningless spectres, with 
heads of flame, and I saw that from 
them there would be no help. And 
then there stole into my fancy, like a 
rich musical note, the thought of what 
sweet rest there must be in the grave. 
The thought came gently and stealthily, 
and it seemed long before it attained 
full appreciation; but just as my spirit 
came at length properly to feel and 
entertain it, the figures of the judges 
vanished, as if magically, from before 
me; the tall candles sank into nothing- 
ness; their flames went out utterly; the 
blackness of darkness supervened; all 


sensations appeared swallowed up in a 
mad rushing descent as of the soul into 
Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and 
night were the universe. 

I had swooned; but still will not say 
that all of consciousness was lost. What 
of it there remained I will not attempt 
to define, or even to describe; yet all 
was not lost. In the deepest slumber 
—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon 
—no! In death—no! even in the grave 
all zs not lost. Else there is no im- 
mortality for man. Arousing from the 
most profound of slumbers, we break 
the gossamer web of some dream. Yet 
in a second afterward, (so frail may 
that web have been) we remember not 
that we have dreamed. In the return 
to life from the swoon there are two 
stages: first, that of the sense of mental 
or spiritual; secondly, that of the sense 
of physical, existence. It seems prob- 
able that if, upon reaching the second 
stage, we could recall the impressions 
of the first, we should find these im- 
pressions eloquent in memories of the 
gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what? 
How at least shal! we distinguish its 
shadows from those of the tomb? But 
if the impressions of what I have termed 
the first stage are not, at will, recalled, 
yet, after long interval, do they not 
come unbidden, while we marvel whence 
they come? He who has never swooned, 
is not he who finds strange palaces and 
wildly familiar faces in coals that glow; 
is not he who beholds floating in mid- 
air the sad visions that the many may 
not view; is not he who ponders over 
the perfume of some novel flower; is 
not he whose brain grows bewildered 
with the meaning of some musical ca- 
dence which has never before arrested 
his attention. 


172 


Amid frequent and thoughtful en- 
deavors to remember, amid earnest 
struggles to regather some token of the 
state of seeming nothingness into which 
my soul had lapsed, there have been 
moments when I have dreamed of suc- 
cess; there have been brief, very brief 
periods when I have conjured up re- 
membrances which the lucid reason of 
a later epoch assures me could have 
had reference only to that condition of 
seeming unconsciousness. ‘These shad- 
ows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall 
figures that lifted and bore me in silence 
down—down—still down—till a hideous 
dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea 
of the interminableness of the descent. 
They tell also of a vague horror at my 
heart, on account of that heart’s un- 
natural stillness. Then comes a sense 
of sudden motionlessness throughout all 
things; as if those who bore me (a 
ghastly train!) had outrun, in their 
descent, the limits of the limitless, and 
paused from the wearisomeness of their 
toil. After this I call to mind flatness 
and dampness; and then all is madness 
—the madness of a memory which 
busies itself among forbidden things. 

Very suddenly there came back to my 
soul motion and sound—the tumultu- 
ous motion of the heart, and, in my 
ears, the sound of its beating. Then a 
pause in which all is blank. Then 
again sound, and motion, and touch—a 
tinghng sensation pervading my frame. 
Then the mere consciousness of exist- 
ence, without thought—a _ condition 
which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, 
thought, and shuddering terror, and 
earnest endeavor to comprehend my 
true state. Then a strong desire to 
lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing 
revival of soul and a successful effort 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


to move. And now a full memory of 
the trial, of the judges, of the sable 
draperies, of the sentence, of the sick- 
ness, of the swoon. Then entire for- 
getfulness of all that followed; of all 
that a later day and much earnestness 
of endeavor have enabled me vaguely 
to recall. 

So far, I had not opened my eyes. 
I felt that I lay upon my back, unbound. 
I reached out my hand, and it fell 
heavily upon something damp and hard. 
There I suffered it to remain for many 
minutes, while I strove to imagine where 
and what I could be. I longed, dared 
not, to employ my vision. I dreaded 
the first glance at objects around me. 
It was not that I feared to look upon 
things horrible, but that I grew aghast 
lest there should be nothing to see. 
At length, with a wild desperation at 
heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My 
worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. 
The blackness of eternal night encom- 
passed me. I struggled for breath. 
The intensity of the darkness seemed to 
oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere 
was intolerably close. I still lay quietly, 
and made effort to exercise my reason. 
I brought to mind the inquisitorial 
proceedings, and attempted from that 
point to deduce my real condition. The 
sentence had passed; and it appeared 
to me that a very long interval of time 
had since elapsed. Yet not for a mo- 
ment did I suppose myself actually 
dead. Such a supposition, notwith- 
standing what we read in fiction, is 
altogether inconsistent with real ex- 
istence;—but where and in what state 
was I? The condemned to death, I 
knew, perished usually at the auto-da- 
fes, and one of these had been held 
on the very night of the day of my 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 


trial. Had I been remanded to my 
dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, 
which would not take place for many 
months? ‘This I at once saw could not 
be. Victims had been in immediate 
demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as 
well as all the condemned cells at 
Toledo, had stone floors, and light was 
not altogether excluded. 

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the 
blood in torrents upon my heart, and 
for a brief period I once more relapsed 
into insensibility. Upon recovering, I 
at once started to my feet, trembling 
convulsively in every fibre. I thrust 
my arms wildly above and around me 
in all directions. I felt nothing; yet 
dreaded to move a step, lest I should 
be impeded by the walls of a tomb. 
Perspiration burst from every pore, and 
stood in cold big beads upon my fore- 
head. The agony of suspense grew at 
length intolerable, and I cautiously 
moved forward, with my arms extended, 
and my eyes straining from their sockets 
in the hope of catching some faint ray 
of light. I proceeded for many paces; 
but still all was blackness and vacancy. 
I breathed more freely. It seemed evi- 
dent that mine was not, at least, the 
most hideous of fates. 

And now, as [I still continued to step 
cautiously onward, there came throng- 
ing upon my recollection a thousand 
‘vague rumors of the horrors of Toledo. 
Of the dungeons there had been strange 
things narrated—fables I had always 
deemed them,—but yet strange, and 
too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. 
Was I left to perish of starvation in 
the subterranean world of darkness; or 
what fate, perhaps even more fearful, 
awaited me? That the result would be 
death, and a death of more than cus- 


173 


tomary bitterness, I knew too well the 
character of my judges to doubt. The 
mode and the hour were all that oc- 
cupied or distracted me. 

My outstretched hands at length en- 
countered some solid obstruction. It 
was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry 
—very smooth, slimy, and cold. I fol- 
lowed it up; stepping with all the care- 
ful distrust with which certain antique 
narratives had inspired me. This pro- 
cess, however, afforded me no means 
of ascertaining the dimensions of my 
dungeon, as I might make its circuit 
and return to the point whence I set 
out without being aware of the fact, so 
perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I 
therefore sought the knife which had 
been in my pocket when led into the 
inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; 
my clothes had been exchanged for a 
wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought 
of forcing the blade in some minute 
crevice of the masonry, so as to identify 
my point of departure. ‘The difficulty, 
nevertheless, was but trivial; although, 
in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed 
at first insuperable. I tore a part of 
the hem from the robe and placed the 
fragment at full length, and at right 
angles to the wall. In groping my way 
around the prison, I could not fail to 
encounter this rag upon completing the 
circuit. So, at least, I thought; but I 
had not counted upon the extent of the 
dungeon, or upon my own weakness. 
The ground was moist and slippery. 
I staggered onward for some time, when 
I stumbled and fell. My excessive 
fatigue induced me to remain prostrate; 
and sleep soon overtook me as I lay. 

Upon awaking, and stretching forth 
an arm, I found beside me a loaf and 
a pitcher with water. I was too much 


174 


exhausted to reflect upon this circum- 
stance, but ate and drank with avidity. 
Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour 
around the prison, and with much toil, 
came at last upon the fragment of the 
serge. Up to the period when I fell, 
I had counted fifty-two paces, and, upon 
resuming my walk, I had counted forty- 
eight more—when I arrived at the rag. 
There were in all, then, a hundred 
paces; and, admitting two paces to the 
yard, I presumed the dungeon to be 
fifty yards in circuit. I had met, how- 
ever, with many angles in the wall, and 
thus I could form no guess at the shape 
of the vault, for vault I could not help 
supposing it to be. 

I had little object—certainly no hope 
—in these researches; but a vague curi- 
Osity prompted me to continue them. 
Quitting the wall, I resolved to cross 
the area of the enclosure. At first, I 
proceeded with extreme caution, for 
the floor, although seemingly of solid 
material, was treacherous with slime. 
At length, however, I took courage, and 
did not hesitate to step firmly—en- 
deavoring to cross in as direct a line 
as possible. I had advanced some ten 
or twelve paces in this manner, when 
the remnant of the torn hem of my 
robe became entangled between my legs. 
I stepped on it, and fell violently on 
my face. 

In the confusion attending my fall, I 
did not immediately apprehend a some- 
what startling circumstance, which yet, 
in a few seconds afterward, and while 
I still lay prostrate, arrested my atten- 
tion. It was this: my chin rested upon 
the floor of the prison, but my lips, and 
the upper portion of my head, although 
seemingly at a less elevation than the 
chin, touched nothing. At the same 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


time, my forehead seemed bathed in a 
clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell 
of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. 
I put forward my arm, and shuddered 
to find that I had fallen at the very 
brink of a circular pit, whose extent, 
of course, I had no means of ascertain- 
ing at the moment. Groping about the 
masonry just below the margin, I suc- 
ceeded in dislodging a small fragment, 
and let it fall into the abyss. For many 
seconds I hearkened to its reverbera- 
tions as it dashed against the sides of 
the chasm in its descent; at length, 
there was a sullen plunge into water, 
succeeded by loud echoes. At the same 
moment, there came a sound resembling 
the quick opening and as rapid closing 
of a door overhead, while a faint gleam 
of light flashed suddenly through the 
gloom, and as suddenly faded away. 

I saw clearly the doom which had 
been prepared for me, and congratu- 
lated myself upon the timely accident 
by which I had escaped. Another step 
before my fall, and the world had seen 
me no more. And the death just 
avoided was of that very character 
which I had regarded as fabulous and 
frivolous in the tales respecting the 
Inquisition. To the victims of its 
tyranny, there was the choice of death 
with its direst physical agonies, or death 
with its most hideous moral horrors. 
I had been reserved for the latter. By 
long suffering my nerves had been un- 
strung, until I trembled at the sound of 
my Own voice, and had become in every 
respect a fitting subject for the species 
of torture which awaited me. 

Shaking in every limb, I groped my 
way back to the wall—resolving there 
to perish rather than risk the terrors 
of the wells, of which my imagination 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 


now pictured many in various positions 
about the dungeon. In other conditions 
of mind, I might have had courage to 
end my misery at once, by a plunge 
into one of these abysses; but now I 
was the veriest of cowards. Neither 
_ could I forget what I had read of these 
pits—that the sudden extinction of life 
formed no part of their most horrible 
plan. 

Agitation of spirit kept me awake 
for many long hours, but at length I 
again slumbered. Upon arousing, I 
found by my side, as before, a loaf 
and a pitcher of water. A burning 
thirst consumed me, and I emptied the 
vessel at a draught. It must have been 
drugged—for scarcely had I drunk, be- 
fore I became irresistibly drowsy. A 
deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep like 
that of death. How long it lasted, of 
course I know not; but when, once 
again, I unclosed my eyes, the objects 
around me were visible. By a wild, 
sulphurous lustre, the origin of which 
I could not at first. determine, I was 
enabled to see the extent and aspect of 
the prison. 

In its size I had been greatly mis- 
taken. The whole circuit of its walls 
did not exceed twenty-five yards. For 
some minutes this fact occasioned me a 
world of vain trouble; vain indeed— 
for what could be of less importance, 
‘nder the terrible circumstances which 
environed me, than the mere dimensions 
of my dungeon? But my soul took a 
wild interest in trifles, and I busied my- 
self in endeavors to account for the 
error I had committed in my measure- 
ment. The truth at length flashed upon 
me. In my first attempt at exploration 
I had counted fifty-two paces, up to 
the period when I fell: I must then have 


Yr 


been within a pace or two of the frag- 
ment of serge; in fact, I had nearly 
performed the circuit of the vault. I 
then slept and, upon awaking, I must 
have returned upon my steps—thus sup- 
posing the circuit nearly double what 
it actually was. My confusion of mind 
prevented me from observing that I 
began my tour with the wall to the left, 
and ended it with the wall to the right. 

I had been deceived, too, in respect 
to the shape of the enclosure. In feel- 
ing my way I had found many angles, 
and thus deduced an idea of great ir- 
regularity; so potent is the effect of 
total darkness upon one arousing from 
lethargy or sleep! The angles were 
simply those of a few slight depressions, 
or niches, at odd intervals. The gen- 
eral shape of the prison was square. 
What I had taken for masonry seemed 
now to be iron, or some other metal, in 
huge plates, whose sutures or joints 
occasioned the depression. The entire 
surface of this metallic enclosure was 
rudely daubed in all the hideous and 
repulsive devices to which the charnel 
superstition of the monks has given rise. 
The figures of fiends in aspects of men- 
ace, with skeleton forms, and other 
more really fearful images, overspread 
and disfigured the walls. I observed 
that the outlines of these monstrosities 
were sufficiently distinct, but that the 
colors seemed faded and blurred, as if 
from the effects of a damp atmosphere. 
I now noticed the floor, too, which was 
of stone. In the centre yawned the 
circular pit from whose jaws I had 
escaped; but it was the only one in 
the dungeon. 

All this I saw indistinctly and by 
much effort—for my personal condi- 
tion had been greatly changed during 


176 


slumber. I now lay upon my back, and 
at full length, on a species of low frame- 
work of wood. To this I was securely 
bound by a long strap resembling a 
surcingle. It passed in many convolu- 
tions about my limbs and body, leaving 
at liberty only my head, and my left 
arm to such an extent, that I could, by 
dint of much exertion, supply myself 
with food from an earthen dish which 
lay by my side on the floor. I saw, to 
my horror, that the pitcher had been 
removed. I say to my horror—for I 
was consumed with intolerable thirst. 
This thirst it appeared to be the design 
of my persecutors to stimulate—for the 
food in the dish was meat pungently 
seasoned. 

Looking upward, I surveyed the ceil- 
ing of my prison. It was some thirty 
or forty feet overhead, and constructed 
much as the side walls. In one of its 
panels a very singular figure riveted 
my whole attention. It was the painted 
figure of Time as he is commonly rep- 
resented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, 
he held what, at a casual glance, I sup- 
posed to be the pictured image of a 
huge pendulum, such as we see on an- 
tique clocks. There was something, 
however, in the appearance of this ma- 
chine which caused me to regard it 
more attentively. While I gazed directly 
upward at it (for its position was im- 
mediately over my own) I fancied that 
I saw it in motion. In an instant after- 
ward the fancy was confirmed. Its 
sweep was brief, and of course slow. 
I watched it for some minutes some- 
what in fear, but more in wonder. 
Wearied at length with observing its 
dull movement, I turned my eyes upon 
the other objects in the cell. 

A slight noise attracted my notice, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and, looking to the floor, I saw several 
enormous rats traversing it. They had 
issued from the well which lay just 
within view to my right. Even then, 
while I gazed, they came up in troops, 
hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured 
by the scent of the meat. From this 
it required much effort and attention 
to scare them away. 

It might have been half an hour, 
perhaps, even an hour (for I could take 
but imperfect note of time), before I 
again cast my eyes upward. What I 
then saw confounded and amazed me. 
The. sweep of the pendulum had in- 
creased in extent by nearly a yard. Asa 
natural consequence its velocity was 
also much greater. But what mainly 
disturbed me was the idea that it had 
perceptibly descended. I now observed 
—with what horror it is needless to say 
—that its nether extremity was formed 
of a crescent of glittering steel, about 
a foot in length from horn to horn; the 
horns upward, and the under edge evi- 
dently as keen as that of a razor. Like 
a razor also, it seemed massy and 
heavy, tapering from the edge into a 
solid and broad structure above. It 
was appended to a weighty rod of brass, 
and the whole hissed as it swung through 
the air. 

I could no longer doubt the doom 
prepared for me by monkish ingenuity 
in torture. My cognizance of the pit 
had become known to the inquisitorial 
agents—the pit, whose horrors had been 
destined for so bold a recusant as my: 
self—the pit, typical of hell and re- 
garded by rumor as the Ultima Thule 
of all their punishments. The plunge 
into this pit I had avoided by the merest 
of accidents, and I knew that surprise, 
or entrapment into torment, formed an 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 177 


irnportant portion of all the grotes- 
querie of these dungeon deaths. Hav- 
ing failed to fall, it was no part of the 
demon plan to hurl me into the abyss, 
and thus (there being no alternative) a 
different and a milder destruction 
awaited me. _Milder! I half smiled in 
my agony as I thought of such appli- 
cation of such a term. 

What boots it to tell of the long, 
long hours of horror more than mortal, 
during which I counted the rushing 
oscillations of the steel! Inch by inch 
—line by line—with a descent only 
appreciable at intervals that seemed 
ages—down and still down it came! 
Days passed—it might have been that 
many days passed—ere it swept so 
closely over me as to fan me with its 
acrid breath. The odor of the sharp 
steel forced itself into my nostrils. I 
prayed—I wearied heaven with my 
prayer for its more speedy descent. I 
grew frantically mad, and struggled to 
force myself upward against the sweep 
of the fearful scimitar. And then I 
fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at 
the glittering death, as a child at some 
rare bauble. 

There was another interval of utter 
insensibility; it was brief; for, upon 
again lapsing into life, there had been 
no perceptible descent in the pendulum. 
But it might have been long—for I 
knew there were demons who took note 
of my swoon, and who could have ar- 
rested the vibration at pleasure. Upon 
my recovery, too, I felt very—oh! in- 
expressibly—sick and weak, as_ if 
through long inanition. Even amid the 
agonies of that period, the human 
nature craved food. With painful effort 
I outstretched my left arm as far as 
my bonds permitted, and took posses- 


sion of the small remnant which had 
been spared me by the rats. As I put 
a portion of it within my lips, there 


rushed to my mind a_half-formed 
thought of joy—of hope. Yet what 
business had J with hope? It was, as 


I say, a half-formed thought—man has 
many such, which are never completed. 
I felt that it was of joy—of hope; but 
I felt also that it had perished in its 
formation. In vain I struggled to per- 
fect—to regain it. Long suffering had 
nearly annihilated all my _ ordinary 
powers of mind. I was an imbecile— 
an idiot. 

The vibration of the pendulum was 
at right angles to my length. I saw 
that the crescent was designed to cross 
the region of the heart. It would fray 
the serge of my robe—it would return 
and repeat its operations—again—and 
again. Notwithstanding its terrifically 
wide sweep (some thirty feet or more), 
and the hissing vigor of its descent, 
sufficient to sunder these very walls of 
iron, still the fraying of my robe would 
be all that, for several minutes, it would 
accomplish. And at this thought I 
paused. I dared not go further than 
this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a 
pertinacity of attention—as if, in so 
dwelling, I could arrest here the descent 
of the steel. I forced myself to ponder 
upon the sound of the crescent as it 
should pass across the garment—upon 
the peculiar thrilling sensation which 
the friction of cloth produces on the 
nerves. JI pondered upon all this frivol~ 
ity until my teeth were on edge. 

Down—steadily down it crept. I 
took a frenzied pleasure in contrasting 
its downward with its lateral velocity. 
To the right—to the left—far and wide 
with the shriek of a damned spirit! tn 


178 


my heart, with the stealthy pace of the 
tiger! I alternately laughed and howled, 
as the one or the other idea grew pre- 
dominant. 

Down—certainly, relentlessly down! 
It vibrated within three inches of my 
bosom! I struggled violently—furiously 
—to free my left arm. This was free 
only from the elbow to the hand. I 
could reach the latter, from the plat- 
ter beside me, to my mouth, with great 
effort, but no farther. Could I have 
broken the fastenings above the elbow, 
I would have seized and attempted to 
arrest the pendulum. I might as well 
have attempted to arrest an avalanche! 

Down—still unceasingly—still inevi- 
tably down! I gasped and struggled 
at each vibration. I shrunk convul- 
sively at its every sweep. My eyes 
followed its outward or upward whorls 
with the eagerness of the most un- 
meaning despair; they closed them- 
selves spasmodically at the descent, 
although death would have been a 
relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I 
quivered in every nerve to think how 
slight a sinking of the machinery would 
precipitate that keen, glistening axe 
upon my bosom. It was hope that 
prompted the nerve to quiver—the 
frame to shrink. It was hope—the 
hope that triumphs on the rack—that 
whispers to the death-condemned even 
in the dungeons of the Inquisition. 

I saw that some ten or twelve vibra- 
tions would bring the steel in actual 
contact with my robe—and with this 
observation there suddenly came over 
my spirit all the keen, collected calm- 
ness of despair. For the first time dur- 
ing many hours—or perhaps days—I 
thought. It now occurred to me, that 
the bandage. or surcingle, which en- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


veloped me, was unique. I was tied 
by no separate cord. The first stroke 
of the razor-like crescent athwart any 
portion of the band would so detach 
it that it might be unwound from my 
person by means of my left hand. But 
how fearful, in that case, -the proximity 
of the steel! The result of the slightest 
struggle, how deadly! Was it likely, 
moreover, that the minions of the tor- 
turer had not foreseen and provided for 
this possibility? Was it probable that 
the bandage crossed my bosom in the 
track of the pendulum? Dreading to 
find my faint and, as it seemed, my last 
hope frustrated, I so far elevated my 
head as to obtain a distinct view of my 
breast. The surcingle enveloped my 
limbs and body close in all directions— 
save in the path of the destroying cres- 
cent, 

Scarcely had I dropped my head back 
into its original position, when there 
flashed upon my mind what I cannot 
better describe than as the unformed 
half of that idea of deliverance to 
which I had previously alluded, and 
of which a moiety only floated indeter- 
roinately through my brain when I 
raised food to my burning lips. The 
whole thought was now present—feeble, 
scarcely sane, scarcely definite—but 
still entire. I proceeded at once, with 
the nervous energy of despair, to at- 
tempt its execution. 

For many hours the immediate vicin- 
ity of the low framework upon which 
I lay had been literally swarming with 
rats. They were wild, bold, ravenous— 
their red eyes glaring upon me as if 
they waited but for motionlessness on 
my part to make me their prey. “To 
what food,” I thought, “have they been 
accustomed in the well?” 





THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 


They had devoured, in spite of all 
my efforts to prevent them, all but a 
small remnant of the contents of the 
dish. JI had fallen into an _ habitual 
see-saw or wave of the hand about the 
platter; and, at length, the unconscious 
uniformity of the movement deprived 
it of effect. In their voracity, the ver- 
min frequently fastened their. sharp 
fangs in my fingers. With the particles 
of the oily and spicy viand which now 
remained, I thoroughly rubbed the ban- 
dage wherever I could reach it; then, 
raising my hand from the floor, I lay 
breathlessly still. 

At first, the ravenous animals were 
startled and terrified at the change— 
at the cessation of movement. ‘They 
shrank alarmedly back; many sought 
the well. But this was only for a 
moment. I had not counted in vain 
upon their voracity. Observing that I 
remained without motion, one or two 
of the boldest leaped upon the frame- 
work, and smelt at the surcingle. This 
seemed the signal for a general rush. 
Forth from the well they hurried in 
fresh troops. They clung to the wood 
—they overran it, and leaped in hun- 
dreds upon my person. The measured 


movement of the pendulum disturbed 


they busied themselves with the anointed — 


them not at all. Avoiding its strokes, 


bandage. They pressed—they swarmed 


upon me in ever accumulating heaps. 





would be over. 


‘They writhed upon my throat; their 


cold lips sought my own; I was half 
stifled by their thronging pressure: dis- 
gust, for which the world has no name, 


swelled my bosom, and chilled, with a 


heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet one 


minute, and I felt that the struggle 


Plainly I perceived the 
loosening of the bandage. I knew that 


179 


in more than one place it must be 
already severed. With a more than 
human resolution I lay séill. 

Nor had I erred in my calculations— 
nor had I endured in vain. I at length 
felt that I was free. The surcingle hung 
in ribands from my body. But the 
stroke of the pendulum already pressed 
upon my bosom. It had divided the 
serge of the robe. It had cut through 
the linen beneath. Twice again it 
swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot 
through every nerve. But the moment 
of escape had arrived. At a wave of 
my hand my deliverers hurried tumul- 
tuously away. With a steady move- 
ment—cautious, sidelong, shrinking, and 
slow—I slid from the embrace of the 
bandage and beyond the reach of the 
scimitar. For the moment, at least, 
I was free. 

Free!—and in the grasp of the In- 
quisition! I had scarcely stepped from 
my wooden bed of horror upon the 
stone floor of the prison, when the 
motion of the hellish machine ceased, 
and I beheld it drawn up, by some in- 
visible force, through the ceiling. This 
was a lesson which I took desperately 
to heart. My every motion was un- 
doubtedly watched. Free!—I had but 
escaped death in one form of agony, 
to be delivered unto worse than death 
in some other. With that thought I 
rolled my eyes nervously around on 
the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. 
Something unusual—some change which, 
at first, I could not appreciate distinctly 
—it was obvious, had taken place in the 
apartment. For many minutes of a 
dreamy and trembling abstraction, I 
busied myself in vain, unconnected con- 
jecture. During this period, I became 
aware, for the first time, of the origin 


180 


of the sulphurous light which illumined 
the cell. It proceeded from a fissure, 
about half an inch in width, extending 
entirely around the prison at the base 
of the walls, which thus appeared, and 
were completely separated from the 
floor. J endeavored, but of course in 
vain, to look through the aperture. 
As I arose from the attempt, the mys- 
tery of the alteration in the chamber 
broke at once upon my understanding. 
I have observed that, although the out- 
lines of the figures upon the walls were 


sufficiently distinct, yet the colors 
seemed blurred and indefinite. These 
colors had now assumed, and were 


momentarily assuming, a startling and 
most intense brilliancy, that gave to 
the spectral and fiendish portraitures an 
aspect that might have thrilled even 
firmer nerves than my own. Demon 
eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, 
glared upon me in a thousand directions 
where none had been visible before, 
and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a 
fire that I could not force my imagina- 
tion to regard as unreal. 
Unreal!—even while I_ breathed 
there came to my nostrils the breath 
of the vapor of heated iron! A suffocat- 
ing odor pervaded the prison! A deeper 
glow settled each moment in the eyes 
that glared at my agonies! A richer 
tint of crimson diffused itself over the 
pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I 
gasped for breath! ‘There could be no 
doubt of the design of my tormentors— 
oh! most unrelenting! oh! most de- 
moniac of men! I shrank from the 
glowing metal to the centre of the cell. 
Amid the thought of the fiery destruc- 
tion that impended, the idea of the 
coolness of the well came over my soul 
like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I threw my straining vision below. The 
glare from the enkindled roof illumined 
its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild 
moment, did my spirit refuse to compre- 
hend the meaning of what I saw. At 
Jength it forced—it wrestled its way 
into my soul—it burned itself in upon 
my shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice 
to speak!—oh! horror!—oh! any hor- 
ror but this! With a shriek, I rushed 
from the margin, and buried my face 
in my hands—weeping bitterly. 

The heat rapidly increased, and once 
again I looked up, shuddering as with a 
fit of the ague. There had been a 
second change in the cell—and now the 
change was obviously in the form. As 
before, it was in vain that I at first 
endeavored to appreciate or understand 
what was taking place. But not long 
was I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial 
vengeance had been hurried by my 
two-fold escape, and there was to be no 
more dallying with the King of Terrors. 
The room had been square. I saw that 
two of its iron angles were now acute— 
two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful 
difference quickly increased with a low 
rumbling or moaning sound. In an in- 
stant the apartment had shifted its form 
into that of a lozenge. But the altera- 
tion stopped not here—I neither hoped 
nor desired it to stop. I could have 
clasped the red walls to my bosom as 
a garment of eternal peace. “Death,” 
I said, “any death but that of the pit!” 
Fool! might I not have known that 
into the pit it was the object of the 
burning iron to urge me? Could I 
resist its glow? or if even that, could I 
withstand its pressure? And now, flat- 
ter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a 
rapidity that left me no time for con- 
templation. Its centre, and of course 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 181 


its greatest width, came just over the 
yawning gulf. I shrank back—but the 
closing walls pressed me resistlessly on- 
ward. At length for my seared and 
writhing body there was no longer an 
inch of foothold on the firm floor of 
the prison. I struggled no more, but 
the agony of my soul found vent in 
one loud, long, and final scream of 
despair. I felt that I tottered upon the 
brink—-I averted my eyes— 


There was a discordant hum of 
human voices! There was a loud blast 
as of many trumpets! There was a 
harsh grating as of a thousand thun- 
ders! The fiery walls rushed back! 
An outstretched arm caught my own 
as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It 
was that of General Lasalle. The 
French army had entered Toledo. The 
Inquisition was in the hands of its 
enemies, 


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The Assignation 


(This tale is also called The Visionary. 


It was first published in the Southern 


Literary Messenger, July, 1835.—Ed.) 


ILL-FATED and mysterious man!—be- 
wildered in the brilliancy of thine own 
imagination, and fallen in the flames 
of thine own youth! Again in fancy I 
behold thee! Once more thy form hath 
risen before me!—not—oh! as thou 
art—in the cold valley and shadow— 
but as they shouldst be—squandering 
away a life of magnificent meditation 
-in that city of dim visions, thine own 
Venice—which is a star-beloved Ely- 
sium of the sea, and the wide win- 
dows of whose Palladian palaces look 
down with a deep and bitter meaning 
upon the secrets of her silent waters. 
Yes! I repeat it—as thou shouldst be. 
There are surely other worlds than 
this—other thoughts than the thoughts 
of the multitude—other speculations 
than the speculations of the sophist. 
Who then shall call thy conduct into 
question? who blame thee for thy vis- 
ionary hours, or denounce those occu- 
pations as a wasting away of life, 
which were but the overflowings of 
thine everlasting energies? 

It was at Venice, beneath the cov- 
ered archway there called the Ponte 
di Sospiri, that I met, for the third 
or fourth time the person of whom I 
speak. It is with a confused recol- 
lection that I bring to mind the cir- 
cumstances of that meeting. Yet I 
remember—ah! how should I forget?—- 
the deep midnight, the Bridge of 
Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the 


Genius of Romance that stalked up and 
down the narrow canal. 

It was a night of unusual gloom. 
The great clock of the Piazza had 
sounded the fifth hour of the Italian 
evening. The square of the Campanile 
lay silent and deserted, and the lights 
in the old Ducal Palace were dying 
fast away. I was returning home from 
the Piazetta, by way of the Grand 
Canal. But as my gondola arrived op- 
posite the mouth of the canal San 
Marco, a female voice from its recesses 
broke suddenly upon the night, in one 
wild, hysterical, and _ long-continued 
shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang 
upon my feet; while the gondolier, 
letting slip his single oar, lost it in 
the pitchy darkness beyond a chance 
of recovery, and we were consequently 
left to the guidance of the current 
which here sets from the greater inte 
the smaller channel. Like some huge 
and sable-feathered condor, we were 
slowly drifting down toward the Bridge 
of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaux 
flashing from the windows, and down 
the staircases of the Ducal Palace, 
turned all at once that deep gloom into 
a livid and praeternatural day. 

A child, slipping from the arms of. 
its own mother, had fallen from an 
upper window of the lofty structure 
into the deep and dim canal. The 
quiet waters had closed placidly over 
their victim; and, although my own 


183 


134 


gondola was the only one in sight, 
many a stout swimmer, already in the 
stream, was seeking in vain upon the 
surface, the treasure which was to be 
found, alas! only within the abyss. 
Upon the broad black marble flagstones 
at the entrance of the palace, and a 
few steps above the water, stood a fig- 
ure which none who then saw can have 
ever since forgotten. It was the Mar- 
chesa Aphrodite—the adoration of all 
Venice—the gayest of the gay—the 
most lovely where all were beautiful— 
but still the young wife of the old and 
intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of 
that fair child, her first and only one, 
who now, deep beneath the murky wa- 
ter, was thinking in bitterness of heart 
upon her sweet caresses, and exhaust- 
ing its little life in struggles to call 
upon her name. 

She stood alone. Her small, bare 
and silvery feet gleamed in the black 
mirror of marble beneath her. Her 
hair, not as yet more than half loos- 
ened for the night from its ball-room 
array, clustered, amid a shower of dia- 
monds, round and round her classical 
head, in curls like those of the young 
hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze- 
like drapery seemed to be nearly the 
sole covering to her delicate form; but 
the mid-summer and midnight air was 
hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in 
the statue-like form itself, stirred even 
the folds of that raiment of very vapor 
which hung around it as the heavy mar- 
.ble hangs around the Niobe. Yet— 
strange to say!—her large lustrous 
eyes were not turned downward upon 
that grave wherein her brightest hope 
Jay buried—but riveted in a _ widely 
different direction! The prison of the 
Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


building in all Venice—but how could 
that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when 
beneath her lay stifling her own child? 
Yon dark, gloomy niche, too, yawns 
right opposite her chamber window— 
what, then could there be in its shad- 
ows—in its architecture—in its ivy- 
wreathed and solemn cornices—that the 
Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered 
at a thousand times before? Non- 
sense—Who does not remember that, 
at such a time as this, the eye, like a 
shattered mirror, multiplies the images 
of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable 
far-off places, the woe which is close 
at hand? 

Many steps above the Marchesa, and 
within the arch of the water-gate, stood, 
in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of 
Mentoni himself. He was occasion- 
ally occupied in thrumming a guitar, 
and seemed ennuye to the very death, 
as at intervals he gave directions for 
the recovery of his child. Stupefied 
and aghast, I had myself no power to 
move from the upright position I had 
assumed upon first hearing the shriek, 
and must have presented to the eyes of 
the agitated group a spectral and omi- 
nous appearance, as with pale counte- 
nance and rigid limbs, I floated down 
among them in that funereal gondola. 

All efforts proved in vain. Many 
of the most energetic in the search 
were relaxing their exertions, and yield- 
ing to a gloomy sorrow. There seemed 
but little hope for the child; (how 
much less than for the mother!) but 
now, from the interior of that dark 
niche which has been already mentioned 
as forming a part of the Old Repub- 
lican prison, and as fronting the lat- 
tice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled 
in a cloak, stepped out within reach 


THE ASSIGNATION 185 


of the light, and, pausing a moment 
upon the verge of the giddy descent, 
plunged headlong into the canal. As, in 
an instant afterward, he stood with 
the still living and breathing child 
within his grasp, upon the marble flag- 
stones by the side of the Marchesa, 
his cloak, heavy with the drenching 
water, became unfastened, and, falling 
in folds about his feet, discovered to 
the wonder-stricken spectators the 
graceful person of a very young man, 
with the sound of whose name the 
greater part of Europe was then ring- 
ing. 

No word spoke the deliverer. But 
the Marchesa! She will now receive 
her child—she will press it to her 
heart—she will cling to its little form, 
and smother it with her caresses. 
_another’s arms have taken it from the 
stranger—another’s arms have taken it 
away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, 
into the palace! And the Marchesa! 
Her lip—her beautiful lip trembles; 
tears are gathering in her eyes—those 
eyes which, like Pliny’s acanthus, are 
“soft and almost liquid.” Yes! tears 
are gathering in those eyes—and see! 
the entire woman thrills throughout the 
soul, and the statue has started into 
life! The pallor of the marble counte- 
nance, the swelling of the marble bosom, 
the very purity of the marble feet, we 
behold suddenly flushed over with a 
tide of ungovernable crimson; and a 
slight shudder quivers about her deli- 
cate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli 
about the rich silver lilies in the grass. 

Why should that lady blush! To 
this demand there is no answer—ex- 
cept that, having left, in the eager 
haste and terror of a mother’s heart, 
the privacy of her own boudoir, she 


Alas! 


has neglected to enthral her tiny feet 
in their slippers, and utterly forgotten 
to throw over her Venetian shoulders 
that drapery which is their due. What 
other possible reason could there have 
been for her so blushing?—for the 
glance of those wild appealing eyes?— 
for the unusual tumult of that throb- 
bing bosom?—for the convulsive pres- 
sure of that trembling hand?—that 
hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into 
the palace, accidentally, upon the hand 
of the stranger. What reason could 
there have been for the low—the sin- 
gularly low tone of those unmeaning 
words which the lady uttered hurriedly 
in bidding him adieu? ‘Thou hast 
conquered,” she said, or the murmurs 
of the water deceived me; “thou ‘hast 
conquered—one hour after sunrise—we 
shall meet—so let it be!” 
* + x * * * 

The tumult had subsided, the lights 
had died away within the palace, and 
the stranger, whom I now recognized, 
stood alone upon the flags. He shook 
with inconceivable agitation, and his 
eyes glanced around in search of a 
gondola. I could not do less than 
offer him the service of my own; and 
he accepted the civility. Having ob- 
tained an oar at the water-gate, we 
proceeded together to his residence, 
while he rapidly recovered his self- 
possession, and spoke of our former 
slight acquaintance in terms of great 
apparent cordiality. 

There are some subjects upon which 
T take pleasure in being minute. The 
person of the stranger—let me call him 
by this title, who to all the world was 
still a stranger—the person of the 
stranger is one of these subjects. In 
height he might have been below rather 


186 


than above the medium size: although 
there were moments of intense passion 
when his frame actually expanded and 
belied the assertion. The light, al- 
most slender symmetry of his figure 
promised more of that ready activity 
which he evinced at the Bridge of 
Sighs, than of that Herculean strength 
which he has been known to wield 
without an effort, upon occasions of 
more dangerous emergency. With the 
mouth and chin of a deity—singular, 
wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows 
varied from pure hazel to intense and 
brilliant jet—and a profusion of curl- 
ing, black hair, from which a fore- 
head of unusual breadth gleamed forth 
at intervals all light and ivory—his 
were features than which I have seen 
none more classically regular, except, 
perhaps, the marble ones of the Em- 
peror Commodus. Yet his countenance 
was, nevertheless, one of those which 
all men have never afterward seen 
again. It had no peculiar, it had no 
settled predominant expression to be 
fastened upon the memory; a counte- 
nance seen and instantly forgotten, but 
forgotten with a vague and never-ceas- 
ing desire of recalling it to mind. Not 
that the spirit of each rapid passion 
failed, at any time, to throw its own 
distinct image upon the mirror of that 
face—but that the mirror, mirror-like, 
retained no vestige of the passion, 
when the passion had departed. 

Upon leaving him on the night of 
our adventure, he solicited me, in what 
I thought an urgent manner, to call 
upon him very early the next morning. 
Shortly after sunrise, I found myself 
accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those 
huge structures of gloomy yet fantastic 
vomp, which tower above the waters 


WORKs OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of 
the Rialto. I was shown up a broad 
winding staircase of mosaics, into an 
apartment whose unparalleled splendor 
burst through the opening door with 
an actual glare, making me blind and 
dizzy with luxuriousness. 

I knew my acquaintance to be 
wealthy. Report had spoken of his 
possessions in terms which I had even 
ventured to call terms of ridiculous 
exaggeration. But as I gazed about 
me, I could not bring myself to believe 
that the wealth of any subject in Eu- 
rope could have supplied the princely 
magnificence which burned and blazed 
around. 

Although, as I say, the sun had 
arisen, yet the room was still bril- 
liantly lighted up. I judge from this 
circumstance, as well as from an air 
of exhaustion in the countenance of 
my friend, that he had not retired to 
bed during the whole of the preceding 
night. In the architecture and embel- 
lishments of the chamber, the evident 
design had been to dazzle and astound. - 
Little attention had been paid to the 
decora ot what is technically called 
keeping, or to the proprieties of na- 
tionality. The eye wandered from obh- 
ject to object, and rested upon none—- 
neither the grotesques of the Greek 
painters, nor the sculptures of the best 
Italian days, nor the huge carvings of 
untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in 
every part of the room trembled to the 
vibration of low, melancholy music, 
whose origin was not to be discovered. 
The senses were oppressed by mingled 
and conflicting perfumes, reeking up 
from strange convolute censers, to- 
gether with multitudinous flaring and 
flickering tongues of emerald and vio- 


THE ASSIGNATION 


let fire. The rays of the newly risen 
sun poured in upon the whole, through 
windows, formed each of a single pane 
of crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to 
and fro, in a thousand reflections, from 
curtains which rolled from their cor- 
nices like cataracts of molten silver, 
the beams of natural glory mingled at 
length fitfully with the artificial light, 
and lay weltering in subdued masses 
upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking 
cloth of Chili gold. 

“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!’— 
laughed the proprietor, motioning me 
to a seat as I entered the room, and 
throwing himself back at full-length 
upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he, 
perceiving that I could not immediately 
reconcile myself to the bienseance of so 
singular a welcome,—‘I see you are 
astonished at my apartment—at my 
statues—my pictures—my originality 
of conception in architecture and up- 
holstery! absolutely drunk, eh, with my 
magnificence? But pardon me, my 
dear sir; (here his tone of voice 
dropped to the very spirit of cordial- 
ity,) pardon me for my _ uncharitable 
laughter. You appeared so wtterly as- 
tonished. Besides, some things are so 
completely ludicrous, that a man must 
laugh, or die. To die laughing must 
be the most glorious of all glorious 
deaths! Sir Thomas More—a very fine 
man was Sir Thomas More—Sir 
Thomas More died laughing, you re- 
member. Also in the ‘Absurdities’ of 
Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of 
characters who came to the same mag- 
nificent end. Do you know, however,” 
continued he, musingly, “that at Sparta 
(which is now Paleochori), at Sparta, 
I say, to the west of the citadel, among 
a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a 


187 


kind of socle, upon which are still 
legible the letters LASM. They are 
undoubtedly part of GELASMA. Now, 
at Sparta were a thousand tem- 
ples and shrines to a thousand differ- 
ent divinities. How exceedingly strange 
that the altar of Laughter should have 
survived all the others! But in the 
present instance,” he resumed, with a 
singular alteration of voice and man- 
ner, “I have no right to be merry at 
your expense. You might well have 
been amazed. Europe cannot produce 
any thing so fine as this, my little legal 
cabinet. My other apartments are by 
no means of the same order—mere 
ultras of fashionable insipidity. This 
is better than fashion—is it not? Yet 
this has but to be seen to become the 
rage—that is, with those who could af- 
ford it at the cost of their entire patri- 
mony. I have guarded, however, 
against any such profanation. With 
one exception, you are the only hu- 
man being, besides myself and my 
valet, who has been admitted within 
the mysteries of these imperial pre- 
cincts, since they have been bedizened 
as you see!” 

I bowed in acknowledgment—for the 
overpowering sense of splendor and 
perfume and music, together with the 
unexpected eccentricity of his address 
and manner, prevented me from ex- 
pressing, in words, my appreciation of 
what I might have construed into a 
compliment. 

“Here,’ he resumed, arising and 
leaning on mv arm as he sauntered 
around tne apartment, “here are paint- 
ings from the Greeks to Cimabue, and 
from Cimabue to the present hour. 
Many are chosen, as you see, with little 
deference to the opinions of Virtu. 


188 


They are all, however, fitting tapestry 
for a chamber such as this. Here, too, 
are some chef-d’oeuvres of the unknown 
great; and here, unfinished designs by 
men, celebrated in their day, whose 
very names the perspicacity of the 
academies has left to silence and to 
me. What think you,” said he, turning 
abruptly as he spoke,—‘‘what think you 
of this Madonna della Pieta?” 

“Tt is Guido’s own!” TI said, with 
all the enthusiasm of my nature, for I 
had been poring intently over its sur- 
passing loveliness. “It is Guido’s 
own!—how could you have obtained it? 
she is undoubtedly in painting what 
Venus is in sculpture.” 

“Ha!” said he, thoughtfully, “th 
Venusr—the beautiful Venus—the Ve- 
nus of the Medici?—she of the diminu- 
tive head and the gilded hair? Part 
of the left arm [here his voice dropped 
so as to be heard with difficulty], and 
all the right, are restorations, and in 
the coquetry of that right arm lies, 
I think, the quintessence of all affecta- 
tion. Give me the Canova! The 
Apollo, too, is a copy—there can be 
no doubt of it—blind fool that I am, 
who cannot behold the boasted inspira- 
tion of the Apollo! I cannot help— 
pity me!—TI cannot help preferring the 
Antinous. Was it not Socrates who 
said that the statuary found his statue 
in the block of marble? Then Michel 
Angelo was by no means original in his 
couplet— 

‘Non ha lottimo artista alcun concetto 
Che un marmo solo in se non circun- 
scriva.’ ” 

It has been, or should be remarked, 
that, in the manner of the true gentle- 
man, we are always aware of a differ- 
ence from the bearing of the vulgar, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


without being at once precisely able to 
determine in what such difference con- 
sists. Allowing the remark to have 
applied in its full force to the outward 
demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt 
it, on that eventful morning, still more 
fully applicable to his moral tempera- 
ment and character. Nor can I bet- 
ter define that peculiarity of spirit 
which seemed to place him so essenti- 
ally apart from all other human beings, 
than by calling it a abit of intense and 
continual thought, pervading even his 
most trivial actions—intruding upon 
his moments of dalliance—and _ inter- 
weaving itself with his very flashes of 
merriment—like adders which writhe 
from out the eyes of the grinning masks 
in the cornices around the temples of 
Persepolis. 

IT could not help, however, repeatedly 
observing, through the mingled tone of 
levity and solemnity with which he rap- 
idly descanted upon matters of little 
importance, a certain air of trepida- 
tion—a degree of nervous unction in 
action and in speech—an unquiet ex- 
citability of manner which appeared 
to me at all times unaccountable, and 
upon some occasions even filled me 
with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing 
in the middle of a sentence whose com- 
mencement he had apparently forgot- 
ten, he seemed to be listening in the 
deepest attention, as if either in mo- 
mentary expectation of a visitor, or to 
sounds which must have had existence 
in his imagination alone. 

Tt was during one of these reveries 
or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, 
in turning over a page of the poet and 
scholar Politian’s beautiful tragedy, 
“The Orfeo” (the first native Italian 
tragedy), which lay near me upon an 


THE ASSIGNATION 189 


ottoman, I discovered 2 passage under- 
lined in pencil. It was a passage to- 
ward the end of the third act—a pas- 
sage of the most heart-stirring excite- 
ment—a_ passage which, although 
tainted with impurity, no man_ shall 
read without a thrill of novel emo- 
tion—no woman without a sigh. The 
whole page was blotted with fresh 
tears; and, upon the opposite interleaf, 
were the following English lines, writ- 
ten in a hand so very different from 
the peculiar characters of my acquaint- 
ance, that I had some difficulty in 
recognizing it as his own: 


Thou wast that all to me, love, 
For which my soul did pine— 
A green isle in the sea, love, 
A fountain and a shrine, 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flow- 
ers; 
And all the flowers were mine. 


Ah, dream too bright to last! 

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise 
But to be overcast! - 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
“Onward!”—but o’er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, 
Mute—motionless—aghast! 


For alas! alas! with me 
The light of life is o’er. 
“No more—no more—no more,” 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 
To the sands upon the shore,) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 
Or the stricken eagle soar! 


Now all my hours are trances; 
And all my nightly dreams 

Are where thy dark eye glances, 
And where thy footstep gleams 


In what ethereal dances, 
By what Italian streams. 


Alas! for that accursed time 
They bore thee o’er the billow, 

From Love to titled age and crime, 
And an unholy pillow!— 

From me, and from our misty clime, 
Where weeps the silver willow! 


That these lines were written in Eng- 
lish—a language with which I had not 
believed their author acquainted—af- 
forded me little matter for surprise. I 
was too well aware of the extent of 
his acquirements, and of the singular 
pleasure he took in concealing them 
from observation, to be astonished at 
any similar discovery; but the place of 
date, I must confess, occasioned me 
no little amazement. It had been orig- 
inally London, and afterward carefully 
underscored—not, however, so effectu- 
ally as to conceal the word from a scru- 
tinizing eye. I say, this occasioned me 
no little amazement; for I well re- 
member that, in a former conversation 
with my friend, I particularly inquired 
if he had at any time met in London 
the Marchesa di Mentoni (who for 
some years previous to her marriage 
had resided in that city), when his 
answer, if I mistake not, gave me to 
understand that he had never visited 
the metropolis of Great Britain. I 
might as well here mention, that I 
have more than once heard, (without, 
of course, giving credit to a report in- 
volving so many improbabilities,) that 
the person of whom I speak, was not 
only by birth, but in education, an 
Englishman. 

* * * * * * 


“There is one painting,” said he, 


190 


without being aware of my notice of 
the tragedy—“‘there is still one paint- 
ing which you have not seen.” And 
throwing aside a drapery, he discovered 
a full-length portrait of the Marchesa 
Aphrodite. 

Human art could have done no more 
in the delineation of her superhuman 
beauty. The same ethereal figure 
which stood before me the preceeding 
night upon the steps of the Ducal 
Palace, stood before me once again. 
But in the expression of the counte- 
nance, which was beaming all over with 
smiles, there still lurked (incompre- 
hensible anomaly!) that fitful stain of 
melancholy which will ever be found 
inseparable from the perfection of the 
beautiful. Her right arm lay folded 
over her bosom. With her left she 
pointed downward to a curiously fash- 
ioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone 
visible, barely touched the earth; and, 
scarcely discernible in the brilliant at- 
mosphere which seemed to encircle and 
enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair 
of the most delicately imagined wings. 
My glance fell from the painting to 
the figure of my friend, and the vigor- 
ous words of Chapman’s Bussy D’Am- 
bois, quivered instinctively upon my 
lips: 


He is up 
There like a Roman statue! 
stand 
Till Death hath made him marble! 


He will 


“Come,” he said at length, turning 
toward a table of richly enamelled and 
massive silver, upon which were a few 
goblets fantastically stained, together 
with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned 
in the same extraordinary model as that 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in the foreground of the portrait, and 
filled with what I supposed to be Johan- 
nisberger. “Come,” he said, abruptly, 
“let us drink! It is early—but let us 
drink. It is zmdeed early,’ he con- 
tinued, musingly, as a cherub with a 
heavy golden hammer made the apart- 
ment ring with the first hour after 
sunrise: “it is zwdeed early—but what 
matters it? let us drnk! Let us pour 
out an offering to yon solemn sun 
which these gaudy lamps and censers 
are so eager to subdue!” And having 
made me pledge him in a bumper, he 
swallowed in rapid succession several 
goblets of the wine. 

“To dream,’ he continued, resuming 
the tone of his desultory conversation, 
as he held up to the rich light of a 
censer one of the magnificent vases— 
“to dream has been the business of 
my life. I have therefore framed for 
myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. 
In the heart of Venice could I have 
erected a better? You behold around 
you, it is true, a medley of architec- 
tural embellishments. The chastity of 
Tonia is offended by antediluvian de- 
vices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are 
outstretched upon carpets of gold. Yet 
the effect is incongruous to the timid 
alone. Proprieties of place, and espe- 
cially of time, are the bugbears which 
terrify mankind from the contempla- 
tion of the magnificent. Once I was 
myself a decorist; but that sublimation 
of folly has palled upon my soul. All 
this is now the fitter for my purpose. 
Like these arabesque censers, my spirit 
is writhing in fire, and the delirium of 
this scene is fashioning me for the 
wilder visions of that land of real 
dreams whither I am now rapidly de- 
parting.” He here paused abruptly, 


THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH 


bent his head to his bosom, and seemed 
to listen to a sound which I could not 
hear. At length, erecting his frame, 
he looked upwards, and ejaculated the 
lines of the Bishop of Chichester: 


Stay for me there! I will not fail, 
To meet thee in that hollow vale. 


In the next instant, confessing the 
power of the wine, he threw himself 
at full length upon an ottoman. 

A quick step was now heard upon 
the staircase, and a loud knock at the 
door rapidly succeeded. I was hasten- 
ing to anticipate a second disturbance, 


191 


when a page of Mentoni’s household 
burst into the room, and faltered out, 
in a voice choking with emotion, the 
incoherent words, “My mistress!—my 
mistress!—Poisoned!—poisoned! Oh, 
beautiful Aphrodite!” 

Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, 
and endeavored to arouse the sleeper 
to a sense of the startling intelligence. 
But his limbs were rigid—his lips were 
livid—his lately beaming eyes were riv- 
eted in death. I staggered back to- 
ward the table—my hand fell upon a 
cracked and blackened goblet—and a 
consciousness of the entire and terrible 
truth flashed suddenly over my soul. 


Lhe Masque of the Red Death 


(First appeared in Graham’s Magazine, May, 1842) 


THE “Red Death” had long devas- 
tated the country. No pestilence had 
ever been so fatal, or so _ hideous. 
Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the 
redness and the horror of blood. There 
were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, 
and then profuse bleeding at the pores, 
with dissolution. The scarlet stains 
upon the body and especially upon the 
face of the victim, were the pest ban 
which shut him out from the aid and 
from the sympathy of his fellow-men. 
And the whole seizure, progress, and 
termination of the disease, were the 
incidents of half an hour. 

But the Prince Prospero was happy 
and dauntless and sagacious. When 
his dominions were half depopulated, 
he summoned to his presence a thou- 
sand hale and _ light-hearted friends 
from among the knights and dames of 


his court, and with these retired to the 
deep seclusion of one of his castellated 
abbeys. This was an extensive and 
magnificent structure, the creation of 
the prince’s own eccentric yet august 
taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled 
it in. This wall had gates of iron. 
The courtiers, having entered, brought 
furnaces and massy hammers and 
welded the bolts. They resolved to 
leave means neither of ingress nor 
egress to the sudden impulses of de- 
spair or of frenzy from within. The 
abbey was amply provisioned. With 
such precautions the courtiers might 
bid defiance to contagion. ‘The ex- 
ternal world could take care of itself. 
In the meantime it was folly to grieve, 
or to think. The prince had provided 
all the appliances of pleasure. There 
were buffoons, there were improvisa- 


192 


tori, there were ballet-dancers, there 
were musicians, there was Beauty, there 
was wine. All these and security were 
within. Without was the ‘Red Death.” 

It was toward the close of the fifth 
or sixth month of his seclusion, and 
while the pestilence raged most fu- 
riously abroad, that the Prince Pros- 
pero entertained his thousand friends at 
a masked ball of the most unusual mag- 
nificence. 

It was a voluptuous scene, that mas- 
querade. But first let me tell of the 
rooms in which it was held. There 
Were seven—an imperial suite. In 
many palaces, however, such suites form 
a long and straight vista, while the 
folding doors slide back nearly to the 
walls on either hand, so that the view 
of the whole extent is scarcely im- 
peded. Here the case was very dif- 
ferent; as might have been expected 
from the duke’s love of the bizarre. 
The apartments were so irregularly dis- 
posed that the vision embraced but lit- 
tle more than one at a time. There was 
a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty 
yards, and at each turn a novel effect. 
To the right and left, in the middle 
of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic 
window looked out upon a closed cor- 
ridor which pursued the windings of 
the suite. These windows were of 
stained glass whose color varied in 
accordance with the prevailing hue of 
the decorations of the chamber into 
which it opened. That at the eastern 
extremity was hung, for example in 
blue—and vividly blue were its win- 
ows. The second chamber was pur- 
ple in its ornaments and _ tapestries, 
and here the panes were purple. The 
third was green throughout, and so 
were the casements. The fourth was 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


furnished and lighted with orange—the 
fifth with white—the sixth with violet. 
The seventh apartment was closely 
shrouded in black velvet tapestries that 
hung all over the ceiling and down 
the walls, falling in heavy folds upon 
a carpet of the same material and hue. 
But in this chamber only, the color 
of the windows failed to correspond 
with the decorations. The panes here 
were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now 
in no one of the seven apartments was 
there any lamp or candelabrum, amid 
the profusion of golden ornaments that 
lay scattered to and fro or depended 
from the roof. There was no light of 
any kind emanating from the lamp or 
candle within the suite of chambers. 
But in the corridors that followed the 
suite, there stood, opposite to each win- 
dow, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier 
of fire, that projected its rays through 
the tinted glass and so glaringly illu- 
mined the room. And thus were pro- 
duced a multitude of gaudy and fan- 
tastic appearances. But in the western 
or black chamber the effect of the fire- 
light that streamed upon the dark hang- 
ings through the blood-tinted panes was 
ghastly in the extreme, and produced 
so wild a look upon the countenances 
of those who entered, that there were 
few of the company bold enough to set 
foot within its precincts at all. 

It was in this apartment, also, that 
there stood against the western wall, a 
gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum 
swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, 
monotonous clang; and when the min- 
ute-hand made the circuit of the face, 
and the hour was to be stricken. there 
came from the brazen lungs of the 
clock a sound which was clear and 
Joud and deep and exceedingly musical, 





THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH 


b-3t of so peculiar a note and emphasis 
that, at each lapse of an hour, the mu- 
sicians of the orchestra were constrained 
to pause, momentarily, in their per- 
formance, to hearken to the sound; and 
thus the waltzers perforce ceased their 
evolutions; and there was a brief dis- 
concert of the whole gay company; 
and, while the chimes of the clock yet 
rang, it was observed that the giddiest 
grew pale, and the more aged and se- 
date passed their hands over their 
brows as if in confused revery or medi- 
tation. But when the echoes had fully 
ceased, a light laughter at once per- 
vaded the assembly; the musicians 
looked at each other and smiled as if 
at their own nervousness and _ folly, 
and made whispering vows, each to 
the other, that the next chiming of 
the clock should produce in them no 
similar emotion; and then, after the 
lapse of sixty minutes (which embrace 
three thousand and six hundred sec- 
onds of the Time that flies), there 
came yet another chiming of the clock, 
and then were the same disconcert and 
tremulousness and meditation as before. 

But, in spite of these things, it was 
a gay and magnificent. revel. The 
tastes of the duke were peculiar. He 
had a fine eye for colors and effects. 
He disregarded the decora of mere 
fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, 
and his conceptions glowed with bar- 
baric iustre. There are some who 
would have thought him mad. His fol- 
lowers felt that he was not. It was 
necessary to hear and see and touch 
him to be szre that he was not. 

He had directed, in great part, the 
movable embellishments of the seven 
chambers, upon occasion of this great 
fete; and it was his own guiding taste 


193 


which had given character to the mas- 
queraders. Be sure they were grotes~ 
que. There were much glare and glit- 
ter and piquancy and phantasm—much 
of what has been since seen in “Her- 
nani.” There were arabesque figures 
with unsuited limbs and appointments. 

There were delirious fancies such as 
the madman fashions. There were 
much of the beautiful, much of the 
wanton, much of the bizarre, some- 
thing of the terrible, and not a little 
of that which might have excited dis- 
gust. To and fro in the seven cham- 
bers there stalked, in fact, a multitude 
of dreams. And these—the dreams— 
writhed in and about, taking hue from 
the rooms, and causing the wild music 
of the orchestra to seem as the echo 
of their steps. And, anon, there strikes 
the ebony clock which stands in the 
hall of the velvet. And then, for a 
moment, all is still, and all is silent 
save the voice of the clock. The dreams 
are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the 
echoes of the chime die away—they 
have endured but an instant—and a 
light, half-subdued laughter floats after 
them as they depart. And now again 
the music swells, and the dreams live, 
and writhe to and fro more merrily 
than ever, taking hue from the many- 
tinted windows through which stream 
the rays from the tripods. But to the 
chamber which lies most westwardly 
of the seven there are now none of 
the maskers who venture; for the night 
is waning away; and there flows a rud- 
dier light through the blood-colored 
panes; and the blackness of the sable 
drapery appalls; and to him whose foot 
falls upon the sable carpet, there comes 
from the near clock of ebony a muffled 
peal more solemnly emphatic than any 


194 


which reaches their ears who indulge 
in the more remote gaieties of the other 
apartments. 

But these other apartments were 
densely crowded, and in them beat fev- 
erishly the heart of life. And the revel 
went whirlingly on, until at length 
there commenced the sounding of mid- 
night upon the clock. And then the 
music ceased, as I have told; and the 
evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; 
and there was an uneasy cessation of 
all things as before. But now there 
were twelve strokes to be sounded by 
the bell of the clock; and thus it hap- 
pened, perhaps that more of thought 
crept, with more of time, into the medi- 
tations of the thoughtful among those 
who revelled. And thus too, it hap- 
pened, perhaps, that before the last 
echoes of the last chime had utterly 
sunk into silence, there were many in- 
dividuals in the crowd who had found 
leisure to become aware of the pres- 
ence of a masked figure which had ar- 
rested the attention of no single indi- 
vidual before. And the rumor of this 
new presence having spread itself whis- 
peringly around, there arose at length 
from the whole company a buzz, or 
murmur, expressive of disapprobation 
and surprise—then, finally, of terror, 
of horror, and of disgust. 

In an assembly of phantasms such as 
I have painted, it may well be supposed 
that no ordinary appearance could have 
excited such sensation. In truth the 
masquerade license of the night was 
nearly unlimited; but the figure in ques- 
tion had out-Heroded Herod, and gone 
beyond the hounds of even the prince’s 
indefinite decorum. There are chords 
in the hearts of the most reckless which 
cannot be touched without emotion. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Even with the utterly lost, to whom 
life and death are equally jests, there 
are matters of which no jest can be 
made. The whole company, indeed, 
seemed now deeply to feel that in the 
costume and bearing of the stranger 
neither wit nor propriety existed. The 
figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded 
from head to foot in the habiliments 
of the grave. The mask which con- 
cealed the visage was made so nearly 
to resemble the countenance of a stiff- 
ened corpse that the closest scrutiny 
must have had difficulty in detecting 
the cheat. And yet all this might have 
been endured, if not approved, by the 
mad revellers around. But the mum- 
mer had gone so far as to assume the 
type of the Red Death. His vesture 
was dabbled in blood—and his broad 
brow, with all the features of the face, 
was besprinkled with the scarlet horror. 

When the eyes of Prince Prospero 
fell upon this spectral image (which, 
with a slow and solemn movement, as 
if more fully to sustain its role, stalked 
to and fro among the waltzers) he was 
seen to be convulsed, in the first mo- 
ment with a strong shudder either of 
terror or distaste; but, in the next, his 
brow reddened with rage. 

“Who dares”—he demanded hoarsely 
of the courtiers who stood near him— 
“who dares insult us with this blas- 
phemous mockery? Seize him and un- 
mask him—that we may know whom 
we have to hang, at sunrise, from the 
battlements!” 

It was in the eastern or blue cham- 
ber in which stood the Prince Prospero 
as he uttered these words. They rang 
throughout the seven rooms loudly and 
clearly, for the prince was a bold and 








THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH 


robust man, and the music had become 
hushed at the waving of his hand. 

It was in the blue room where stood 
the prince, with a group of pale cour- 
tiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, 
there was a slight rushing movement 
of this group in the direction of the 
intruder, who, at the moment was also 
near at hand, and now, with deliberate 
and stately step, made closer approach 
to the speaker. But from a certain 
nameless awe with which the mad as- 
sumptions of the mummer had inspired 
the whole party, there were found none 
who put forth hand to seize him; so 
that, unimpeded, he passed within a 
yard of the prince’s person; and, while 
the vast assembly, as if with one im- 
pulse, shrank from the centres of the 
rooms to the walls, he made his way 
uninterruptedly, but with the same 
solemn and measured step which had 
distinguished him from the first, 
through the blue chamber to the purple 
—through the purple to the green— 
through the green to the orange— 
through this again to the white—and 
even thence to the violet, ere a decided 
movement had been made to arrest 
him. It was then, however, that the 
Prince Prospero, maddening with rage 
and the shame of his own momentary 
cowardice, rushed hurriedly through 
the six chambers, while none followed 
him on account of a deadly terror that 


195 


had seized upon all. He bore aloft 
a drawn dagger, and had approached, 
in rapid impetuosity, to within three 
or four feet of the retreating figure, 
when the latter, having attained the 
extremity of the velvet apartment, 
turned suddenly and confronted his 
pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and 
the dagger dropped gleaming upon the 
sable carpet, upon which, instantly 
afterward, fell prostrate in death the 
Prince Prospero. Then, summoning 
the wild courage of despair, a throng 
of the revellers at once threw them- 
selves into the black apartment, and, 
seizing the mummer, whose tall figure 
stood erect and motionless within the 
shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in 
unutterable horror at finding the grave 
cerements and corpse-like mask, which 
they handled with so violent a rude- 
ness, untenanted by any tangible form. 

And now was acknowledged the pres- 
ence of the Red Reath. He had come 
like a thief in the night. And one by 
one dropped the revellers in the blood- 
bedewed halls of their revel, and died 
each in the despairing posture of his 
fall. And the life of the ebony clock 
went out with that of the last of the 
gay. And the flames of the tripods 
expired. And Darkness and Decay and 
the Red Death held illimitable domin- 
ion over all. 


King Pest 


(First published in the Southern Literary Messenger, September, 1835. It is also 
called “King Pest the First.”—Ed.) 


A TALE CONTAINING AN ALLEGORY 


The gods do bear and will allow in 
kings 

The things which they abhor in rascal 
routes. 

—Buckhurst’s Tragedy of Ferrex and 
Porrex. 


Asout twelve o’clock one night in 
the month of October, and during the 
chivalrous reign of the third Edward, 
two seamen belonging to the crew of 
the. “Free and. Easy,” .a trading 
schooner plying between Sluys and the 
Thames, and then at anchor in that 
river, were much astonished to find 
themselves seated in the tap-room of 
an ale-house in the parish of St. An- 
drews, London—which ale-house bore 
for sign the portraiture of a “Jolly 
bi whi 

The room, although _ ill-contrived, 
smoke-blackened, low-pitched, and in 
every other respect agreeing with the 
general character of such places at the 
period—was nevertheless, in the opinion 
of the grotesque groups scattered here 
and there within it, sufficiently well 
adapted to its purpose. 

Of these groups our two seamen 
formed, I think, the most interesting, if 
not the most conspicuous. 

The one who appeared to be the 
elder, and whom his companion ad- 
dressed by the characteristic appella- 
tion of “Legs,” was at the same time 
much the taller of the two. He might 


196 


have measured six feet and a half, and 
an habitual stoop in the _ shoulders 
seemed to have been the necessary con- 
sequence of an altitude so enormous. 
Superfluities in height were, however, 
more than accounted for by deficiencies 
in other respects. He was exceedingly 
thin; and might, as his associates as- 
serted, have answered, when drunk, for 
a pennant at the mast-head, or, when 
sober, have served for a jib-boom. But 
these jests, and others of a similar na- 
ture, had evidently produced, at no 
time, any effect upon the cachinnatory 
muscles of the tar. With high cheek- 
bones, a large hawk-nose, retreating 
chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge pro- 
truding white eyes, the expression of 
his countenance, although tinged with 
a species of dogged indifference to mat- 
ters and things in general, was not the 
less utterly solemn and serious beyond 
all attempts at imitation or description. 

The younger seaman was, in all out- 
ward appearance, the converse of his 
companion. His stature could not 
have exceeded four feet. A pair of 
stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, 
unwieldy figure, while his unusually 
short and thick arms, with no ordinary 
fists at their extremities, swung off 
dangling from his sides like the fins of 
a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particu- 
lar color, twinkled far back in his head. 
His nose remained buried in the mass 
of flesh which enveloped his round, full, 





KING PEST 


and purple face: and his thick upper- 
lip rested upon the still thicker one 
beneath with an air of complacent 
 self-satisfaction, much heightened by 
the owner’s habit of licking them at 
intervals. He evidently regarded his 
tall shipmate with a feeling half-won- 
drous, half-quizzical; and stared up oc- 
casionally in his face as the red setting 
sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis. 

Various and eventful, however, had 
been the peregrinations of the worthy 
couple in and about the different tap- 
houses of the neighborhood during the 
earlier hours of the night. Funds even 
the most ample, are not always ever- 
lasting: and it was with empty pockets 
our friends had ventured upon the pres- 
ent hostelrie. 

At the precise period, then, when this 
history properly commences, Legs and 
his fellow, Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each 
with both elbows resting upon the large 
oaken table in the middle of the floor, 
and with a hand upon either cheek. 
They were eying, from behind a huge 
flagon of unpaid-for “humming-stuff,” 
the portentous words, “No Chalk,” 
which to their indignation and aston- 
ishment were scored over the doorway 
- by means of that very mineral whose 
presence they purported to deny. Not 
that the gift of decyphering written 
characters—a gift among the common- 
alty of that day considered little less 
cabalistical than the art of inditing— 
- could, in strict justice, have been laid 
to the charge of either disciple of the 
sea; but there was, to say the truth, 
a certain twist in the formation of 
the letters—an indescribable lee-lurch 
about the whole—which foreboded, in 
the opinion of both seamen, a long run 
of dirty weather; and determined them 


197 


at once, in the allegorical words of Legs 
himself, to “pump ship, clew up all 
sail, and scud before the wind.” 

Having accordingly disposed of what 
remained of the ale, and looped up the 
points of their short doublets, they 
finally made a bolt for the street. Al- 
though Tarpaulin rolled twice into the 
fireplace, mistaking it for the door, yet 
their escape was at length happily ef- 
fected—and half after twelve o’clock 
found our heroes ripe for mischief, and 
running for life down a dark alley in 
the direction of St. Andrew’s Stair, 
hotly pursued by the landlady of the 
“Tollve Lard 

At the epoch of this eventful tale, 
and periodically, for many years before 
and after, all England, but more espe- 
cially the metropolis, resounded with 
the fearful cry of “Plague!” The city 
was in a great measure depopulated— 
and in those horrible regions, in the 
vicinity of the Thames, where, amid 
the dark, narrow, and filthy lanes and 
alleys, the Demon of Disease was sup- 
posed to have had his nativity, Awe, 
Terror, and Superstition were alone to 
be found stalking abroad. 

By authority of the king such dis- 
tricts were placed under ban, and all 
persons forbidden, under pain of death, 
to intrude upon their dismal solitude. 
Yet neither the mandate of the mon- 
arch, nor the huge barriers erected at 
the entrance of the streets, nor the 
prospect of that loathsome death which, 
with almost absolute certainty, over- 
whelmed the wretch whom no peril 
could deter from the adventure, pre- 
vented the unfurnished and untenanted 
dwellings from being stripped, by the 
hand of nightly rapine, of every article, 
such as iren, brass, or lead-work, which 


108 


could in any manner be turned to a 
profitable account. 

Above all, it was usually found, upon 
the annual winter opening of the bar- 
riers, that locks, bolts, and secret cel- 
lars had proved but slender protection 
to those rich stores of wines and liquors 
which, in consideration of the risk and 
trouble of removal, many of the nu- 
merous dealers having shops in the 
neighborhood had consented to trust, 
during the period of exile, to so insuffi- 
cient a security. 

But there were very few of the ter- 
ror-stricken people who attributed these 
doings to the agency of human hands. 
Pest-spirits, plague-goblins, and fever- 
demons were the popular imps of mis- 
chief; and tales so blood-chilling were 
hourly told, that the whole mass of 
forbidden buildings was, at length, en- 
veloped in terror as in a shroud, and 
the plunderer himself was often scared 
away by the horrors his own depreda- 
tions had created; leaving the entire 
vast circuit of prohibited district to 
gloom, silence, pestilence, and death. 

It was by one of the terrific barriers 
already mentioned, and which indicated 
the region beyond to be under the Pest- 
ban, that, in scrambling down an ailey, 
Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpaulin 
found their progress suddenly impeded. 
To return was out of the question, and 
no time was to be lost, as their pur- 
suers were close upon their heels. With 
thoroughbred seamen to clamber up the 
roughly fashioned plank-work was a 
trifle; and, maddened with the twofold 
excitement of exercise and liquor, they 
leaped unhesitatingly down within the 
enclosure, and holding on their drunken 
course with shouts and yellings, were 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


soon bewildered in its noisome and in- 
tricate recesses. 

Had they not, indeed, been intoxi- 
cated beyond moral sense, their reeling 
footsteps must have been palsied by 
the horrors of their situation. The air 
was cold and misty. The paving-stones, 
loosened from their beds, lay in wild 
disorder amid the tall rank grass, which 
sprang up around the feet and ankles. 
Fallen houses choked up the streets. 
The most fetid and poisonous smells 
everywhere prevailed—and by the aid 
of that ghastly light which, even at 
midnight, never fails to emanate from 
a vapory and pestilential atmosphere, 
might be discerned lying in the by- 
paths and alleys, or rotting in the win- 
dowless habitations, the carcass of 
many a nocturnal plunderer arrested by 
the hand of the plague in the very per- 
petration of his robbery. 

But it lay not in the power of images, 
or sensations, or impediments such as 
these, to stay the course of men who, 
naturally brave, and at that time espe- 
cially, brimful of courage and of “hum- 
ming-stuff,’ would have reeled, as 
straight as their condition might have 
permitted, undauntedly into the very 
jaws of Death. Onward—still onward 
stalked the grim Legs, making the deso- 
late solemnity echo and re-echo with 
yells like the terrific war-whoop of the 
Indian; and onward, still onward rolled 
the dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to 
the doublet of his more active com- 
panion, and far surpassing the latter’s 
most strenuous exertions in the way of 
vocal music, by bull-roarings in basso, 
from the profundity of his stentorian 
lungs. 

They had now evidently reached the 
stronghold of the pestilence. Their 

















KING PEST 


| way at -very step or plunge grew more 
- noisome and more horrible—the paths 
_ more narrow and more intricate. Huge 
stones and beams falling momently 
from the decaying roofs above them, 
gave evidence, by their sullen and 
heavy descent, of the vast height of 
the surrounding houses; and while ac- 
tual exertion became necessary to force 
a passage through frequent heaps of 
rubbish, it was by no means seldom 
that the hand fell upon a skeleton or 
rested upon a more fleshy corpse. 
Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled 
against the entrance of a tall and 
ghastly-looking building, a yell more 
than usually shrill from the throat of 
the excited Legs, was replied to from 
within, in a rapid succession of wild, 
laughter-like, and fiendish shrieks. 
Nothing daunted at sounds, which, of 
such a nature, at such a time, and in 
such a place, might have curdled the 
very blood in hearts less irrevocably on 


fire, the drunken couple rushed head-. 


long against the door, burst it open, 
and staggered into the midst of things 
with a volley of curses. 

The room within which they found 
themselves proved to be the shop of an 
undertaker, but an open trap-door, in 
a corner of the floor near the entrance, 
looked down upon a long range of wine- 
cellars, whose depths the occasional 
sound of bursting bottles proclaimed to 
be well-stored with their appropriate 
contents. 

In the middle of the room stood a 
table—in the centre of which again 
arose a huge tub of what appeared to 
be punch. Bottles of various wines 
and cordials, together with jugs, pitch- 
ers, and flagons of every shape and 
quality, were scattered profusely upon 


199 


the board. Around it, upon coffin-tres- 
sels, was seated a company of six. This 
company I will endeavor to delineate 
one by one. 

Fronting the entrance, and elevated 
a little above his companions, sat a 
personage who appeared to be the presi- 
dent of the table. His stature was 
gaunt and tall, and Legs was confounded 
to behold in him a figure more ema- 
ciated than himself. His face was as 
yellow as saffron—but no feature ex- 
cepting one alone, was sufficiently 
marked to merit a particular descrip- 
tion. This one consisted in a forehead 
so unusually and hideously lofty, as to 
have the appearance of a bonnet or 
crown of flesh superadded upon the 
natural head. His mouth was puckered 
and dimpled into an expression of 
ghastly affability, and his eyes, as in- 
deed the eyes of all at table, were 
glazed over with the fumes of intoxica- 
tion. This gentleman was clothed from 
head to foot in a richly-embroidered 
black silk-velvet pall, wrapped negli- 
gently around his form after the fash- 
ion of a Spanish cloak. His head was 
stuck full of sable hearse-plumes, which 
he nodded to and fro with a jaunty and 
knowing air; and, in his right hand, he 
held a huge human thigh-bone, with 
which he appeared to have been just 
knocking down some member of the 
company for a song. 

Opposite him, and with her back to 
the door, was a lady of no whit the 
less extraordinary character. Although 
quite as tall as the person just de- 
scribed, she had no right to complain 
of his unnatural emaciation. She was 
evidently in the last stage of a dropsy; 
and her figure resembled nearly that of 
the huge puncheon of October beer 


200 


which stood, with the head driven in, 
close by her side, in a corner of the 
chamber. Her face was exceedingly 
round, red, and full; and the same pe- 
culiarity, or rather want of peculiarity, 
attached itself to her countenance, 
which I before mentioned in the case 
of the president—that is to say, only 
one feature of her face was sufficiently 
distinguished to need a separate char- 
acterization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin 
immediately observed that the same re- 
mark might have applied to each in- 
dividual person of the party; every 
one of whom seemed to possess a mo- 
nopoly of some particular portion of 
physiognomy. With the lady in ques- 
tion this portion proved to be the 
mouth. Commencing at the right ear, 
it swept with a terrific chasm to the 
left—the short pendants which she wore 
in either auricle continually bobbing 
into the aperture. She made, however, 
every exertion to keep her mouth closed 
and look dignified, in a dress consist- 
ing of a newly-starched and ironed 
shroud coming up close under her chin, 
with a crimpled ruffle of cambric 
muslin. 

At her right hand sat a diminutive 
voung lady whom she appeared to pat- 
ronize. This delicate little creature, in 
the trembling of her wasted fingers, in 
the livid hue of her lips, and in the 
slight hectic spot which tinged her 
otherwise leaden complexion, gave evi- 
dent indications of a galloping consump- 
tion. An air of extreme haut ton, how- 
ever, pervaded her whole appearance; 
she wore in a graceful and degage man- 
ner, a large and beautiful winding- 
sheet of the finest India lawn; her hair 
hung in ringlets over her neck; a soft 
smile played about her mouth; but her 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nose, extremely long, thin, sinuous, 
flexible, and pimpled, hung down far 
below her under-lip, and, in spite of 
the delicate manner in which she now 
and then moved it to one side or the 
other with her tongue, gave to her 
countenance a somewhat equivocal ex- 
pression. 

Over against her, and upon the left 
of the dropsical lady, was seated a little 
puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, 
whose cheeks reposed upon the shoul- 
ders of their owner, like two huge 
bladders of Oporto wine. With his 
arms folded, and with one bandaged 
leg deposited upon the table, he seemed 
to think himself entitled to some con- 
sideration. He evidently -prided him- 
self much upon every inch of his per- 
sonal appearance, but took more espe- 
cial delight in calling attention to his 
gaudy-colored surtout. This, to say the 
truth, must have cost him no little 
money, and was made to fit him exceed- 
ingly well—being fashioned from one 


‘of the curiously embroidered silken 


covers appertaining to those glorious 
escutcheons which, in England and else- 
where, are customarily hung up, in some 
conspicuous place, upon the dwellings 
of departed aristocracy. 

Next to him, and at the right hand 
of the president, was a gentleman in 
long white hose and cotton drawers. 
Ejis frame shook, in a ridiculous man- 
ner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called 
“the horrors.” His jaws, which had 
been newly shaved, were tightly tied 
up by a bandage of muslin; and his 
arms being fastened in a similar way 
at the wrists, prevented him from help- 
ing himself too freely to the liquors 
upon the table; a precaution rendered 
necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by 





KING PEST 


the peculiarly sottish and wine-bibbing 
cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious 
ears, nevertheless, which it was no doubt 
found impossible to confine, towered 
away into the atmosphere of the apart- 
ment, and were occasionally pricked 
up in a spasm, at the sound of the 
drawing of a cork. 

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was 
situated a singularly stiff-looking per- 
sonage, who being afflicted with paraly- 
sis, must, to speak seriously, have felt 
very ill at ease in his unaccommodating 
habiliments. He was habited, some- 
what uniquely, in a new and handsome 
mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece 
pressed upon the skull of the wearer, 
and extended over it in the fashion of 
a hood, giving to the entire face an 
air of indescribable interest. Arm- 
holes had been cut in the sides for the 
sake not more of elegance than of con- 
venience; but the dress, nevertheless, 
prevented its proprietor from sitting as 
erect as his associates; and as he lay 
reclining against his tressel, at an angle 
of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge 
goggle eyes rolled up their awful whites 
toward the ceiling in absolute amaze- 
ment at their own enormity. 

Before each of the party lay a por- 
tion of a skull, which was used as a 
drinking-cup. Overhead was suspended 
a human skeleton, by means of a rope 
tied round one of the legs and fastened 
to a ring in the ceiling. The other 
limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck 
off from the body at right angles, caus- 
ing the whole loose and rattling frame 
to dangle and twirl about at the caprice 
of every occasional puff of wind which 
found its way into the apartment. In 
the cranium of this hideous thing lay 
a quantity of ignited charcoal, which 


201 


threw a fitful but vivid light over the 
entire scene; while coffins, and other 
wares appertaining to the shop of an 
undertaker, were piled high up around 
the room, and against the windows, pre- 
venting any ray from escaping int¢@ 
the street. 

At sight of this extraordinary assem- 
bly, and of their still more extraordi- 
nary paraphernalia, our two seamen 
did not conduct themselves with that 
degree of decorum which might have 
been expected. Legs, leaning against 
the wall near which he happened to be 
standing, dropped his lower jaw still 
lower than usual, and spread open his 
eyes to their fullest extent; while Hugh 
Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring 
his nose upon a level with the table, 
and spreading out a palm upon either 
knee, burst into a long, loud, and ob- 
streperous roar of very ill-timed and 
immoderate laughter. 

Without, however, taking offence at 
behavior so excessively rude, the tall 
president smiled very graciously upon 
the intruders—nodded to them in a dig- 
nified manner with his head of sable 
plumes—and, arising, took each by an 
arm, and led him to a seat which some 
others of the company had placed in 
the meantime for his accommodation. 
Legs to all this offered not the slightest 
resistance, but sat down as he was di- 
rected; while the gallant Hugh, remov-~ 
ing his coffin-tressel from its station 
near the head of the table, to the vi- 
cinity of the little consumptive lady in 
the winding sheet, plumped down by 
her side in high glee, and pouring out 
a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their 
better acquaintance. But at this pre- 
sumption the stiff gentleman in the 
coffin seemed exceedingly nettled; and 


202 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


serious consequences might have en- 
sued, had not the president, rapping 
upon the table with his truncheon, di- 
verted the attention of all present to 
the following speech: 

“Tt becomes our duty upon the pres- 
ent happy occasion ‘i 

“Avast there!” interrupted Legs, 
looking very serious, “avast there a 
bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye 
all are, and what business ye have here, 
rigged off like the foul fiends, and swill- 
ing the snug blue ruin stowed away 
for the winter by my honest ship-mate, 
Will Wimble, the undertaker!”’ 

At this unpardonable piece of ill- 
breeding, all the original company half- 
started to their feet, and uttered the 
same rapid succession of wild fiendish 
shrieks which had before caught the 
attention of the seamen The president, 
however, was the first to recover his 
composure, and at length, turning to 
Legs with great dignity, recommenced: 

“Most willingly will we gratify any 
reasonable curiosity on the part of 
guests so illustrious, unbidden though 
they be. Know then that in these do- 
minions I am monarch, and here rule 
with undivided empire under the title 
of ‘King Pest the First.’ 

“This apartment, which you no doubt 
profanely suppose to be the shop of 
Will Wimble the undertaker—a man 
whom we know not, and whose plebeian 
appellation has never before this night 
thwarted our royal ears—this apart- 
ment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of 
our Palace, devoted to the councils of 
our kingdom, and to other sacred and 
lofty purposes. 

“The noble lady who sits opposite is 
Queen Pest, our Serene Consort. The 
other exalted personages whom you be- 





hold are all of our family, and wear the 
insignia of the blood royal under the 
respective titles of ‘His Grace the Arch 


Duke Pest-Iferous’-—‘His Grace the 
Duke Pest-Ilential—‘His Grace the 
Duke Tem-Pest’—and ‘Her Serene 


Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’ 
“As regards,” continued he, ‘your 
demand of the business upon which 
we sit here in council, we might be 
pardoned for replying that it concerns, 
and concerns alone, our own private 
and regal interest, and is in no manner 
important to any other than ourself. 
But in consideration of those rights to 
which as guests and strangers you may 
feel yourselves entitled, we will fur- 
thermore explain that we are here this 
night, prepared by deep research and 
accurate investigation, to examine, ana- 
lyze, and thoroughly determine the in- 
definable spirit—the incomprehensiblc 
qualities and nature—of those inesti- 
mable treasures of the palate, the wines, 
ales, and liquors of this goodly metrop- 
clis: by so doing to advance not more 
our own designs than the true welfare 
of that unearthly sovereign whose reign 
is over us all, whose dominions are 
unlimited, and whose name is ‘Death.’ ” 
“Whose name is Davy Jones!” ejac- 
ulated Tarpaulin, helping the lady by 
his side to a skull of liqueur, and pour- 
ing out a second for himself. 
“Profane varlet!” said the president, 
now turning his attention to the worthy 
Hugh, “profane and execrable wretch! 
—we have said, that in consideration of 
those rights which, even in thy filthy 
person, we feel no inclination to vio- 
late, we have condescended to make 
reply to thy rude and unreasonable in- 
quiries. We nevertheless, for your un» 
hallowed intrusion upon our councils, 


a” Re 


a ae 


eo 


KING PEST 203 


believe it our duty to mulct thee and 
thy companion in each a gallon of Black 
Strap-—having imbibed which to the 
prosperity of our kingdom—at a single 
draught—and upon your bended knees 
—ye shall be forthwith free either to 
proceed upon your way, or remain and 
be admitted to the privileges of our 
table, according to your respective and 
individual pleasures.” 

“Tt would be a matter of utter un- 
possibility,” replied Legs, whom the as- 
sumption and dignity of King Pest the 
First had evidently inspired with some 
feelings of respect, and who arose and 
steadied himself by the table as he 
spoke—“‘it would, please your majesty, 
be a matter of utter unpossibility to 
stow away in my hold even one fourth 
part of that same liquor which your 
majesty has just mentioned. To say 
nothing of the stuffs placed on board 
in the forenoon by way of ballast, and 
not to mention the various ales and 
liqueurs shipped this evening at vari- 
ous seaports, I have, at present, a full 
cargo of ‘humming-stuff’ taken in and 
duly paid for at the sign of the ‘Jolly 
Tar.’ You will therefore, please your 
majesty, be so good as to take the 
will for the deed—for by no manner of 
means either can I or will I swallow 
another drop—least of all a drop of 
that villainous bilge-water that answers 
to the name of ‘Black Strap.’ ” 

“Belay that!” interrupted Tarpaulin, 
astonished not more at the length of 
his companion’s speech than. at the na- 
ture of his refusal—“Belay that, you 


lubber!—and I say, Legs, none of your’ 


palaver. My hull is still light, al- 
though I confess you yourself seem~to 
be a little top-heavy; and as far as 
the matter of your share of the cargo, 


why rather thar: raise a squall I would 
find stowage-room for it myself, 
but——” 

“This proceeding,” interposed the 
president, “is by no means in accord- 
ance with the terms of the mulct or 
sentence, which is in its nature Median, 


‘and not to be altered or recalled. The 


conditions we have imposed must be 
fulfilled to the letter, and that with- 
out a moment’s hesitation—in failure 
of which fulfillment we decree that you 
do here be tied neck and heels together, 
and duly drowned as rebels in yon 
hogshead of October beer!” 

“A sentence!—a sentence!—a right- 
eous and just sentence!—a glorious de- 
cree!—a most worthy and upright, and 
holy condemnation!” shouted the Pest 
family altogether. The king elevated 
his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; 
the gouty little old man puffed like a 
pair of bellows; the lady of the wind- 
ing-sheet waved her nose to and fro; 
the gentleman in the cotton drawers 
pricked up his ears; she of the shroud 
gasped like a dying fish; and he of the 
coffin looked stiff and rolled up his eyes. 
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin, 
without heeding the general excitation, 
“ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! 
—ugh! ugh! ugh!—I was saying,” said 
he—“I was saying when Mr. King Pest 
poked in his marlinspike, that as for the 
matter of two or three gallons more or 
less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to 
a tight sea-boat like myself not over- 
stowed—but when it comes to drinking 
the health of the Devil (whom God 
assoilzie) and going down upon my 
marrow-bones to his ill-favored majesty 
there, whom I know, as well as I know 
myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in 
the whole world but Tim Hurlygurly 


204 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the stage-player!—why! it’s quite an- 
other guess sort of a thing, and utterly 
and altogether past my comprehension.” 

He was not allowed to finish this 
speech in tranquillity. At the name of 
Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly 
leaped from their seats. 

“Treason!” shouted his 
King Pest the First. 

“Treason!” said the little man with 
the gout. 

“Treason!” screamed the Arch Duch- 
ess Ana-Pest. 

“Treason!” muttered the gentleman 
with his jaws tied up. 

“Treason!” growled he of the coffin. 

“Treason! treason!” shrieked her 
majesty of the mouth; and seizing by 
the hinder part of his breeches the un- 
fortunate Tarpaulin, who had just com- 
menced pouring out for himself a skull 
of liqueur, she lifted him high into the 
air, and let him fall without ceremony 
into the huge open puncheon of his 
beloved ale. Bobbing up and down, 
for a few seconds, like an apple in a 
bowl of toddy, he, at length, finally 
disappeared amid the whirlpool of foam 
which, in the already effervescent liquor, 
his struggles easily succeeded in creating. 

Not tamely, however, did the tall 
seaman behold the discomfiture of his 
companion. Jostling King Pest through 
the open trap, the valiant Legs slammed 
the door down upon him with an oath, 


Majesty . 


and strode toward the centre of the 
room. Here tearing down the skeleton 
which swung over the table, he laid it 
about him with so much energy and 
good-will that, as the last glimpses of 
light died away within the apartment, 
he succeeded in knocking out the brains 
of the little gentleman with the gout. 
Rushing then with all his force against 
the fatal hogshead full of October ale 
and Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over 
and over in an instant. Out poured a 
deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetu- 
ous—so overwhelming—that the room 
was flooded from wall to wall—the 
loaded tables was overturned—the tres- 
sles were thrown upon their backs— 
the tub of punch into the fire-place— 
and the ladies into hysterics. Piles 
of death-furniture floundered about. 
Jugs, pitchers, and carboys mingled 
promiscuously in the melee, and wicker 
flagons encountered desperately with 
bottles of junk. The man with the 
horrors was drowned upon the spot— 


the little stiff gentleman floated off in 


his coffin—and the victorious Legs, 
seizing by the waist the fat lady in 
the shroud, rushed out with her inte 
the street, and made a bee-line for 
the “Free and Easy,” followed under 
easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tar- 
paulin, who, having sneezed three or 
four times, panted and puffed after 
him with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. 


ee 


OS ne me a a ET 8 


ee 


art i 














The Cask of Amontillado 


(First appeared in Godey’s Lady’s Book, November, 1846.—Ed.) 


THE thousand injuries of Fortunato 
I had borne as I best could, but when 
he ventured upon insult, I vowed re- 
venge. You, who so well know the 
nature of my soul, will not suppose, 
however, that I gave utterance to a 
threat. Az length I would be avenged; 
this was a point definitively settled— 
but the very definitiveness with which 


it was resolved, precluded the idea of . 


risk. I must not only punish, but pun- 
ish with impunity. A wrong is unre- 
dressed when retribution overtakes its 
redresser. It is equally unredressed 
when the avenger fails to make him- 
self felt as such to him who has done 
the wrong. 

It must be understood that neither 
by word nor deed had I given Fortu- 
nato cause to doubt my good will. I 
continued as was my wont, to smile in 
his face, and he did not perceive that 
my smile now was at the thought of 
his immolation. 

He had a weak point—this Fortu- 
nato—although in other regards he was 
a man to be respected and even feared. 
He prided himself on his connoisseur- 
ship in wine. Few Italians have the 
true virtuoso spirit. For the most part 
their enthusiasm is adapted to suit the 
time and opportunity—to practice im- 
posture upon the British and Austrian 
millionaires. In painting and gemmary 
Fortunato, like his country men, was 2 
quack—but in the matter of old wines 
he was sincere. In this respect I did 
not differ from him materially: I was 
skilful in the Italian vintages myself, 


and bought largely whenever I could. 

It was about dusk, one evening dur- 
ing the supreme madness of the carni- 
val season, that I encountered my 
friend. He accosted me with excessive 
warmth, for he had been drinking much. 
The man wore motley. He had on a 
tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his 
head was surmounted by the conical 
cap and bells. I was so pleased to see 
him, that I thought I should never have 
done wringing his hand. 

I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, 
you are luckily met. How remarkably 
well you are looking to-day! But I 
have received a pipe of what passes for 
Amontillado, and I have my doubts.” 

“Howe” said he ‘‘Amontillado? A 
pipe? Impossible! And in the middle 
of the carnival!” 

“T have my doubts,” I replied; “and 
I was silly enough to pay the full 
Amontillado price without consulting 
you in the matter. You were not to be 
found, and I was fearful of losing a 
bargain.” 

“Amontillado!” 

“T have my doubts.” 

“Amontillado!” 

“And I must satisfy them.” 

“Amontillado!” 

“As you are engaged, I am on my 
way to Luchesi. If any one has a 
critical turn, it is he. He will tell 
me , ” 

“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado 
from Sherry.” 

“And yet some fools will have it 





205 


206 


that his taste is a match for your 
own.” 

“Come, let us go.” 

“Whither?” 

“To your vaults.” 

“My friend, no; I will not impose 
upon your good nature. I perceive 
you have an engagement. Luchesi v 

“T have no engagement—come.” 

“My friend, no. It is not the en- 
gagement, but the severe cold with 
which I perceive you are afflicted. The 
vaults are insufferably damp. They 
are encrusted with nitre.” 

“Let us go, nevertheless. 
is merely nothing. Amontillado! You 
have been imposed upon. And as for 
Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry 
from Amontillado.” | 

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed 
himself of my arm. Putting on a mask 
of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire 
closely about my person, I suffered him 
to hurry me to my palazzo. 

There were no attendants at home; 
they had absconded to make merry in 
honor of the time. I had told them 
that I should not return until the morn- 
ing, and had given them explicit orders 
not to stir from the house. These 
orders were sufficient, I well knew, to 
insure their immediate disappearance, 
one and all, as soon as my back was 
turned. 

I took from their sconces two flam- 
beaux, and giving one to Fortunato, 
bowed him through several suites of 
rooms to the archway that led into the 
vaults. I passed down a long and wind- 
ing staircase, requesting him to be cau- 
tious as he followed. We came at 
length to the foot of the descent, and 
stood together on the damp ground of 
the catacombs of the Montresors. 





The cold - 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN: POE 


The gait of my friend was unsteady, 
and the bells upon his cap jingled as 
he strode. 

“The pipe?” said he. 

“Tt is farther on,” said I; “but ob- 
serve the white webwork which gleams 
from these cavern walls.” 

He turned toward me, and looked 
into my eyes with two filmy orbs that 
distilled the rheum of intoxication. 

“NitreP” he asked, at length. 

“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have 
you had that cough?” 

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!— 
ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!— 
ugh! ugh! ugh!” 

My poor friend found it impossible 
to reply for many minutes. 

“Tt is nothing,” he said, at last. 

“Come,” I said, with decision, “we 
will go back; your health is precious. 
You are rich, respected, admired, be- 
loved; you are happy, as once I was. 
You are a man to be missed. For me 
it is no matter. We will go back; you 
will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. 
Besides, there is Luchesi ie 

“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a 
mere nothing; it will not kill me. I 
shall not die of a cough.” 

“True—true,” I replied; “and, in- 
deed, I had no intention of alarming 
you unnecessarily; but you should use 
all proper caution. A draught of this 
Medoc will defend us from the damps.” 

Here I knocked off the neck of a 
bottle which I drew from a long row 
of its fellows that lay upon the mould. 

“Drink,” I said, presenting him the 
wine. 

He raised it to his lips with a leer. 
He paused and nodded to me familiarly, 
while his bells jingled. 











THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 207 


“T drink,” he said, “to the buried 
that repose around us.” 

“And I to your long life.” 

He again took my arm, and we pro- 
ceeded. 

“These vaults,” he said, “are ex- 
tensive.” 

“The Montresors,” I replied, ‘were 
a great and numerous family.” 

“I forget your arms.” 

“A huge human foot d’or, in a field 
azure; the foot crushes a serpent ramp- 
ant whose fangs are imbedded in the 
heel.” 

“And the motto?” 

“Nemo me impune lacessit.” 

“Good!” he said. 

The wine sparkled in his eyes and 
the bells jingled. My own fancy grew 
warm with the Medoc. We had passed 
through walls of piled bones, with casks 
and puncheons intermingling, into the 
inmost recesses of the catacombs. I 
paused again, and this time I made bold 
to seize Fortunato by an arm above the 
elbow. 

“The nitre!” I. said; - “see, . it . in- 
creases. It hangs like moss upon the 
vaults. We are below the river’s bed. 
The drops of moisture trickle among 
the bones. Come, we will go back ere 
it is too late. Your coug a 

“Tt is nothing,” he said; “let us go 
on. But first, another draught of the 
Medoc.” 

I broke and reached him a flagon of 
De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. 
His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He 
laughed and threw the bottle upward 
with a gesticulation I did not understand. 

I looked at him in surprise. He re- 
peated the movement—a grotesque one. 

“You do not comprehend?” he said. 

“Not I,” I replied. 





“Then you are not of the brother- 
hood.” 

“Howe” 

“You are not of the masons.” 

ees aves. nel | Said: ives. -vacus 

“You? Impossible! A mason?” 

“A mason,” I replied. 

“A sign,” he said. 

“It is this,’ I answered, producing 
a trowel from beneath the folds of my 
roquelaire. 

“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling 
a few paces. “But let us proceed to 
the Amontillado.” 

“Be it so,” I said, replacing the 
tool beneath the cloak, and again offer- 
ing him my arm. He leaned upon it 
heavily. We continued our route in 
search of the Amontillado. We passed 
through a range of low arches, de- 
scribed, passed on, and _ descending 
again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which 
the foulness of the air caused our 
flambeaux rather to glow than flame. 

At the most remote end of the crypt 
there appeared another less spacious. 
Its walls had been lined with human 
remains, piled to the vault overhead, 
in the fashion of the great catacombs 
of Paris. Three sides of this interior 
crypt were still ornamented in _ this 
manner. From the fourth the bones 
had been thrown down, and lay pro- 
miscuously upon the earth, forming at 
one point a mound of some size. With- 
in the wall thus exposed by the dis: 
placing of the bones, we perceived a 
still interior recess, in depth about four 
feet, in width three, in height six or 
seven. It seemed to have been con- 
structed for no especial use within 
itself, but formed merely the interval 
between two of the colossal supports of 
the roof of the catacombs, and was 


208 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


backed by one of their circumscribing 
walls of solid granite. 

It was in vain that Fortunato, unlift- 
ing his dull torch, endeavored to pry 
into the depth of the recess. Its ter- 
mination the feeble light did not en- 
able us to see. 

“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the 
Amontillado. As for Luchesi ii 

“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted 
my friend, as he stepped unsteadily 
forward, while I followed immediately 
at his heels. In an instant he had 
reached the extremity of the niche, 
and finding his progress arrested by the 
rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A mo- 
ment more and I had fettered him to 
the granite. In its surface were two 
iron staples, distant from each other 
about two feet, horizontally. From one 
of these depended a short chain, from 
the other a padlock. Throwing the 
links about his waist, it was but the 
work of a few seconds to secure it. 
He was too much astounded to resist. 
Withdrawing the key I stepped back 
from the recess. 

“Pass your hand,” I said, ‘‘over the 
wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. 
Indeed it is very damp. Once more 
let me implore you to return. No? 
Then I must positively leave you. But 
I must first render you all the little 
attentions in my power.” 

“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my 
friend, not yet recovered from his 
astonishment. 

“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.” 

As I said these words I busied my- 
self among the pile of bones of which 
I have before spoken. Throwing them 
aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of 
building stone and mortar. With these 
materials and with the aid of my trowel, 





I began vigorously to wall up the en- 
trance of the niche. 

I had scarcely laid the first tier of 
the masonry when I discovered that the 
intoxication of Fortunato had in a great 
measure worn off. The earliest indica- 
tion I had of this was a low moaning 
cry from the depth of the recess. It 
was not the cry of a drunken man. 
There was then a long and obstinate 
silence. JI laid the second tier, and 
the third, and the fourth; and then I 
heard the furious vibrations of the 
chain. The noise lasted for severai 
minutes, during which, that I might 
hearken to it with the more satisfac- 
tion, I ceased my labors and sat down 
upon the bones. When at last the 
clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, 
and finished without interruption the 
fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. 
The wall was now nearly upon a level 
with my breast. I again paused, and 
holding the flambeaux over the mason- 
work, threw a few feeble rays upon the 
figure within. 

A succession of loud and_ shrill 
screams, bursting suddenly from the 
throat of the chained form, seemed to 
thrust me violently back. For a brief 
moment I hesitated—I trembled. Un- 
sheathing my rapier, I began to grope 
with it about the recess; but the 
thought of an instant reassured me. 1] 
placed my hand upon the solid fabric 
of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. 1 
reapproached the wall. I replied to the 
yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed 
—I aided—I surpassed them in volume 
and in strength. I did this, and the 
clamorer grew still. . 

It was now midnight, and my task 
was drawing to a close. I had com- 
pleted the eighth, the ninth, and the 


own evidence. 





THE BLACK CAT 


tenth tier. I had finished a portion 
of the last and the eleventh; there re- 
mained but a single stone to be fitted 
and plastered in. I struggled with its 
weight; I placed it partially in its des- 
tined position. But now there came 
from out the niche a low laugh that 
erected the hairs upon my head. It 
was succeeded by a sad voice, which I 
had difficulty in recognizing as that of 
the noble Fortunato. The voice said— 

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good 
joke indeed—an excellent jest. We 
will have many a rich laugh about it 
at the palazzo—he! he! he! over 
our wine—he! he! he!” 

“The Amontillado!” I said. 

“He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the 
Amontillado. But is it not getting 
later Will not they be awaiting us at 
the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and 
the rest? Let us be gone.” 





209 


“Ves,” I said, “let us be gone.” 

“For the love of God, Montresor!” 

“Ves,” I said, “for the love of God!” 

But to these words I hearkened in 
vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I 
called aloud; 

“Fortunato 

No answer. 

“Fortunato!” 

No answer still. I thrust a torch 
through the remaining aperture and let 
it fall within. There came forth in 
return only a jingling of the bells. My 
heart grew sick—on account of the 
dampness of the catacombs. I has- 
tened to make an end of my labor. I 
forced the last stone into its position; 
I plastered it up. Against the new ma- 
sonry I re-erected the old rampart of 
bones. For the half of a century no 
mortal has disturbed them, Ju pace 
requiescat ! 


1? 


I called again; 


The Black Cat 


(First appeared in United States Saturday Post, August, 1843.—Ed.) 


For the most wild yet most homely 
narrative which I am about to pen, I 
- neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad 
- indeed would I be to expect it, in a 
case where my very senses reject their 
Yet, mad am I not— 
and very surely do I not dream. But 
to-morrow I die, and to-day I would 
unburden my soul. My immediate 
purpose is to place before the world, 
_ plainly, succinctly, and without com- 
- ment, a series of mere household events. 
In their consequences, these events 
have terrified—have tortured—have de- 
stroyed me. Yet I will not attempt 


to expound them. To me, they have 
presented little but horror—to many 
they will seem less terrible than bar- 
roques. Hereafter, perhaps, some in- 
tellect may be found which will reduce 
my phantasm to the commonplace— 
some intellect more calm, more logical, 
and far less excitable than my own, 
which will perceive, in the circumstances 
I detail with awe, nothing more than 
an ordinary succession of very natural 
causes and effects. 

From my infancy I was noted for 
the docility and humanity of my dis- 
position. My tenderness of heart was 


210 


even so conspicuous as to make me the 
jest of my companions. I was espe- 
cially fond of animals, and was in- 
dulged by my parents with a great 
variety of pets. With these I spent 
most of my time, and never was so 
happy as when feeding and caressing 
them. This peculiarity of character 
grew with my growth, and, in my man- 
hood, I derived from it one of my 
principal sources of pleasure. To those 
who have cherished an affection for a 
faithful and sagacious dog, I need 
hardly be at the trouble of explaining 
the nature or the intensity of the grati- 
fication thus derivable. There is some- 
thing in the unselfish and self-sacrific- 
ing love of a brute, which goes directly 
to the heart of him who has had fre- 
quent occasion to test the paltry friend- 
ship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. 

I married early, and was happy to 
find in my wife a disposition not un- 
congenial with my own. Observing my 
partiality for domestic pets, she lost 
no opportunity of procuring those of 
the most agreeable kind. We had 
birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a 
small monkey, and a cat. 

This latter was a remarkably large 
and beautiful animal, entirely black, 
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. 
In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, 
who at heart was not a little tinctured 
with superstition, made frequent al- 
lusion to the ancient popular notion, 
which regarded all black cats as witches 
in disguise. Not that she was ever 
serious upon this point—and I men- 
tion the matter at all for no better 
reason than that it happens, just now, 
to be remembered. 

Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was 
my favorite pet and playmate. I alone 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fed him, and he attended me wherever 
I went about the house. It was ever. 
with difficulty that I could prevent hin, 
from following me through the streets, 

Our friendship lasted, in this man- 
ner, for several years, during which 
my general temperament and character 
—through the instrumentality of the 
Fiend Intemperance—had ( I blush to 
confess it) experienced a radical altera- 
tion for the worse. I grew, day by day, 
more moody, more irritable, more re- 
gardless of the feelings of others. I 
suffered myself to use intemperate lan- 
guage to my wife. At length, I even 
offered her personal violence. My pets, 
of course, were made to feel the change 
in my disposition. I not only neglected, 
but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, 
I still retained sufficient regard to re- 
strain me from maltreating him, as I 
made no scruple of maltreating the rab- 
bits, the monkey, or even the dog, when, 
by accident, or through affection, they 
came in my way. But my disease grew 
upon me—for what disease is like Al- 
cohol!—and at length even Pluto, who 


-was now becoming old, and conse- 


quently somewhat peevish—even Pluto 
began to experience the effects of my 
ill temper. 

One night, returning home, much in. 
toxicated, from one of my haunts about 
town, I fancied that the cat avoided my 
presence. I seized him; when, in his 
fright at my violence, he inflicted a 
slight wound upon my hand with his 
teeth. The fury of a demon instantly 
possessed me. I knew myself no 
longer. My original soul seemed, at 
once, to take its flight from my body; 
and a more than fiendish malevolence, 
gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my 
frame. I took from my waistcoat- 





THE BLACK CAT 


_ pocket a penknife, opened it, grasped 
the poor beast by the throat, and de- 
liberately cut one of its eyes from the 
- socket! 


I blush, I burn, I shudder, 
while I pen the damnable atrocity. 
When reason returned with the morn- 
ing—when I had slept off the fumes of 
the night’s debauch—I experienced a 
sentiment half of horror, half of re- 
morse, for the crime of which I had 


been guilty; but it was, at best, a 


feeble and equivocal feeling, and the 
soul remained untouched. I again 
plunged into excess, and soon drowned 


in wine all memory of the deed. 


In the meantime the cat slowly re- 


covered. The socket of the lost eye 
_ presented, it,is true, a frightful appear- 
ance, but he no longer appeared to 


suffer any pain. He went about the 
house as usual, but, as might be ex- 
pected, fled in extreme terror at my 
approach. I had so much of my old 


heart left, as to be at first grieved by 
this evident dislike on the part of a 


creature which had once so loved me. 


But this feeling soon gave place to 


- irritation. 


And then came, as if to 


_ my final and irrevocable overthrow, the 


- spirit of PERVERSENESS. 
_ philosophy takes no account. 


Of this spirit 
Vet: 


am not more sure that my soul lives, 
than I am that perverseness is one of 
the primitive impulses of the human 


heart—one of the indivisible primary 
faculties, or sentiments, which give di- 
rection to the character of Man. Who 
has not, a hundred times, found himself 


committing a vile or a stupid action, 


for no other reason than because he 
knows he should not? Have we not a 
perpetual inclination, in the teeth of 
our best judgment, to violate that which 
is Law, merely because we understand 


211 


it to be such? This spirit of perverse- 
ness, I say, came to my final over- 
throw. It was this unfathomable long- 
ing of the soul to vex itself—to offer 
violence to its own nature—to do wrong 
for the wrong’s sake only—that urged 
me to continue and finally to consum- 
mate the injury I had inflicted upon 
the unoffending brute. One morning, 
in cold blood, I slipped a noose about 
its neck and hung it to the limb of a 
tree—hung it with the tears streaming . 
from my eyes, and with the bitterest 
remorse at my heart—hung it because 
I knew that it had loved me, and be- 
cause I felt it had given me no reason 
of offence—hung it because I knew that 
in so doing I was committing a sin— 
a deadly sin that would so jeopardize 
my immortal soul as to place it—if 
such a thing were possible—even be- 
yond the reach of the infinite mercy 
of the Most Merciful and Most Ter- 
rible God. 

On the night of the day on which 
this most cruel deed was done, I was 
aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. 
The curtains of my bed were in flames. 
The whole house was blazing. It was 
with great difficulty that my wife, a 
servant, and myself, made our escape 
from the conflagration. The destruc- 
tion was complete. My entire worldly 
wealth was swallowed up, and I re- 
signed myself thenceforward to despair. 

I am above the weakness of seeking 
to establish a sequence of cause and 
effect, between the disaster and the 
atrocity. But I am detailing a chain 
of facts—and wish not to leave even a 
possible link imperfect. On the day 
succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. 
The walls, with one exception, had 
fallen in. This exception was found in 


212 


a compartment wall, not very thick, 
which stood about the middle of the 
house, and against which had rested the 
head of my bed. The plastering had 
here, in great measure, resisted the 
action of the fire—a fact which I attrib- 
uted to its having been recently spread. 
About this wall a dense crowd were 
collected, and many persons seemed to 
be examining a particular portion of 
it with very minute and eager atten- 
tion. The words “strange!” “singu- 
lar!” and other similar expressions, ex- 
cited my curiosity. JI approached and 
saw, as if graven in bas-relief upon the 
white surface, the figure of a gigantic 
cat. ‘The impression was given with 
an accuracy truly marvellous. There 
was a rope about the animal’s neck. 

When I first beheld this apparition— 
for I could scarcely regard it as less— 
my wonder and my terror were extreme. 
But at length reflection came to my 
aid. The cat, I remembered, had been 
hung in a garden adjacent to the house. 
Upon the alarm of fire, this garden 
had been immediately filled by the 
crowd—by some one of whom the ani- 
mal must have been cut from the tree 
and thrown, through an open window, 
into my chamber. This had probably 
been done with the view of arousing 
me from sleep. The falling of other 
walls had compressed the victim of 
my cruelty into the substance of the 
freshly-spread plaster; the lime of 
which, with the flames, and the am- 
monia from the carcass, had then ac- 
complished the portraiture as I saw it. 

Although I thus readily accounted 
to my reason, if not altogether to my 
conscience, for the startling fact just 
detailed, it did not the less fail to make 
a deep impression upon my fancy. For 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


months I could not rid myself of the 
phantasm of the cat; and, during this 
period, there came back into my spirit 
a half-sentiment that seemed, but was 
not, remorse. I went so far as to re- 
gret the loss of the animal, and to look 
about me, among the vile haunts which 
I now habitually frequented, for an- 
other pet of the same species, and of 
somewhat similar appearance, with 
which to supply its place. 

One night as I sat, half stupefied, in 
a den of more than infamy, my atten- 
tion was suddenly drawn to some black 
object, reposing upon the head of one 
of the immense hogsheads of gin, or of 
rum, which constituted the chief furni- 
ture of the apartment. I had been 
looking steadily at the top of this hogs- 
head for some minutes, and what now 
caused me surprise was the fact that 
I had not sooner perceived the ob- 
ject thereupon. I approached it, and 
touched it with my hand. It was a 
black cat—a very large one—fully as 
large as Pluto, and closely resembling 
him in every respect but one. Pluto 
had not a white hair upon any portion 
of his body; but this cat had a large, 
although indefinite splotch of white, 
covering nearly the whole region of the 
breast. 

Upon my touching him, he imme- 
diately arose, purred loudly, rubbed 
against my hand, and appeared de- 
lighted with my notice. This, then, 
was the very creature of which I was 
in search. I at once offered to pur- 
chase it of the landlord; but this per- 
son made no claim to it—knew noth- 
ing of it—had never seen it before. 

I continued my caresses, and wher 
I prepared to go home, the animai 
evinced a disposition to accompany me. 





pital elma i iTS a ae IN OE S 


























THE BLACK CAT 


I permitted it to do so; occasionally 
stooping and patting it as I proceeded. 
When it reached the house it domesti- 
cated itself at once, and became imme- 
diately a great favorite with my wife. 

For my own part, I soon found a 
dislike to it arising within me. This 
was just the reverse of what I had an- 
ticipated; but—I know not how or why 
it was—its evident fondness for my- 
self rather disgusted and annoyed me. 
By slow degrees these feelings of dis- 
gust and annoyance rose into the bit- 
terness of hatred. I avoided the crea- 
ture; a certain sense of shame, and 
the remembrance of my former deed 
of cruelty, preventing me from physi- 
cally abusing it. I did not, for some 
weeks, strike, or otherwise violently 
ill use it; but gradually—very gradu- 
ally—I came to look upon it with un- 
utterable loathing, and to flee silently 
from its odious presence, as from the 
breath of a pestilence. 

What added, no doubt, to my hatred 
of the beast, was the discovery, on the 
morning after I brought it home, that, 
like Pluto, it also had been deprived 
of one of its eyes. This circumstance, 
however, only endeared it to my wife, 
who, as I have already said, possessed, 
in a high degree, that humanity of 
feeling which had once been my dis- 
tinguishing trait, and the source of many 
of my simplest and purest pleasures. 

With my aversion to this cat, how- 
ever, its partiality for myself seemed 
te increase. It followed my footsteps 
with a pertinacity which it would be 
difficult to make the reader compre- 
hend. Wherever I sat, it would crouch 
beneath my chair, or spring upon my 
knees, covering me with its loathsome 
caresses. If I arose to walk it would 


213 


get between my feet and thus nearly 
throw me down, or, fastening its long 
and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, 
in this manner, to my breast. At such 
times, although I longed to destroy it 
with a blow, I was yet withheld from 
so doing, partly by a memory of my 
former crime, but chiefly—let me con- 
fess it at once—by absolute dread of 
the beast. 

This dread was not exactly a dread 
of physical evil—and yet I should be 
at a loss how otherwise to define it. 
I am almost ashamed to own—yes, even 
in this felon’s cell, I am almost ashamed 
to own—that the terror and horror 
with which the animal inspired me, 
had been heightened by one of the 
merest chimeras it would be possible 
to conceive. My wife had called my 
attention, more than once, to the char- 
acter of the mark of white hair, of 
which I have spoken, and which con- 
stituted the sole visible difference be- 
tween the strange beast and the one 
I had destroyed. The reader will re- 
member that this mark, although large, 
had been originally very indefinite; 
but, by slow degrees—degrees nearly 
imperceptible, and which for a long 
time my reason struggled to reject as 
fanciful—it had, at length, assumed a 
rigorous distinctness of outline. It was 
now the representation of an object that 
I shudder to name—and for this, above 
all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would 
have rid myself of the monster had I 
dared—it was now, I say, the image 
ef a hideous—of a ghastly thing—or 
the GaLLows!—oh, mournful and ter- 
rible engine of Horror and of Crime— 
of Agony and of Death! 

And now was I indeed wretched be- 
yond the wretchedness of mere Hu- 


214 


manity. And a brute beast—whose 
fellow I had contemptuously destroyed 
—a brute beast to work out for me— 
for me, a man fashioned in the image 
of the High God—so much of insuffer- 
able woe! Alas! neither by day nor 
by night knew I the blessing of rest 
any more! During the former the 
creature left me no moment alone, and 
in the latter I started hourly from 
dreams of unutterable fear to find the 
hot breath of the thing upon my face, 
and its vast weight—an _ incarnate 
nightmare that I had no power to shake 
off—incumbent eternally upon my 
heart! 

Beneath the pressure of torments 
such as these the feeble remnant of 
the good within me succumbed. Evil 
thoughts became my sole intimates— 
the darkest and most evil of thoughts. 
The moodiness of my usual temper in- 
creased to hatred of all things and of 
all mankind; while from the sudden, 
frequent, and ungovernable outbursts 
of a fury to which I now blindly aban- 
doned myself, my uncomplaining wife, 
alas, was the most usual and the most 
patient of sufferers. 

One day she accompanied me, upon 
some household errand, into the cellar 
of the old building which our poverty 
compelled us to inhabit. The cat fol- 
lowed me down the steep stairs, and, 
nearly throwing me headlong, exasper- 
ated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, 
and forgetting in my wrath the child- 
ish dread which had hitherto stayed 
my hand, I aimed a blow at the ani- 
mal, which, of course, would have 
proved instantly fatal had it descended 
as I wished. But this blow was ar- 
rested by the hand of my wife. 
Goaded by the interference into a rage 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


more than demoniacal, I withdrew my 
arm from her grasp and buried the axe 
in her brain. She fell dead upon the 
spot without a groan. 

This hideous murder accomplished, 
I set myself forthwith, and with entire 
deliberation, to the task of concealing 
the body. I knew that I could not 
remove it from the house, either by 
day or night, without the risk of be- 
ing observed by the neighbors. Many 
projects entered my mind. At one 
period I thought of cutting the corpse 
into minute fragments, and destroying 
them by fire. At another, I resolved 
to dig a grave for it in the floor of 
the cellar. Again, I deliberated about 
casting it in the well in the yard— 
about packing it in a box, as if mer- 
chandise, with the usual arrangements, 
and so getting a porter to take it from 
the house. Finally I hit upon what 
I considered a far better expedient 
than either of these. I determined to 
wall it up in the cellar, as the monks 
of the Middle Ages are recorded to 
have walled up their victims. 

For a purpose such as this the cel- 
lar was well adapted. Its walls were 
loosely constructed, and had lately 
been plastered throughout with a rough 
plaster, which the dampness of the at- 
mosphere had prevented from hard- 
ening. Moreover, in one of the wails 
was a projection, caused by a false 
chimney, or fireplace, that had been 
filled up and made to resemble the 
rest of the cellar. I made no doubt 
that I could readily displace the bricks 
at this point, insert the corpse, and 
wall the whole up as before, so that 
no eye could detect any thing sus- 
picious. 

And in this calculation I was not de- 














THE BLACK CAT 


ceived. By means of a crowbar I 
easily dislodged the bricks, and, hav- 
_ ing carefully deposited the body against 
the inner wall, I propped it in that 
_ position, while with little trouble I re- 
laid the whole structure as it originally 
| stood. Having procured mortar, sand, 
and hair, with every possible precau- 
| tion, I prepared a plaster which could 
/ not be distinguished from the old, and 
| with this I very carefully went over 
| the new brick-work. When I had fin- 
_ ished, I felt satisfied that all was right. 
The wall did not present the slightest 
appearance of having been disturbed. 
| The rubbish on the floor was picked 
up with the minutest care. I looked 
around triumphantly, and said to my- 
_ self: “Here at least, then, my labor has 
/ not been in vain.” 

My next step was to look for the 
beast which had been the cause of so 
much wretchedness; for I had, at 
length, firmly resolved to put it to 
death. Had I been able to meet with 
it at the moment, there could have 
been no doubt of its fate; but it ap- 
peared that the crafty animal had been 
alarmed at the violence of my previous 
anger, and forebore to present itself in 
my present mood. It is impossible to 
'. describe or to imagine the deep, the 
_ blissful sense of relief which the ab- 
sence of the detested creature occa- 
sioned in my bosom. It did not make 
its appearance during the night; and 
thus for one night, at least, since its 
introduction into the house, I soundly 
and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even 
with the burden of murder upon my 
soul. 

The second and the third day passed, 
and still my tormentor came _ not. 
Once again I breathed as a free man. 


_ well-constructed house. 


215 


The monster, in terror, had fled the 
premises for ever! I should behold 
it no more! My happiness was su- 
preme! The guilt of my dark deed 
disturbed me but little. Some few in- 
quiries had been made, but these had 
been readily answered. Even a search 
was instituted—but of course nothing 
was to be discovered. I looked upon 
my future felicity as secured. 

Upon the fourth day of the assassi- 
nation, a party of the police came, 
very unexpectedly, into the house, and 
proceeded again to make rigorous in- 
vestigation of the premises. Secure, 
however, in the inscrutability of my 
place of concealment, I felt no em- 
barrassment whatever. The officers 
bade me accompany them in their 
search. They left no nook or corner 
unexplored. At length, for the third 
or fourth time, they descended into the 
cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. 
My heart beat calmly as that of one 
who slumbers in innocence. I walked 
the cellar from end to end. I folded 
my arms upon my bosom, and roamed 
easily to and fro. The police were 
thoroughly satisfied and prepared to 
depart. The glee at my heart was too 
strong to be restrained. I burned to 
say if but one word, by way of tri- 
umph, and to render doubly sure their 
assurance of my guiltlessness. 

“Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the 
party ascended the steps, “I delight 
to have allayed your suspicions. I 
wish you all health and a little more 
courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this 
—this is a very well-constructed house,” 
(in the rabid desire to say something 
easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered 
at all)—‘I may say an excellently 
These walls— 


216 


are you going, gentlemenr—these walls 
are solidly put together”; and here, 
through the mere frenzy of bravado, 
I rapped heavily with a cane which I 
held in my hand, upon that very por- 
tion of the brickwork behind which 
stood the corpse of the wife of my 
bosom. 

But may God shield and deliver me 
from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No 
sooner had the reverberation of my 
blows sunk into silence, than I was 
answered by a voice from within the 
tomb!—by a cry, at first muffled and 
broken, like the sobbing of a child, 
and then quickly swelling into one 
long, loud and continuous scream, ut- 
terly anomalous and inhuman—a howl 
—a wailing shriek, half of horror and 
half of triumph, such as might have 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


arisen only out of hell, conjointly from 
the throats of the damned in their 
agony and of the demons that exult in 
the damnation. 

Of my own thoughts it is folly to 
speak. Swooning, I staggered to. the 
opposite wall. For one instant the 


party on the stairs remained motion- ~ 


less, through extremity of terror and 
awe. In the next a dozen stout arms 
were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. 
The corpse, already greatly decayed and 
clotted with gore, stood erect before 
the eyes of the spectators. Upon its 
head, with red extended mouth and 
solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous 
beast whose craft had seduced me into 
murder, and whose informing voice had 
consigned me to the hangman. I had 


walled the mongtér up within thé tomb.” * 


The Tell-Tale Heart 


(First published in The Pioneer, January, 1843——Ed.) 


TrRuE!—nervous—very, very dread- 
fully nervous I had been and am! 
but why will you say that I am mad? 
The disease had sharpened my senses— 
not destroyed—not dulled:them. Above 
all was the sense of hearing acute. 
I heard all things in the heaven and 
in the earth. I heard many things in 
hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! 
and observe how healthily—how calmly 
I can tell you the whole story. 

It is impossible to say how first the 
idea entered my brain; but once con- 
ceived, it haunted me day and night. 
Object there was none. Passion there 
was none. I loved the old man. He 
had never wronged me. He had never 


given me insult. For his gold I had 
no desire. I think it was his eye! 
yes, it was this! One of his eyes re- 
sembled that of a vulture—a pale blue 
eye, with a film over it. Whenever it 
fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and 
so by degrees—very gradually—I made 
up my mind to take the life of the 
old man, and thus rid myself of the 
eye for ever. 

Now this is the point. You fancy 
me mad. Madmen know nothing. But 
you should have seen me. You should 
have seen how wisely I proceeded—with 
what caution—with what foresight—with 
what dissimulation I went to work! 

I was never kinder to the old man 


ee, aE 











- tiously—cautiously 


THE TELL-TALE HEART 


than during the whole week before I 
killed him. And every night, about 
midnight, I turned the latch of his 
door and opened it—oh, so gently! 
And then, when I had made an opening 
sufficient for my head, I put in a dark 
lantern, all closed, closed, so that no 
light shone out, and then I thrust in 
my head. Oh, you would have laughed 
to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I 
moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so 
that I might not disturb the old man’s 
sleep. It took me an hour to place 
my whole head within the opening so 
far that I could see him as he lay upon 
his bed. Ha!—would a madman have 
been so wise as this? And then, when 
my head was well in the room, I un- 
did the lantern cautiously—oh, so cau- 
(for the hinges 
creaked)—I undid it just so much that 
a single thin ray fell upon the vulture 
eye. And this I did for seven long 
nights—every night just at midnight— 
but I found the eye always closed; and 
so it was impossible to do the work; 
for it was not the old man who vexed 
me, but his Evil Eye. And _ every 
morning, when the day broke, I went 
boldly into the chamber, and spoke 
courageously to him, calling him by 
name in a hearty tone, and inquiring 
how he had passed the night. So you 
see he would have been a very _pro- 
found old man, indeed, to suspect that 
every night, just at twelve, I looked 
in upon him while he slept. 

Upon the eighth night I was more 
than usually cautious in opening the 
door. A watch’s minute hand moves 
more quickly than did mine. Never 
before that night had I felt the extent 
of my own powers—of my sagacity. I 
could scarcely contain my feelings of 


217 


triumph. To think that there I was, 
opening the door, little by little, and 
he not even to dream of my secret 
deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at 
the idea; and perhaps he heard me; 
for he moved on the bed suddenly, as 
if startled. Now you may think that 
I drew back—but no. His room was 
as black as pitch with the thick dark- 
ness, (for the shutters were close fas- 
tened, through fear of robbers,) and 
so I knew that he could not see the 
opening of the door, and I kept push- 
ing it on steadily, steadily. 

I had my head in, and was about 
to open the lantern, when my thumb 
slipped upon the tin fastening, and the 
old man sprang up in the bed, crying 
out—‘‘Who’s there?” 

I kept quite still and said nothing. 
For a whole hour I did not move a 
muscle, and in the meantime I did not 
hear him lie down. He was still sitting 
up in the bed listening;—just as I 
have done, night after night, hearken- 
ing to the death watches in the wall. 

Presently I heard a slight groan, and 
I knew it was the groan of mortal ter- 
ror. It was not a groan of pain or 
of grief—oh no!—it was the low stifled 
sound that arises from the bottom of 
the. soul when overcharged with awe. 
I knew the sound well. Many a night, 
just at midnight, when all the world 
slept, it has welled up from my own 
bosom, deepening, with its dreadful 
echo, the terrors that distracted me. 
I say I knew it well. I knew what 
the old man felt, and pitied him, al. 
though I chuckled at heart. I knew 
that he had been lying awake ever 
since the first slight noise, when he had 
turned in the bed. His fears had been 
ever since growing upon him. He had 


218 


been trying to fancy them causeless, but 
could not. He had been saying to him- 
celf—‘“It is nothing but the wind in 
the chimney—it is only a mouse cross- 
ing the floor,” or “it is merely a cricket 
which has made a single chirp.” Yes, 
he has been trying to comfort himself 
with these suppositions; but he had 
found all in vain. All in vain; because 
Death, in approaching him, had stalked 
with his black shadow before him, and 
enveloped the victim. And it was the 
mournful influence of the unperceived 
shadow that caused him to feel—al- 
though he neither saw nor heard—to 
feel the presence of my head within 
the room. 

When I had waited a long time, very 
patiently, without hearing him lie down, 
I resolved to open a little—a very, very 
little crevice in the lantern. So I 
opened it—you cannot imagine how 
stealthily, stealthily—until, at length, 
a single dim ray, like the thread of 
the spider, shot from out the crevice 
and full upon the vulture eye. 

It was open—wide, wide open—and 
I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I 
saw it with perfect distinctness—all a 
dull blue, with a hideous veil over it 
that chilled the very marrow in my 
bones; but I could see nothing else of 
the old man’s face or person: for I 
had directed the ray as if by instinct, 
precisely upon the damned spot. 

And now have I not told you that 
what you mistake for madness is but 
over-acuteness of the senses?—now, I 
say, there came to my ears a low, dull, 
quick sound, such as a watch makes 
when enveloped in cotton. I knew that 
sound well too. It was the beating of 
the old man’s heart. It increased my 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fury, as the beating of a drum stimu- 
lates the soldier into courage. 

But even yet I refrained and kept 
still. I scarcely breathed. I held the 
lantern motionless. I tried how stead- 
ily I could maintain the ray upon the 
eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of 
the heart increased. It grew quicker 
and quicker, and louder and louder 
every instant. The old man’s terror 
must have been extreme! It grew 
louder, I say, louder every moment !— 
do you mark me well? I have told 
you that I am nervous: so I am. And 
now at the dead hour of the night, amid 
the dreadful silence of that old house, 
so strange a noise as this excited me 
to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some 
minutes longer I refrained and stood 


still. But the beating grew louder, 
louder! I thought the heart must 
burst. And now a new anxiety seized 


me—the sound would be heard by a 
neighbor! The old man’s hour had 
come! With a loud yell, I threw open 
the lantern and leaped into the room. 
He shrieked once—once only. In an 
instant I dragged him to the floor, and 
pulled the heavy bed over him. I then 
smiled gaily, to find the deed so far 
done. But, for many minutes, the 
heart beat on with a muffled sound. 
This, however, did not vex me; it would 
not be heard through the wall. At 
length it ceased. “The old man was 
dead. I removed the bed and examined 
the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone 
dead. I placed my hand upon the 
heart and held it there many minutes. 
There was no pulsation. He was stone 
dead. His eye would trouble me ne 
more. 

If still you think me mad, you will 
think so no longer when I describe the 





THE TELL-TALE HEART 


wise precautions I took for the con- 
cealment of the body. The night 
waned, and I worked hastily, but in 
silence. First of all I dismembered 
the corpse. I cut off the head and the 
arms and the legs. 

I then took up three planks from the 
flooring of the chamber, and deposited 
all between the scantlings. I then re- 
placed the boards so cleverly, so cun- 
ningly, that no human eye—not even his 
—could have detected any thing wrong. 
There was nothing to wash out—no 
stain of any kind—no blood-spot what- 
ever. JI had been too wary for that. 
A tub had caught all—ha! ha! 

When I had made an end of these 
labors, it was four o’clock—still dark 
as midnight. As the bell sounded the 
hour, there came a knocking at the 
street door. I went down to open it 
with a light heart,—for what had I 
now to fear? There entered three men, 
who introduced themselves, with perfect 
suavity, as officers of the police. A 
shriek had been heard by a neighbor 
during the night: suspicion of foul play 
had been aroused; information had been 
lodged at the police office, and they 
(the officers) had been deputed to 
search the premises. . 

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? 
I bade the gentlemen welcome. The 
shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. 
The old man, I mentioned, was absent 
in the country. I took my visitors all 
over the house. I bade them search— 
search well. I led, them, at length, to 
his chamber. I showed them his treas- 
ures, secure, undisturbed. In the en- 
thusiasm of my confidence, I brought 
chairs into the room, and desired them 
here to rest from their fatigues, while 
I myself, in the wild audacity of my 


219 


perfect triumph, placed my own seat 
upon the very spot beneath which re- 
posed the corpse of the victim. 

The officers were satisfied. My man- 
ner had convinced them. I was singu- 
larly at ease. They sat, and while I an- 
swered cheerily, they chatted of familiar 
things. But, ere long, I felt myself 
getting pale and wished them gone. 
My head ached, and I fancied a ring- 
ing in my ears: but still they sat and 
still chatted. The ringing became more 
distinct:—it continued and became 
more distinct: I talked more freely 
to get rid of the feeling: but it con- 
tinued and gained definitiveness—until, 
at length, I found that the noise was 
not within my ears. 

No doubt I now grew very pale;— 
but I talked more fluently, and with a 
heightened voice. Yet the sound in- 
creased—and what could I do? It was 
a low, dull, quick sound—much such 
a sound as a watch makes when en- 
veloped in cotton. I gasped for breath 
—and yet the officers heard it not. I 
talked more quickly—more vehemently; 
but the noise steadily increased. I arose 
and argued about trifles, in a high key 
and with violent gesticulations, but the 
noise steadily increased. Why would 
they not be gone? I paced the floor 
to and fro with heavy strides, as if 
excited to fury by the observation of 
the men—but the noise steadily in- 
creased. Oh God! what could I do? I 
foamed—I raved—I swore. I swung 
the chair upon which I had been sit- 
ting, and grated it upon the boards, 
but the noise arose over all and con- 
tinually increased. It grew louder— 
louder—louder! And _ still the men 
chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was 
it possible they heard not? Almighty 


220 


God!—no, no! They heard!—they 
suspected!—they knew/—they were 
making a mockery of my _ horror!— 
this I thought, and this I think. But 
any thing was better than this agony! 
Any thing was more tolerable than this 
derision! I could bear those hypocriti- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


cal smiles no longer! I felt that I 
must scream or die!—and now—again! 
—hark! louder! louder! louder /— 

“Villains!” I shrieked, ‘‘dissemble no 
more! I admit the deed!—tear up the 
planks!—here, here!—it is the beating 
of his hideous heart!” 


The Imp of the Perverse 


(First published in Graham’s 


In the consideration of the faculties 
and impulses—of the prima mobilia 
of the human soul, the phrenologists 
have failed to make room for a pro- 
pensity whicn, although obviously ex- 
isting as a radical, primitive, irreduci- 
ble sentiment, has been, equally over- 
looked by all the moralists who have 
preceded them. In the pure arrogance 
of the reason, we have all overlooked 
it. We have suffered its existence to 
escape our senses, solely through want 
of belief—of faith;—-whether it be 
faith in Revelation, or faith in the 
Kabbala. The idea of it has never 
occurred to us, simply because of its 
supererogation. We saw no need of 
the impulse—for the propensity. We 
could not perceive its necessity. We 
could not understand, that is to say, 
we could not have understood, had 
the notion of this primum mobile ever 
obtruded itself;—-we could not have 
understood in what manner it might 
be made to further the objects of hu- 
manity, either temporal or eternal. It 
cannot be denied that phrenology and, 
in great measure, all metaphysicianism 
have been concocted a priori. The in- 


tellectual or logical man, rather than 


Magazine July, 1845.—Ed.) 


the understanding or observant man, 
set himself to imagine designs—to dic- 
tate purposes to God. Having thus 
fathomed, to his satisfaction, the in- 
tentions of Jehovah, out of these inten- 
tions he built his innumerable systems 
of mind. In the matter of phrenology, 
for example, we first determined, nat- 
urally enough, that it was the design 
of the Deity that man should eat. We 
then assigned to man an organ of ali- 
mentiveness, and this organ is the 
scourge with which the Deity compels 
man, will-I nill-I, into eating. Sec- 
ondly, having settled it to be God’s 
will that man should continue his spe- 
cles, we discovered an organ of ama- 
tiveness, forthwith. And so with com- 
bativeness, with ideality, with causality, 
with constructiveness,—so, in short, 
with every organ, whether representing 
a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a 
faculty of the pure intellect. And in 
these arrangements of the principia of 
human action, the Spurzheimites, 
whether right or wrong, in part, or 
upon the whole, have but followed, in 
principle, the footsteps of their prede- 
cessors; deducing and establishing every 
thing from the preconceived destiny of 








THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE 


man, and upon the ground of the ob- 
jects of his Creator. | 

It would have been wiser, it would 
have been safer, to classify (if classify 
we must) upon the basis of what man 
usually or occasionally did, and was 
always occasionally doing, rather than 
upon the basis of what we took it for 
granted the Deity intended him to do. 
If we cannot comprehend God in his 
visible works, how then in his incon- 
ceivable thoughts, that call the works 
into being? If we cannot understand 
him in his objective creatures, how 
then in his substantive moods and 
phases of creation? 

Induction, a posteriori, would have 
brought phrenology to admit, as an 
innate and primitive principle of hu- 
man action, a paradoxical something, 
which we may call perverseness, for 
want of a more characteristic term. In 
the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mo- 
bile without motive, a motive not mo- 
tivirt. Through its promptings we act 
without comprehensible object; or, if 
this shall be understood as a contra- 
diction in terms, we may so far modify 
the proposition as to say, that through 
its promptings we act, for the reason 
that we should mot. In theory, no rea- 
son can be more unreasonable; but, 
in fact, there is none more strong. 
With certain minds, under certain con- 
ditions, it becomes absolutely irresisti- 
ble. I am not more certain that I 
breathe, than that the assurance of the 
wrong or error of any action is often 
the one unconquerable force which im- 
pels us, and alone impels us to its 
prosecution. 
ing tendency to do wrong for the 
wrong’s sake, admit of analysis, or reso- 
lution into ulterior elements. It is a 


Nor will this overwhelm-_ 


221 


radical, a primitive impulse—elemen- 
tary. It will be said, I am aware, 
that when we persist in acts because 
we feel we should not persist in them, 
our conduct is but a modification of 
that which ordinarily springs from the 
combativeness of phrenology. But a 
glance will show the fallacy of this 
idea. The phrenological combativeness 
has for its essence, the necessity of 
self-defence. It is our safeguard 
against injury. Its principle regards 
our well-being; and thus the desire 
to be well is excited simultaneously 
with its development. It follows, that 
the desire to be well must be excited 
simultaneously with any principle which 
shall be merely a modification of com- 
bativeness, but in the case of that some- 
thing which I term perverseness, the 
desire to be well is not only not aroused, 
but a strongly antagonistical sentiment 
exists. 

An appeal to one’s own heart is, 
after all, the best reply to the sophis- 
try just noticed. No one who trust- 
ingly consults and thoroughly questions 
his own soul, will be disposed to deny 
the entire radicalness of the propensity 
in question. It is not more incompre- 
hensible than distinctive. There lives 
no man who at some period has not 
been tormented, for example, by an 
earnest desire to tantalize a listener 
by circumlocution. The speaker is 
aware that he displeases; he has every 
intention to please; he is usually curt, 
precise, and clear; the most laconic 
and luminous language is struggling for 
utterance upon his tongue; it is. only 
with difficulty that he restrains him- 
self from giving it flow; he dreads and 
deprecates the anger of him whom he 
addresses; yet, the thought strikes him, 


222 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


that by certain involutions and paren- 
theses this anger may be engendered. 
That single thought is enough. The 
impulse increases to a wish, the wish 
to a desire, the desire to an uncon- 
trollable longing, and the longing (to 
the deep regret and mortification of the 
speaker, and in defiance of all conse- 
quences) is indulged. 

We have a task before us which 
must be speedily performed. We know 
that it will be ruinous to make de- 
lay. The most important crisis of our 
life calls, trumpet-tongued, for imme- 
diate energy and action. We glow, we 
are consumed with eagerness to com- 
mence the work, with the anticipation 
of whose glorious result our whole 
souls are on fire. It must, it shall be 
undertaken to-day, and yet we put it 
off until to-morrow; and why? There 
is no answer, except that we feel per- 
verse, using the word with no com- 
prehension of the principle. To-mor- 
row arrives, and with it a more im- 
patient anxiety to do our duty, but 
with this very increase of anxiety ar- 
rives, also, a nameless, a positively fear- 
ful, because unfathomable, craving for 
delay. This craving gathers strength 
as the moments fly. The last hour for 
action is at hand. We tremble with 
the violence of the conflict within us,— 
of the definite with the indefinite—of 
the substance with the shadow. But, 
if the contest has proceeded thus far, 
it is the shadow which prevails;—we 
struggle in vain. The clock strikes, 
and is the knell of our welfare. At 
the same time, it is the chanticleer- 
note to the ghost that has so long 
overawed us. It flies—it disappears— 
we are free. The old energy returns. 
We will labor zow. Alas, it is too late! 


We stand upon the brink of a preci- 
pice. We peer into the abyss—we 
grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse 
is to shrink from the danger. Unac- 
countably we remain. By slow degrees 
cur sickness and dizziness and horror 
become merged in a cloud of unnam- 
able feeling. By gradations, still more 
imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, 
as did the vapor from the bottle out 
of which arose the genius in the Ara- 
bian Nights. But out of this our cloud 
upon the precipice’s edge, there grows 
into palpability, a shape, far more ter- 
rible than any genius or any demon 
of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, 
although a fearful one, and one which 
chills the very marrow of our bones 
with the fierceness of the delight of 
its horror. It is merely the idea of 
what would be our sensations during 
the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from 
such a height. And this fall—this 
rushing annihilation—for the very rea~ 
son that it involves that ‘one most 
ghastly and loathsome of all the most 
ghastly and loathsome images of death 
and suffering which have ever pre- 
sented themselves to our imagination— 
for this very cause do we now the most 
vividly desire it. And because our rea- 
son violently deters us from the brink, 
therefore do we the most impetuously 
approach it. There is no passion in 
nature so demoniacally impatient, as 
that of him who, shuddering upon the 
edge of a precipice, thus meditates a 
plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in 


any attempt at thought, is to be inevi- — 


tably lost; for reflection but.urges us 
to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, 
that we cannot. If there be no friendly 
arm to check us, or if we fail in a 
sudden effort to prostrate ourselves 








THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE 


backward from the abyss, we plunge, 
and are destroyed. 

Examine these similar actions as we 
will, we shall find them resulting solely 
from the spirit of the Perverse. We 
perpetrate them because we feel that 
we should mot. Beyond or behind this 
there is no intelligible principle; and 
we might, indeed, deem this perverse- 
ness a direct instigation of the arch- 
fiend, were it not occasionally known 
to operate in furtherance of good. 

I have said thus much, that in some 
measure I may answer your question— 
that I’ may explain to you why I am 
here—that I may assign to you some- 
thing that shall have at least the faint 
aspect of a cause for my wearing these 
fetters, and for my tenanting this cell 
of the condemned. Had I not been 
thus prolix, you might either have mis- 
understood me altogether, or, with the 
rabble, have fancied me mad. As it 
is, you will easily perceive that I am 
one of the many uncounted victims of 
the Imp of the Perverse. 

It is impossible that any deed could 
have been wrought with a more thor- 
ough deliberation. For weeks, for 
months, I pondered upon the means 
of the murder. I rejected a thousand 
schemes, because their accomplishment 
involved a chance of detection. At 
length, in reading some French me- 
moirs, I found an account of a nearly 
fatal illness that occurred to Madame 
Pilau, through the agency of a candle 
accidentally poisoned. The idea struck 
my fancy at once. I knew my victim’s 
habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, 
that his apartment was narrow and ill- 
ventilated. But I need not vex you 
with impertinent details. I need not 
describe the easy artifices by which 


223 


I substituted, in his bed-room candle- 
stand, a wax-light of my own making 
for the one which I there found. The 
next morning he was discovered dead 
in his bed, and the coroner’s verdict 
was—‘‘Death by the visitation of God.” 

Having inherited his estate, all went 
well with me for years. The idea of 
detection never once entered my brain. 
Of the remains of the fatal taper I 
had myself carefully disposed. I had 
left no shadow of a clew by which it 
would be possible to convict, or even 
to suspect, me’ of the crime. It is 
inconceivable how rich a sentiment of 
satisfaction arose in my bosom as I 
reflected upon my absolute security. 
For a very long period of time I was 
accustomed to revel in this sentiment. 
It afforded me more real delight than 
all the mere worldly advantages accru- 
ing from my sin. But there arrived 
at length an epoch, from which the 
pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely 
perceptible gradations, into a haunting 
and harassing thought. It harassed be- 
cause it haunted. I could scarcely get 
rid of it for an instant. It is quite a 
common thing to be thus annoyed with 
the ringing in our ears, or rather in 
our memories, of the burthen of some 
ordinary song, or some unimpressive 
snatches from an opera. Nor will we 
be the less tormented if the song in 
itself be good, or the opera air meri- 
torious. In this manner, at last, I 
would perpetually catch myself pon- 
dering upon my security, and repeating, 
in a low under-tone, the phrase, “I am 
safe.” 

One day, whilst sauntering along the 
streets, I arrested myself in the act of 
murmuring, half aloud, these customary 
syllables. In a fit of petulance, I re- 


224 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


modelled them thus; “I am safe—I am 
safe—yes—if I be not fool enough 
to make open confession!” 

No sooner had I spoken these words, 
than I felt an icy chill creep to my 
heart. I had had some experience in 
these fits of perversity (whose nature 
I have been at some trouble to ex- 
plain), and I remembered well that in 
noe instance I had successfully resisted 
their attacks. And now my own casual 
self-suggestion that I might possibly 
be fool enough to confess the murder 
of which I had been guilty, confronted 
me, as if the very ghost of him whom 
I had murdered—and beckoned me on 
to death. 

At first, I made an effort to shake 
off this nightmare of the soul. I walked 
vigorously — faster — still faster — at 
length I ran. I felt a*maddening de- 
sire to shriek aloud. Every succeed- 
ing wave of thought overwhelmed me 
with new terror, for, alas! I well, too 
well, understood that to think, in my 
situation, was to be lost. I still quick- 
ened my pace. I bounded like a mad- 
man through the crowded thorough- 


William 


At length, the populace took 
the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then 
the consummation of my fate. Could I 
have torn out my tongue, I would have 
done it—but a rough voice resounded 
in my ears—a rougher grasp seized me 
by the shoulder. I turned—I gasped 
for breath. For a moment I experi- 
enced all the pangs of suffocation; I 
became blind, and deaf, and giddy; 
and then some invisible fiend, I thought. 
struck me with his broad palm upon 
the back. The long-imprisoned secret 
burst forth from my soul. | 

They say that I spoke with a dis- 
tinct enunciation, but with marked em- 
phasis and passionate hurry, as if in 
dread of interruption before concluding 
the brief but pregnant sentences that 
consigned me to the hangman and to 
hell. 

Having related all that was neces- 
sary for the fullest judicial conviction, 
I fell prostrate in a swoon. 

But why shall I say more? To-day 
I wear these chains, and am here! 
To-morrow I shall be fetterless!—dzt 
where? 


Wilson 


fares. 


(Published in The Gift, 1840.—Ed.) 


What say of it? what say CONSCIENCE 
grim, 
That spectre in my path? 
—Chamberlain’s Pharronida. 


Let me call myself, for the present, 
William Wilson. The fair page now 
fying before me need not be sullied with 
my real appellation. This has been 


already too much an object for the 
scorn—for the horror—for the detesta- 
tion of my race. To the uttermost 
regions of the globe have not the in- 
dignant winds bruited its unparalleled 
infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts 
most abandoned!—to the earth art 
thou not for ever dead? to its honors, 
to its flowers, to its golden aspirations? 






































WILLIAM WILSON 


—and a cloud, dense, dismal, and limit- 
less, does it not hang eternally between 
thy hopes and heaven? 

I would not, if I could, here or to- 
day, embody a record of my later years 
of unspeakable misery and unpardon- 
able crime. ‘This epoch—these later 
years—took unto themselves a sudden 
elevation in turpitude, whose origin 
alone it is my present purpose to assign. 
Men usually grow base by degrees. 
From me, in an instant, all virtue 
dropped bodily as a mantle. From 
comparatively trivial wickedness I 
passed, with the stride of a giant, into 
more than the enormities of an Elah- 
Gabalus. -What chance—what one 
event brought this evil thing to pass, 
bear with me while I relate. Death 
approaches; and the shadow which 
foreruns him has thrown a softening 
influence over my spirit. I long, in 
passing through the dim valley, for the 
sympathy—I had nearly said for the 
pity—of my fellow men. I would fain 
have them believe that I have been, in 
some measure, the slave of circum- 
stances beyond human control. I would 
wish them to seek out for me, in the 
details I am about to give, some little 
oasis of fatality amid a wilderness of 
error. I would have them allow—what 
they cannot refrain from allowing— 


. that, although temptation may have ere- 


while existed as great, man was never 
thus, at least, tempted before—cer- 
tainly, never thus fell. And is it there- 
fore that he has never thus suffered? 
Have I not indeed been living in a 
dream? And am I not now dying a 
victim to the horror and the mystery of 
the wildest of all sublunary visions? 

I am the descendant of a race whose 
imaginative and easily excitable tem- 


225 


perament has at all times rendered them 
remarkable; and, in my earliest infancy, 
I gave evidence of having fully in- 
kerited the family character. As I 
advanced in years it was more strongly 
developed; becoming, for many reasons, 
a cause of serious disquietude to my 
friends, and of positive injury to my- 
self. I grew self-willed, addicted to 
the wildest caprices, and a prey to the 
most ungovernable passions. Weak- 
minded, and beset with constitutional 
infirmities akin to my own, my parents 
could do but little to check the evil 
propensities which distinguished me. 
Some feeble and ill-directed efforts re- 
sulted in complete failure on their part, 
and, of course, in total triumph on 
mine. Thenceforward my voice was 
a household law; and at an age when 
few children have abandoned their lead- 
ing-strings, I was left to the guidance 
of my own will, and became, in all but 
name, the master of my own actions. 

My earliest recollections of a school- 
life, are connected with a large, ram- 
bling, Elizabethan house, in a misty- 
looking village of England, where were 
a vast number of gigantic and gnarled 
trees, and where all the houses were 
excessively ancient. In truth, it was a 
dream-like and_ spirit-soothing place, 
that venerable old town. At this 
moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing 
chilliness of its deeply-shadowed ave- 
nues, inhale the fragrance of its thou- 
sand shrubberies, and thrill anew with 
undefinable delight, at the deep hollow 
note of the church-bell, breaking, each 
hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon 
the stillness of the dusky atmosphere 
in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay 
imbedded and asleep. 

It gives me, perhaps, as much of 


226 


pleasure as I can now in any manner 
experience, to dwell upon minute recol- 
lections of the school and its concerns. 
Steeped in misery as I am—misery, 
alas! only too real—I shall be pardoned 
for seeking relief, however slight and 
temporary, in the weakness of a few 
rambling details. These, moreover, 
utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in 
themselves, assume, to my fancy, ad- 
ventitious importance, as connected 
with a period and a locality when and 
where I recognize the first ambiguous 
monitions of the destiny which after- 
ward so fully overshadowed me. Let 
me then remember. 

The house, I have said, was old and 
irregular. The grounds were extensive, 
and a high and solid brick wall, topped 
with a bed of mortar and broken glass, 
encompassed the whole. This prison- 
like rampart formed the limit of our 
domain; beyond it we saw but thrice 
a week—once every Saturday after- 
noon, when, attended by two _ ushers, 
we were permitted to take brief walks 
in a body through some of the neigh- 
boring fields—and twice during Sun- 
day, when we were paraded in the same 
formal manner to the morning and 
evening service in the one church in 
the village. Of this church the prin- 
cipal of our school was pastor. With 
how deep a spirit of wonder and per- 
plexity was I wont to regard him from 
our remote pew in the gallery, as, with 
step solemn and slow, he ascended the 
pulpit! This reverend man, with coun- 
tenance so demurely benign, with robes 
so glossy and so clerically flowing, with 
wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and 
so vast,—could this be he who, of late, 
with sour visage, and in snuffy habili- 
ments, administered, ferule in hand, the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Praconian Laws of the academy? Oh, 
gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous 
for solution! 

At an angle of the ponderous wall 
frowned a more ponderous gate. It 
was riveted and studded with iron bolts, 
and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. 
What impressions of deep awe did it 
inspire! It was never opened save 
for the three periodical egressions and 
ingressions already mentioned; then, in 
every creak of its mighty hinges, we 
found a plenitude of mystery—a world 
of matter for solemn remark, or for 
more solemn meditation. 

The extensive enclosure was irregular 
in form, having many capacious re- 
cesses. Of these, three or four of the 
largest constituted the play-ground. It 
was level, and covered with fine hard 
gravel. I well remember it had no 
trees, nor benches, nor any thing similar 
within it. Of course it was in the rear 
of the house. In front lay a small 
parterre, planted with box and _ other 
shrubs, but through this sacred division 
we passed only upon rare occasions in- 
deed—such as a first advent to school 
or final departure thence, or perhaps, 
when a parent or friend having called 
for us, we joyfully took.our way home 
for the Christmas or Midsummer 
holidays. 

But the house!—how quaint an old 
building was this!—to me how veritable 
a palace of enchantment! There was 
really no end to its windings—to its 
incomprehensible subdivisions. It was 
difficult, at any given time, to say with 
certainty upon which of its two stories 
one happened to be. From each room 
to every other there were sure to be 
found three or four steps either in 
ascent or descent. Then the lateral 





~ 























WILLIAM WILSON 


branches were innumerable—inconceiv- 
able—and so returning in upon them- 
selves, that our most exact ideas in 
regard to the whole mansion were not 
very far different from those with 
which we pondered upon infinity. Dur- 
ing the five years of my residence here, 
I was never able to ascertain with pre- 
cision, in what remote locality lay the 
little sleeping apartment assigned to 
myself and some eighteen or twenty 
other scholars. 

The school-room was the largest in 
the house—I could not help thinking, 
in the world. It was very long, nar- 
row, and dismally low, with pointed 
Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. 
In a remote and terror-inspiring angle 
was a square enclosure of eight or ten 
feet, comprising the sanctum, “during 
hours,” of our principal, the Reverend 
Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, 
with massy door, sooner than open 
which in the absence of the “‘Dominie,” 
we would all have willingly perished 
by the peine forte et dure. In other 
angles were two other similar boxes, far 
less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly 
matters of awe. One of these was the 
pulpit of the “classical” usher, one of 
the “English and mathematical.” In- 
terspersed about the room, crossing and 
recrossing in endless irregularity, were 
innumerable benches and desks, black, 
ancient, and time-worn, piled desper- 


ately with much bethumbed books, and 


so beseamed with initial letters, names 
at full length, grotesque figures, and 
other multiplied efforts of the knife, 
as to have entirely lost what little of 
original form might have been their 
portion in days long departed. A huge 
bucket with water stood at one ex- 


227 


tremity of the room, and a clock of 
stupendous dimensions at the other. 

Encompassed by the massy walls of 
this venerable academy, I passed, yet 
not in tedium or disgust, the years of 
the third lustrum of my life. The 
teeming brain of childhood requires no 
external world of incident to occupy or 
amuse it; and the apparently dismal 
monotony of a school was replete with 
more intense excitement than my riper 
youth has derived from luxury, or my 
full manhood from crime. Yet I must 
believe that my first mental develop- 
ment had in it much of the uncommon 
—even much of the outre. Upon man- 
kind at large the events of very early 
existence rarely leave in mature age 
any definite impression. All is gray 
shadow—a weak and irregular remem- 
brance—an indistinct regathering of 
feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric 
pains. With me this is not so. In 
childhood I must have felt with the 
energy of a man what I now find 
stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, 
as deep, and as durable as the exergues 
of the Carthaginian medals. 

Yet in fact—in the fact of the 
world’s view—how little was there to 
remember! The morning’s awakening, 
the nightly summons to bed; the con- 
nings, the recitations; the periodical 
half-holidays, and perambulations; the 
play-ground, with its broils, its pas- 
times, its intrigues;—these, by a men- 
tal sorcery long forgotten, were made 
to involve a wilderness of sensation, a 
world of rich incident, a universe of 
varied emotion, of excitement, the most 
passionate and spirit-stirring. “Ok, le 
bon temps que se siecle de fer!” 

In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, 
and the imperiousness of my disposi 


228 


tion, soon rendered me a marked char- 
acter among my schoolmates, and by 
slow, but natural gradations, gave me 
an ascendancy over all not greatly older 
than myself;—over all with a single 
exception. This exception was found 
in the person of a _ scholar, who, 
although no relation, bore the same 
christian and surname as myself;—a 
circumstance, in fact, little remarkable; 
for notwithstanding a noble descent, 
mine was one of those every-day appel- 
lations which seem, by _ prescriptive 
right, to have been, time out of mind, 
the common property of the mob. In 
this narrative I have therefore desig- 
nated myself as William Wilson—a fic- 
titious title not very dissimilar to the 
real. My namesake alone, of those 
who in school phraseology constituted 
“our set,’ presumed to compete with 
me in the studies of the class—in the 
sports and broils of the play-ground— 
to refuse implicit belief in my asser- 
tions, and submission to my will—in- 
deed, to interfere with my arbitrary 
dictation in any respect whatsoever. If 
there is on earth a supreme and unqual- 
ified despotism, it is the despotism of 
a master-mind in boyhood over the less 
energetic spirits of its companions. 
Wilson’s rebellion was to me a source 
of the greatest embarrassment; the 
more so as, in spite of the bravado 
with which in public I made a point 
of treating him and his pretensions, I 
secretly felt that I feared him, and 
could not help thinking the equality 
which he maintained so easily with my- 
self, a proof of his true superiority; 
since not to be overcome cost me a 
perpetual struggle. Yet this superior- 
ity—even this equality—was in truth 
acknowledged by no one but myself; 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


our associates, by some unaccountable 
blindness, seemed not even to suspect 
it. Indeed, his competition, his resist- 
ance, and especially his impertinent and 
dogged interference with my purposes, 
were not more pointed than private. 
He appeared to be destitute alike of the 
ambition which urged, and of the pas- 
sionate energy of mind which enabled 
me to excel. In his rivalry he might 
have been supposed actuated solely by 
a whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, 
or mortify myself; although there were 
times when I could not help observing, 
with a feeling made up of wonder, 
abasement, and pique, that he mingled 
with his injuries, his insults, or his con- 
tradictions, a certain most inappro- 
priate, and assuredly most unwelcome 
affectionateness of manner. I could 
only conceive this singular behavior to 
arise irom a consummate self-conceit 
assuming the vulgar airs of patronage 
and protection. 

Perhaps it was this latter trait in 
Wilson’s conduct, conjoined with our 
identity of name, and the mere accident 
of our having entered the school upon 
the same day, which set afloat the 
notion that we were brothers, among 
the senior class in the academy. These 
do not usually inquire with much strict- © 
ness into the affairs of their juniors. 
I have before said, or should have said, 
that Wilson was not, in a most remote 
degree, connected with my family. But 
assuredly if we had been brothers we 
must have been twins; for, after leav- 
ing Dr. Bransby’s, I casually learned 
that my namesake was born on the nine- 
teenth of January, 1813—and this is a 
somewhat remarkable coincidence; for 
the day is precisely that of my own 
nativity. 


WILLIAM WILSON 


It may seem strange that in spite of 
the continual anxiety occasioned me by 
the rivalry of Wilson, and his intoler- 
able spirit of contradiction, I could not 
bring myself to hate him altogether. 
We had, to be sure, nearly every day a 
quarrel in which, yielding me publicly 
the palm of victory, he, in some man- 
ner, contrived to make me feel that it 
was he who had deserved it; yet a sense 
of pride on my part, and a veritable 
dignity on his own, kept us always 
upon what are called “speaking terms,” 
while there were many points of strong 
congeniality in our tempers, operating 
to awake in me a sentiment which our 
position alone, perhaps, prevented from 
ripening into friendship. It is difficult, 
indeed, to define, or even to describe, 
my real feelings toward him. They 
formed a motley and heterogeneous ad- 
mixture;—some petulant animosity, 
which was not yet hatred, some esteem, 
more respect, much fear, with a world 
of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it 
will be necessary to say, in addition, 
that Wilson and myself were the most 
inseparable of companions. 

It was no doubt the anomalous state 
of affairs existing between us, which 
turned all my attacks upon him, (and 
there were many, either open or covert) 
into the channel of banter or practical 
joke (giving pain while assuming the 
aspect of mere fun) rather than into 
a more serious and determined hostility. 
But my endeavors on this head were 
by no means uniformly successful, even 
when my plans were the most wittily 
concocted; for my namesake had much 
about him, in character, of that unas- 


suming and quiet austerity which, while. 


enjoying the poignancy of its own 
jekes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, 


229 


and absolutely refuses to be laughed 
at. I could find, indeed. but one vul- 
nerable point, and that, lying in a per- 
sonal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from 
constitutional disease, would have been 
spared by any antagonist less at his 
wit’s end than myself;—my rival had 
a weakness in the facial or guttural 
organs, which precluded him from rais- 
ing his voice at any time above a very 
low whisper. Of this defect I did not 
fail to take what poor advantage lay 
in my power. 

Wilson’s retaliations in kind were 
many; and there was one form of his 
practical wit that disturbed me beyond 
measure. How his sagacity first dis- 
covered at all that so petty a thing 
would vex me, is a question I never 
could solve; but having discovered, he 
habitually practised the annoyance. I 
had always felt aversion to my un- 
courtly patronymic, and its very com- 
mon, if not plebeian prenomen. ‘The 
words were venom in my ears; and 
when, upon the day of my arrival, a 
second William Wilson came also to 
the academy, I felt angry with him for 
bearing the name, and doubly disgusted 
with the name because a stranger bore 
it, who would be the cause of its two- 
fold repetition, who would be constantly 
in my presence, and whose concerns, 
in the ordinary routine of the school 
business, must inevitably, on account of 
the detestable coincidence, be often con- 
founded with my own. 

The feeling of vexation thus engen- 
dered grew stronger with every circum- 
stance tending to show resemblance, 
moral or physical, between my rival 
and myself. I had ‘not then discov- 
ered the remarkable fact that we were 
of the same age; but I saw that we 


230 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


were of the same height, and I per- 
ceived that we were even singularly 
alike in general contour of person and 
outline of feature. I was galled, too, 
by the rumor touching a relationship, 
which had grown current in the upper 
forms. In a word, nothing could more 
seriously disturb me, (although I scru- 
pulously concealed such disturbance), 
than any allusion to a similarity of mind, 
person, or condition existing between us. 
But, in truth, I had no reason to believe 
that (with the exception of the matter 
of relationship, and in the case of Wilson 
himself), this similarity had ever been 
made a subject of comment, or even ob- 
served at all by our schoolfellows. That 
he observed it in all its bearings, and as 
fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he 
could discover in such circumstances so 
fruitful a field of annoyance, can only 
be attributed, as I said before, to his 
more than ordinary penetration. 

His cue, which was to perfect an imi- 
tation of myself, lay both in words and 
in actions; and most admirably did he 
play his part. My dress it was an easy 
matter to copy; my gait and general 
manner were without difficulty, appro- 
priated; in spite of his constitutional de- 
fect, even my voice did not escape him. 
My louder tones were, of course, unat- 
tempted, but then the key,—it was iden- 
tical; and his singular whisper, it grew 
the very echo of my own. 

How greatly this most exquisite por- 
traiture harassed me (for it could not 
justly be termed a caricature), I will not 
now venture to describe. I had but one 
consolation—in the fact that the imita- 
tion, apparently, was noticed by myself 
alone, and that I had to endure only the 
knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles 
of my namesake himself. Satisfied with 


having produced in my bosom the in- 
tended effect, he seemed to chuckle in 
secret over the sting he had inflicted, 
and was characteristically disregardful of 
the public applause which the success of 
his witty endeavors might have so easily 
elicited. That the school, indeed, did 
not feel his design, perceive its accom- 
plishment, and participate in his sneer, 
was, for many anxious months, a riddle 
I could not resolve. Perhaps the gra- 
dation of his copy rendered it not readily 
perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed 
my security to the masterly air of the 
copyist, who, disdaining the letter 
(which in a painting is all the obtuse 
can see), gave but the full spirit of his 
original for my individual contemplation 
and chagrin. 

I have already more than once spoken 
of the disgusting air of patronage which 
he assumed toward me, and of his fre- 
quent officious interference with my will. 
This interference often took the ungra- 
cious character of advice; advice not 
openly given, but hinted or insinuated. 
I received it with a repugnance which 
gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, 
at this distant day, let me do him the 
simple justice to acknowledge that I can 
recall no occasion when the suggestions 
of my rival were on the side of those 
errors or follies so usual to his immature 
age and seeming inexperience; that his 
moral sense, at least, if not his general 
talents and worldly wisdom, was far 
keener than my own; and that I might, 
to-day, have been a better and thus a 
happier man, had I less frequently re- 
jected the counsels embodied in those 
meaning whispers which I then but too 
cordially hated and too bitterly despised. 

As it was I at length grew restive in 
the extreme under his distasteful super- 





- pew 





























WILLIAM WILSON 231 


vision, and daily resented more and more 
openly, what I considered his intolerable 
arrogance. I have said that, in the first 
years of our connection as schoolmates, 
my feelings in regard to him might have 
been easily ripened into friendship; but, 
in the latter months of my residence at 
the academy, although the intrusion of 
his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, 
in some measure, abated, my sentiments, 
in nearly similar proportion, partook 
very much of positive hatred. Upon 
one occasion he saw this, I think, and 
afterward avoided, or made a show 
of avoiding me. 

It was about the same period, if I 
remember aright, that, in an altercation 
of violence with him, in which he was 
more than usually thrown off his guard, 
and spoke and acted with an openness 
of demeanor rather foreign to his 
nature, I discovered, or fancied I dis- 
covered, in his accent, in his air, and 
general appearance, a something which 
first startled, and then deeply inter- 
ested me, by bringing to mind dim vis- 
ions of my earliest infancy—wild, con- 
fused, and thronging memories of a 
time when memory herself was yet un- 
born. I cannot better describe the sen- 
sation which oppressed me, than by 
saying that I could with difficulty shake 
off the belief of my having been ac- 
quainted with the being who stood be- 
fore me, at some epoch very long ago— 
some point of the past even infinitely 
remote. The delusion, however, faded 
rapidly as it came; and I mention it at 
all but to define the day of the last 
conversation I there held with my sin- 
gular namesake. 

The huge old house, with its count- 
less sub-divisions, had several large 
chambers communicating with each 


other, where slept the greater number 
of the students. There were, however 
(as must necessarily happen in a build- 
ing so awkwardly planned), many little 
nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of 
the structure; and these the economic 
ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted 
up as dormitories; although, being the 
merest closets, they were capable of 
accommodating but a single individual. 
One of these small apartments was oc- 
cupied by Wilson. 

One night, about the close of my 
fifth year at the school, and immediately 
after the altercation just mentioned, 
finding every one wrapped in sleep, I 
arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, 
stole through a wilderness of narrow 
passages, from my own bedroom to 
that of my rival. I had long been plot- 
ting one of those ill-natured pieces of 
practical wit at his expense in which I 
had hitherto been so uniformly un- 
successful. It was my intention, now, 
to put my scheme in operation and I 
resolved to make him feel the whole 
extent of the malice with which I was 
imbued. Having reached his closet, I 
noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, 
with a shade over it, on the outside. 
I advanced a step and listened to the 
sound of his tranquil breathing. As- 
sured of his being asleep, I returned, 
took the light, and with it again ap- 
proached the bed. Close curtains were 
around it, which, in the prosecution of 
my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, 
when the bright rays fell vividly upon 
the sleeper, and my eyes at the same 
moment, upon his countenance. I 
looked;—and a numbness, an iciness of 
feeling instantly pervaded my frame. 
My breast heaved, my knees tottered, 
my whole spirit became possessed with 


232 


an abjectless yet intolerable horror. 
Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp 
in still nearer proximity to the face. 
Were these—these the lineaments of 
William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that 
they were his, but I shook as if with 
a fit of the ague, in fancying they were 
not. What was there about them to 
confound me in this manner? I gazed; 
—while my brain reeled with a multi- 
tude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus 
he appeared—assuredly not ¢hus—in 
the vivacity of his waking hours. The 
same name! the same contour of per- 
son! the same day of arrival at the 
academy! And then his dogged and 
meaningless imitation of my gait, my 
voice, my habits, and my manner! Was 
it, in truth, within the bounds of human 
possibility, that what I now saw was 
the result, merely, of the habitual prac- 
tise of this sarcastic imitation? Awe- 
stricken, and with a creeping shudder, 
J extinguished the lamp, passed silently 
from the chamber, and left, at once, 
the halls of that old academy, never to 
enter them again. 

After a lapse of some months, spent 
at home in mere idleness, I found my- 
self a student at Eton. The brief in- 
terval had been sufficient to enfeeble 
my remembrance of the events at Dr. 
Bransby’s, or at least to effect a mate- 
rial change in the nature of the feelings 
with which I remembered them. The 
truth—the tragedy—of the drama was 
no more. I could now find room to 
doubt the evidence of my senses; and 
seldom called up the subject at all but 
with wonder at the extent of human 
credulity, and a smile at the vivid force 
of the imagination which I hereditarily 
possessed. Neither was this species of 
skepticism likely to be diminished by 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the character of the life I led at Eton. 
The vortex of thoughtless folly into 
which I there so immediately and so 
recklessly plunged, washed away all but 
the froth of my past hours, ingulfed 
at once every solid or serious impres- 
sion, and left to memory only the 
veriest levities of a former existence. 

I do not wish, however, to trace the 
course of my miserable profligacy here 
—a profligacy which set at defiance the 
laws, while it eluded the vigilance of the 
institution. Three years of folly, passed 
without profit, had but given me rooted 
habits of vice, and added, in a some- 
what unusual degree, to my _ bodily 
stature, when, after a week of soulless 
dissipation, I invited a small party of 
the most dissolute students to a secret 
carousal i: my chambers. We met at a 
late hour of the night; for our debauch- 
eries were to be faithfully protracted 
until morning. The wine flowed freely, 
and there were not wanting other and 
perhaps more dangerous seductions; so 
that the gray dawn had already faintly 
appeared in the east while our delirious 
extravagance was at its height. Madly 
flushed with cards and intoxication, I 
was in the act of insisting upon a toast 
of more than wonted profanity, when 
my attention was suddenly diverted by 
the violent, although partial, unclosing 
of the door of the apartment, and by 
the eager voice of a servant from with- 
out. He said that some person, appar- 
ently in great haste, demanded to speak 
with me in the hall. 

Wildly excited with wine, the unex- 
pected interruption rather delighted 
than surprised me. I staggered for- 
ward at once, and a few steps brought 
me to the vestibule of the building. 
In this low and small room there hung 


























WILLIAM WILSON 


no lamp: and now no light at all was 
admitted, save that of the exceedingly 
- feeble 
_ through the semi-circular window. As 


dawn which made its way 


I put my foot over the threshold, I 


_ became aware of the figure of a youth 
| ubout my own height, and habited in a 
_ white kerseymere morning frock, cut in 


the novel fashion of the one I myself 
wore at the moment. This the faint 


light enabled me to perceive; but the 


features of his face I could not dis- 
tinguish. Upon my entering, he strode 
hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by 
the arm with a gesture of petulant im- 
patience, whispered the words “William 
Wilson” in my ear. 

I grew perfectly sober in an instant. 

There was that in the manner of the 
stranger, and in the tremulous shake of 
his uplifted finger, as he held it between 
my eyes and the light, which filled me 
with unqualified amazement; but it was 
not this which had so violently moved 
me. It was the pregnancy of solemn 
admonition in the singular, low, hissing 
utterance; and, above all, it was the 
character, the tone, the key, of those 
few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered 
syllables, which came with a thousand 
thronging memories of by-gone days, 
and struck upon my soul with the shock 
of a galvanic battery. Ere I could 
recover the use of my senses he was 
gone. 

Although this event failed not of a 
vivid effect upon my disordered imagi- 
nation, yet was it evanescent as vivid. 
For some weeks, indeed, I busied my- 
self in earnest enquiry, or was wrapped 
in a cloud of morbid speculation. I 
did not pretend to disguise from my 
perception the identity of the singular 
individual who thus perseveringly inter- 


233 


fered with my affairs, and harassed me 
with his insinuated counsel. But who 
and what was this Wilsonr—and whence 
came hePp—and what were his purposes? 
Upon neither of these points could I be 
satisfiled—merely ascertaining, in regard 
to him, that a suddent accident in his 
family had caused his removal from Dr. 
Bransby’s academy on the afternoon of 
the day in which I myself had eloped. 
But in a brief period I ceased to think 
upon the subject, my attention being all 
absorbed in a contemplated departure 
for Ozford. Thither I soon went, the 
uncalculating vanity of my parents fur- 
nishing me with an outfit and annual 
establishment, which would enable me 
to indulge at will in the luxury already 
so dear to my heart—to vie in profuse- 
ness of expenditure with the haughtiest 
heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in 
Great Britain. 

Excited by such appliances to vice, 
my constitutional temperament broke 
forth with redoubled ardor, and I 
spurned even the common restraints of 
cecency in the mad infatuation of my 
revels. But it were absurd to pause in 
the detail of my extravagance. Let it 
suffice, that among spendthrifts I out- 
Heroded Herod, and that, giving name 
to a multitude of novel follies, I added 
no brief appendix to the long catalogue 
of vices then usual in the most dissolute 
university in Europe. 

It could hardly be credited, however, 
that I had, even here, so utterly fallen 
from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek 
acquaintance with the vilest arts of the 
gambler by profession, and, having be- 
come an adept in his despicable science, 
to practice it habitually as a means of 
increasing my already enormous income 
at the expense of the weak-minded 


234 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


among my fellow-collegians. Such, 
nevertheless, was the fact. And the 
very enormity of this offence against 
all manly and honorable sentiment 
proved, beyond doubt, the main if not 
the sole reason of the impunity with 
which it was committed. Who, indeed, 
among my most abandoned associates, 
would not rather have disputed the 
clearest evidence of his senses, than 
have suspected of such courses, the gay, 
the frank, the generous William Wil- 
son—the noblest and most liberal com- 
moner at Oxford—him whose follies 
{said his parasites) were but the follies 


of youth and unbridled fancy—whose 


errors but inimitable whim—whose 
darkest vice but a careless and dashing 
extravagance? 

I had been now two years success- 
fully busied in this way, when there 
came to the university a young parvenu 
nobleman, Glendenning—trich, said re- 
port, as Herodes Atticus—his riches, 
too, as easily acquired. I soon found 
him of weak intellect, and, of course, 
marked him as a fitting subject for my 
skill. I frequently engaged him in play, 
and contrived, with the gambler’s usual 
art, to let him win considerable sums, 
the more effectually to entagle him in 
my snares. At length, my schemes 
being ripe, I met him (with the full- 
intention that this meeting should be 
final and decisive) at the chambers of 
a fellow-commoner (Mr. Preston), 
equally intimate with both, but who, to 
do him justice, entertained not even a 
remote suspicion of my design. To 
give this a better coloring, I had con- 
trived to have assembled a party of 
some eight or ten, and was solicitously 
careful that the introduction of cards 
should appear accidental, and originate 


in the proposal of my contemplated 
dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile 
topic, none of the low finesse was 
omitted, so customary upon similar 
occasions, that it is a just matter for 
wonder how any are still found so be- 
sotted as to fall its victim. 

We had protracted our sitting far 
into the night, and I had at length 
effected the manceuvre of getting Glen- 
denning as my sole antagonist. The 
game, too, was my favorite ecarte. 
The rest of the company, interested 
in the extent of our play, had aban- 
doned their own cards, and were stand- 
ing around us as spectators. The par- 
venu, who had been induced by my 
artifices in the early part of the eve- 
ning, to drink deeply, now shuffled, 
dealt, or played, with a wild nervous- 
ness of manner for which his intoxica- 
tion, I thought, might partially, but 
could not altogether account. In a very 
short period he had become my debtor 
to a large amount, when, having taken 
a long draught of port, he did precisely 
what I had been coolly anticipating— 
he proposed to double our already ex- 
travagant stakes. With a well-feigned 
show of reluctance, and not until after 
my repeated refusal had seduced him 
into some angry words which gave a 
color of prque to my compliance, did 
I finally comply. The result, of course, 
did but prove how entirely the prey 
was in my toils: in less than an hour 
he had quadrupled his debt. For some 
time his countenance had been losing 
the florid tinge lent it by the wine; but 
now, to my astonishment, I perceived 
that it had grown to a pallor truly 
fearful. I say, to my astonishment. 
Glendenning had been represented to my 
eager inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; 





WILLIAM WILSON 


and the sums which he had as yet lost, 
although in themselves vast, could not, 
I supposed, very seriously annoy, much 
less so violently affect him. That he 
was overcome by the wine just swal- 
lowed, was the idea which most readily 
presented itself; and, rather with a 
view to the preservation of my own 
character in the eyes of my associates, 
than from any less interested motive, 
I was about to insist, peremptorily, 
upon a discontinuance of the play, when 
some expressions at my elbow from 
among the company, and an ejaculation 
evincing utter despair on the part of 
Gliendenning, gave me to understand 
that I had effected his total ruin under 
_ €ircumstances which, rendering him an 
object for the pity of all, should have 
protected him from the ill offices even 
of a fiend. 

What now might have been my con- 
duct it is difficult to say. The pitiable 
condition of my dupe had thrown an 
air of embarrassed gloom over all; and, 
for some moments, a profound silence 
was maintained, during which I could 
not help feeling my cheeks tingle with 
the many burning glances of scorn or 
reproach cast upon me by the less aban- 
doned of the party. I will even own 
that an intolerable weight of anxiety 
was for a brief instant lifted from my 
bosom by the sudden and extraordinary 
interruption which ensued. The wide, 
heavy folding doors of the apartment 
were all at once thrown open, to their 
full extent, with a vigorous and rush- 
ing impetuosity that extinguished, as 
if by magic, every candle in the room. 
Their light in dying, enabled us just to 
perceive that a stranger had entered, 
about my own height, and closely muf- 
fled in a cloak, The darkness, how- 


235 


ever, was not total; and we could only 
feel that he was standing in our midst. 
Before any one of us could recover 
from the extreme astonishment into 
which this rudeness had thrown all, we 
heard the voice of the intruder. 
“Gentlemen,” he said, in a low, dis- 
tinct, and never-to-be-forgotten whisper 
which thrilled to the very marrow of 
my bones, ‘‘gentlemen, I make an apol- 
ogy for this behavior, because in thus 
behaving, I am fulfilling a duty. You 
are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the 
true character of the person who has 
to-night won at ecarte a large sum of 
money from Lord Glendenning. I will 
therefore put you upon an expeditious 
and decisive plan of obtaining this very 
necessary information. Please to ex- 
amine, at your leisure, the inner linings 
of the cuff of his left sleeve, and the sev- 
eral little packages which may be found 
in the somewhat capacious pockets 
of his embroidered morning wrapper.” 
While he spoke, so profound was the 
stillness that one might have heard a 
pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, 
he departed at once, and as abruptly as 
he had entered. Can I—shall I de- 
scribe my sensations? Must I say that 
T felt all the horrors of the damned? 
Most assuredly I had a little time for 
reflection. Many hands roughly seized 
me upon the spot, and lights were im- 
mediately repreduced. A search en- 
sued. In the lining of my sleeve were 
found all the court cards essential in 
ecarte, and, in the pockets of my 
wrapper, a number of packs, fac-similes 
of those used at our sittings, with the 
single exception that mine were of the 
species called, technically, arron-dees; 
the honors being slightly convex 
at the sides, In this disposition, the 


236 


dupe who cuts, as customary, at the 
length of the pack, will invariably find 
that he cuts his antagonist an honor; 
while the gambler, cutting at the 
breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing 
for his victim which may count in the 
records of the game. 

Any burst of indignation upon this dis- 
covery would have affected me less than 
the silent contempt, or the sarcastic 


composure, with which it was received. — 


“Mr. Wilson,” said our host, stooping 
to remove from beneath his feet an ex- 
ceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, 
“Mr. Wilson, this is your property.” 
(The weather was cold; and, upon quit- 
ting my own room, I had thrown a 
cloak over my dressing wrapper, put- 
ting it off upon reaching the scene of 
play.) “I presume it is supererogatory 
to seek here (eyeing the folds of the 
garment with a bitter smile) for any 
farther evidence of your skill. Indeed, 
we have had enough. You will see the 
necessity, I hope, of quitting Oxford— 
at all events, of quitting instantly my 
chambers.” 

Abased, humbled to the dust as I 
then was, it is probable that I should 
have resented this galling language by 
immediate personal violence, had not 
my whole attention been at the mo- 
ment arrested by a fact of the most 
startling character. The cloak which I 
had worn was of a rare description of 
fur; how rare, how extravagantly costly, 
I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, 
too, was of my own fantastic inven- 
tion; for I was fastidious to an absurd 
degree of coxcombry, in matters of this 
frivolous nature.’ When, therefore, Mr. 
Preston reached me that which he had 
picked up upon the floor, and near the 
folding-doors of the apartment, it was 


to curse him within my heart? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with an astonishment nearly bordering 
upon terror, that I perceived my own 
already hanging on my arm, (where I 
had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) 
and that the one presented me was 
but its exact counterpart in every, in 
even the minutest possible particular. 
The singular being who had so disas- 
trously exposed me, had been muffled, 
I remembered, in a cloak; and none 
had been worn at all by any of the 
members of our party, with the excep- 
tion of myself. Retaining some pres- 
ence of mind, I took the one offered 
me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, 
over my own; left the apartment with 
a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next 
morning ere dawn of day, commenced 
a hurried journey from Oxford to the 
continent, in a perfect agony of horror 
and of shame. 

I fled in vain. My evil destiny pur- 
sued me as if in exultation, and proved, 
indeed, that the exercise of its myste- 
rious dominion had as yet only begun. 
Scarcely had I set foot in Paris, ere I 
had fresh evidence of the detestable 
interest taken by this Wilson in my 
concerns. Years flew, while I experi- 
enced no relief.  Villain!—at Rome, 
with how untimely, yet with how spec- 
tral an officiousness, stepped he in be- 
tween me and my ambition! at Vienna, 
too—at Berlin—and at Moscow! 
Where, in truth, had I not bitter cause 
From 
his inscrutable tyranny did I at length 
flee, panic-stricken, as from a_pesti- 
lence; and to the very ends of the 
earth J fled in vain. 

And again, and again, in secret com- 
munion with my own spirit, would I 
demand the questions “Who is he?— 
whence came he?—and what are his 





| 






| 


. 


WILLIAM WILSON 


objects?” But no answer was there 
found. And now I scrutinized, with a 
minute scrutiny, the forms, and the 
methods, and the leading traits of his 
impertinent supervision. But even here 
there was very little upon which to 
base a conjecture. It was noticeable, 
indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied 
instances in which he had of late crossed 
my path, had he so crossed it except 
to frustrate those schemes, or to dis- 
turb those actions, which, if fully car- 
ried out, might have resulted in bitter 
mischief. Poor justification this, in 
truth, for an authority so imperiously 
assumed! Poor indemnity for natural 
rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, 


so insultingly denied! 


_ Dr. Bransby’s? 


I had also been forced to notice that 
my tormentor, for a very long period 
of time, (while scrupulously and with 
miraculous dexterity maintaining his 
whim of an identity of apparel with 
myself,) had so contrived it, in the 
execution of his varied interference 
with my will, that I saw not, at any 
moment, the features of his face. Be 
Wilson what he might, this, at least, 
was but the veriest of affectation, or 
of folly. Could he, for an instant, have 
supposed that, in my admonisher at 
Eton—in the destroyer of my honor at 
Oxford,—in him who thwarted my am- 
bition at Rome, my revenge at Paris, 
my passionate love at Naples, or what 
he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt, 
—that in this, my arch-enemy and evil 
genius, I could fail to recognize the 
William Wilson of my school-boy days, 
—the name-sake, the companion, the 
rival—the hated and dreaded rival at 
Impossible!—But let 
mie hasten to the last eventful scene of 
the drama, 


237 


Thus far I had succumbed supinely 
to this imperious domination. The 
sentiment of deep awe with which I 
habitually regarded the elevated charac- 
ter, the majestic wisdom, the apparent 
omnipresence and omnipotence of Wil- 
son, added to a feeling of even terror, 
with which certain other traits in his 
nature and assumptions inspired me, 
had operated, hitherto, to impress me 
with an idea of my own utter weakness 
and helplessness, and to suggest an 
implicit, although bitterly reluctant sub- 
mission to his arbitrary will. But, of 
late days, I had given myself up en- 
tirely to wine; and its maddening 
influence upon my hereditary temper 
rendered me more and more impatient 
of control. I began to murmur,—to 
hesitate,—to resist. And was it only 
fancy which induced me to believe that, 
with the increase of my own firmness, 
that of my tormentor underwent a pro- 
portional diminution? Be this as it 
may, I now began to feel the inspira; 
tion of a burning hope, and at length 
nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern 
and desperate resolution that I would 
submit no longer to be enslaved. 

It was at Rome, during the Carnival 
of 18—, that I attended a masquerade 
in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke 
Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely 
than usual in the excesses of the wine- 
table; and now the suffocating atmos- 
phere of the crowded rooms irritated 
me beyond endurance. The difficulty, 
too, of forcing my way through the 
mazes of the company contributed not 
a little to the ruffling of my temper; 
for I was anxiously seeking (let me 
not say with what unworthy motive) 
the young, the gay, the beautiful wife 
of the aged and doting Di Broglio. 


238 


With a too unscrupulous confidence she 
had previously communicated to me 
the secret of the costume in which she 
would be habited, and now, having 
caught a glimpse of her person, I was 
hurrying to make my way into her 
presence. At this moment I felt a light 
hand placed upon my shoulder, and that 
ever-remembered, low, damnable whis- 
per within my ear. 

In an absolute frenzy of wrath, I 
turned at once upon him who had thus 
interrupted me, and seized him vio- 
lently by the collar. He was attired, 
as I had expected, in a costume alto- 
gether similar to my own; wearing a 
Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt 
about the waist with a crimson belt 
sustaining a rapier. A mask of black 
silk entirely covered his face. 

“Scoundrel!” I said, in a voice husky 
with rage, while every syllable I ut- 
tered seemed as new fuel to my fury; 
“scoundrel! impostor! accursed villain! 
you shall not—you shall not dog me 
unto death! Follow me, or I stab you 
where you stand!”—and I broke my 
way from the ball-room into a small 
ante-chamber adjoining, dragging him 
unresistingly with me as I went. 

Upon entering, I thrust him furiously 
from me. He staggered against the 
wall, while I closed the door with an 
oath, and commanded him to draw. He 
hesitated but for an instant; then, with 
a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put 
himself upon his defence. 

The contest was brief indeed. I was 
frantic with every species of wild ex- 
citement, and felt within my single arm 
the energy and power of a multitude. 
In a few seconds I forced him by sheer 
strength against the wainscotting, and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my 
sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly 
through and through his bosom. 

At that instant some person tried the 
latch of the door. I hastened to pre- 
vent an intrusion, and then immediately 
returned to my dying antagonist. But 
what human language can adequately 
portray that astonishment, that horror 
which possessed me at thé spectacle 
then presented to view? ‘The brief mo- 
ment in which I averted my eyes had 
been sufficient to produce, apparently, 
a material change in the arrangements 
at the upper or farther end of the room. 
A large mirror,—so at first it seemed 
to me in my confusion—now stood 
where none had been perceptible before; - 
and as I stepped up to it in extremity 
of terror, mine own image, but with 
features all pale and dabbled in blood, 
advanced to meet me with a feeble 
and tottering gait. 

Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. 
It was my antagonist—it was Wilson, 
who then stood before me in the ago- 
nies of his dissolution. His mask and 
cloak lay, where he had thrown them, 
upon the floor. Not a thread in all 
his raiment—not a line in all the 
marked and singular lineaments of his 
face which was not, even in the most 
absolute identity, mine own! 

It was Wilson; but he spoke no 
longer in a whisper, and I could have 
fancied that I myself was speaking 
while he said: 

“You have conquered, and I yield. 
Yet henceforward art thou also dead— 
dead to the World, to Heaven, and to 
Hope! In me didst thou exist—and, 
in my death, see by this image, which 
is thine own, how utterly thou hast 
murdered thyself.” 


























Mystification 


(This tale is also called “Von Jung,” and was published in the Broadway Journal, 
vol. 2:25.—Ed.) 


Tue Baron Ritzner von Jung was of 
a noble Hungarian family, every mem- 
ber of which (at least as far back into 
antiquity as any certain records extend) 
was more or less remarkable for talent 
of some description—the majority for 
that species of grotesquerie in concep- 
tion of which Tieck, a scion of the 
house, has given a vivid, although by 
no means the most vivid exemplifica- 
tion. My acquaintance with Ritzner 
commenced at the magnificent Chateau 
Jung, into which a train of droll adven- 
tures, not to be made public, threw me 
during the summer months of the year 
18—. Here it was that I obtained a 
place in his regard, and here, with 
somewhat more difficulty, a partial in- 


sight into his mental conformation. In - 


later days this insight grew more clear, 
as the intimacy which had at first per- 
mitted it became more close; and when, 
after three years separation, we met 
at G——n, I knew all that it was neces- 
sary to know of the character of the 
Baron Ritzner von Jung. 

I remember the buzz of curiosity 
which his advent excited within the col- 
lege precincts on the night of the 
twenty-fifth of June. I remember still 
more distinctly, that while he was pro- 
nounced by all parties at first sight “the 
most remarkable man in the world,” no 
person made any attempt at accounting 
for his opinion. That he was unique 
appeared so undeniable, that it was 
deemed impertinent to inquire wherein 
the uniquity consisted. But, letting this 


matter pass for the present, I will 
merely observe that, from the first mro- 
ment of his setting foot within the 
limits of the university, he began to 
exercise over the habits, manners, per- 
sons, purses, and propensities of the 
whole community which surrounded 
him, an influence the most extensive 
and despotic, yet at the same time the 
most indefinite and altogether unac- 
countable. Thus the brief period of 
his residence at the university forms 
an era in its annals, and is character- 
ized by all classes of people appertain- 
ing to it or its dependencies as “that 
very extraordinary epoch forming the 
domination of the Baron Ritzner von 
Jang? ‘tv! 

Upon his advent to G——n, he sought 
me out in my apartments. He was 
then of no particular age, by which I 
mean that it was impossible to form a 
guess respecting his age by any data 
personally afforded. He might have 
been fifteen or fifty, and was twenty- 
one years and seven months. He was 
by no means a handsome man—perhaps 
the reverse. The contour of his face 
was somewhat angular and harsh. His 
forehead was lofty and very fair; his 
nose a snub; his eyes large, heavy, 
glassy, and meaningless. About the 
mouth there was more to be observed. 
The lips were gently protruded, and 
rested the one upon the other, after 
such fashion that it is impossible to 
conceive any, even the most complex, 
combination of features, conveying se 


239 


240 


entirely, and so singly, the idea of 
unmitigated gravity, solemnity and 
repose. 

It will be perceived, no doubt, from 
what I have already said, that the 
Baron was one of those human anoma- 
lies now and then to be found, who 
make the science of mystification the 
study and the business of their lives. 
For this science a peculiar turn of mind 
gave him instinctively the cue, while 
his physical appearance afforded him 
unusual facilities for carrying his proj- 
ects into effect. I firmly believe that 
no student at G n, during that re- 
nowned epoch so quaintly termed the 
domination of the Baron Ritzner von 
Jung, ever rightly entered into the 
mystery which overshadowed his char- 
acter. J truly think that no person 
at the university, with the exception 
of myself, ever suspected him to be 
capable of a joke, verbal or practical:— 





the old bull-dog at the garden-gate . 


would sooner have been accused,—the 
ghost of Heraclitus——or the wig of the 
Emeritus Professor of Theology. This, 
teo, when it was evident that the most 
egregious and unpardonable of all con- 
ceivable tricks, whimsicalities and buf- 
fooneries were brought about, if not 
directly by him, at least plainly through 
his intermediate agency or connivance. 
The beauty, if I may so call it, of his 
art mystifique, lay in that consummate 
ability (resulting from an almost intui- 
tive knowledge of human nature, and 
a most wonderful self-possession,) by 
means of which he never failed to make 
it appear that the drolleries he was 
eecupied in bringing to a point, arose 
partly in spite, and partly in conse- 
quence of the laudable efforts he was 
making for their prevention, and for 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the preservation of the good order and 
dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, 
the poignant, the overwhelming morti- 
fication, which upon each such failure 
of his praiseworthy endeavors, would 
suffuse every lineament of his coun- 
tenance, left not the slightest room for 
doubt of his sincerity in the bosoms 
of even his most skeptical companions. 
The adroitness, too, was no less worthy 
of observation by which he contrived 
to shift the sense of the grotesque from 
the creator to the created—from his 
own person to the absurdities to which 
he had given rise. In no instance be- 
fore that of which I speak, have I 
known the habitual mystific escape the 
natural consequence of his manceuvres 
—an attachment of the ludicrous to 
his own character and person. Con- 
tinually developed in an atmosphere of 
whim, my friend appeared to live only 
for the severities of society; and not 
even his own household have for a 
moment associated other ideas than 
those of the rigid and august with the. 
memory of the Baron Ritzner von 
Jung. 

During the epoch of his residence at 
G—n it really appeared that the 
demon of the dolce far niente lay like 
an incubus upon the university. Noth- 
ing, at least, was done beyond eating 
and drinking and making merry. The 
apartments of the students were con- 
verted into so many pot-houses, and 
there was no pot-house of them all 
more famous or more frequented than 
that of the Baron. Our carousals here 
were many, and boisterous, and long, 
and never unfruitful of events. 

Upon one occasion we had protracted 
our sitting until nearly daybreak, and 
an unusual quantity of wine had been 


MYSTIFICATION 


drunk. The company consisted of 
seven or eight individuals besides the 
Baron and myself. Most of these were 
young men of wealth, of high connec- 
tion, of great family pride, and all 
alive with an exaggerated sense of 
honor. They abounded in the most 
ultra German opinions respecting the 
duello. To these Quixotic notions 
some recent Parisian publications, 
backed by three or four desperate and 
fatal recounters at G n, had given 
new vigor and impulse; and thus the 
conversation, during the greater part of 
the night, had run wild upon the all- 
engrossing topic of the times. . The 
Baron, who had been unusually silent 
and abstracted in the earlier portion of 
the evening, at length seemed to be 
aroused from his apathy, took a leading 
part in the discourse, and dwelt upon 
the benefits, and more especially upon 
the beauties, of the received code of 
etiquette in passages of arms with an 
ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, 
and an affectionateness of manner, 
which elicited the warmest enthusiasm 
from his hearers in general, and abso- 
lutely staggered even myself, who well 
knew him to be at heart a ridiculer of 
those very points for which he con- 
tended, and especially to hold the 
entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette 
in the sovereign contempt which it 
deserves. 

Looking around me during a pause in 
the Baron’s discourse (of which my 
readers may gather some faint idea 
when I say that it bore resemblance 
to the fervid, chanting, monotonous, 
yet musical sermonic manner of Cole- 
ridge), I perceived symptoms of even 
more than the general interest in the 
countenance of one of the party. This 





241 


gentleman, whom f shall call Hermann, 
was an original in every respect—ex- 
cept, perhaps, in the single particular 
that he was a very great fool. He con- 
trived to bear, however, among a par- 
ticular set at the university, a reputation 
for deep metaphysical thinking, and, I 
believe, for some logical talent. As a 
duellist he had acquired great. renown, 
even at G n. I forget the precise 
number of victims who had fallen at 
his hands; but they were many. He 
was a man of courage undoubtedly. 
But it was upon his minute acquaintance 
with the etiquette of the duello, and the 
nicety of his sense of honor, that he 
most especially prided himself. These 
things were a hobby which he rode to 
the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the 
lookout for the grotesque, his peculiari- 
ties had for a long time past affordec 
food for mystification. Of this, howe 
ever, I was not aware; although, in the 
present instance, I saw clearly that 
something of a whimsical nature was 
upon the ¢tapis with my friend, and 
that Hermann was its especial object. 

As the former proceeded in his dis- 
course, or rather monologue, I per- 
ceived the excitement of the latter 
momentarily increasing. At length he 
spoke; offering some objection to a 
point insisted upon by R.. and giving 
his reasons in detail. To these the 
Baron replied at length (still maintain- 
ing his exaggerated tone of sentiment) 
and concluding, in what I thought very 
bad taste, with a sarcasm and a sneer. 
The hobby of Hermann now took the 
bit in his teeth. This I ceuld discern 
by the studied hair-splitting farrago of 
his rejoinder. His last words I dis- 
tinctly remember. ‘Your opinions, 
allow me to say, Baron von Jung, al- 





242 


though in the main correct, are, in 
many nice points, discreditable to your- 
self and to the university of which you 
are a member. In a few respects they 
are even unworthy of serious refutation. 
I would say more than this, sir, were 
it not for the fear of giving you offence 
(here the speaker smiled blandly), I 
would say, sir, that your opinions are 


not the opinions to be expected from. 


a gentleman.” 

As Hermann completed this equivo- 
cal sentence, all eyes were turned upon 
the Baron. He became pale, then ex- 
cessively red; then, dropping his 
pocket-handkerchief, stooped to recover 
it, when I caught a glimpse of his 
countenance, while it could be seen by 
no one else at the table. It was radiant 
with the quizzical expression which was 
its natural character, but which I had 
never seen it assume except when we 
were alone together, and when he un- 
bent himself freely. In an instant after- 
ward he stood erect, confronting 
Hermann; and so total an alteration 
of countenance in so short a period I 
certainly never saw before. For a mo- 
ment I even fancied that I had miscon- 
ceived him, and that he was in sober 
earnest. He appeared to be stifling 
with passion, and his face was cadaver- 
ously white. For a short time he 
remained silent, apparently striving to 
master his emotion. Having at length 
seemingly succeeded, he reached a 
decanter which stood near him, saying 
as he held it firmly clenched—‘“The 
language you have thought proper to 
employ, Mynheer Hermann, in address- 
ing yourself to me, is objectionable in 
so many particulars, that I have neither 
temper nor time for specification. That 
my opinions, however, are not the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


opinions to be expected from a gentle- 
man, is an observation so directly 
offensive as to allow me but one line 
of conduct. Some courtesy, neverthe- 
less, is due to the presence of this 
company, and to yourself, at this mo- 
ment, as my guest. You will pardon 
me, therefore, if, upon this considera- 
tion, I deviate slightly from the general 
usage among gentlemen in similar cases 
of personal affront. You will forgive 
me for the moderate tax I shall make 
upon your imagination, and endeavor 
to consider, for an instant, the reflec- 
tion of your person in yonder mirror 
as the living Mynheer Hermann him- 
self. This being done, there will be 
no difficulty whatever. I shall dis- 
charge this decanter of wine at your 
image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil 
all the spirit, if not the exact letter, 
of resentment for your insult, while 
the necessity of physical violence to 
your real person will be obviated.” 

With these words he hurled the de- 
canter, full of wine, against the mirror 
which hung directly opposite Hermann; 
striking the reflection of his person 
with great precision, and of course shat- 
tering the glass into fragments. The 
whole company at once started to their 
feet, and, with the exception of myself 
and Ritzner, took their departure. As 
Hermann went out, the Baron whis- 
pered me that I should follow him and 
make an offer of my services. To this 
I agreed; not knowing precisely what 
to make of so ridiculous a piece of 
business. 

The duellist accepted my aid with 
his stiff and ultra recherche air, and, 
taking my arm, led me to his apart- 
ment. I could hardly forbear laughing 
in his face while he proceeded to dis- 


cuss, with the profoundest gravity, what 


| 
| 


MYSTIFICATION 


he termed “‘the refinedly peculiar char- 


acter” of the insult he had received. 
_ After a tiresome harangue in his ordi- 


nary style, he took down from his book 
shelves a number of musty volumes on 
the subject of the duello, and enter- 
tained me for a long time with their 
contents; reading aloud, and comment- 
ing earnestly as he read. I can just 
remember the titles of some of the 
works. There were the ‘“Ordonnance of 
Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the 
“Theatre of Honor,’ by Favyn, and a 
treatise “On the Permission of Duels,” 
by Andiguier. He displayed, also, with 
much pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs 
of Duels,’ published at Cologne, 1666, 
in the types of Elzevir—a precious 
and unique vellum-paper volume, with 
a fine margin, and bound by Derome. 
But he requested my attention particu- 
larly, and with an air of mysterious 
sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in 
barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a 
Frenchman, and having the quaint title, 
“Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” 
From this he read me one of the droll- 
est chapters in the world concerning 
“Injurie per applicationem, per con- 
structionem, et per se,’ about half of 
which, he averred, was strictly applica- 
ble to his own “refinedly peculiar’ case, 
although not one syllable of the whole 
matter could I understand for the life 
of me. Having finished the chapter, 
he closed the book, and demanded what 
I thought necessary to be done. I 
replied that I had entire confidence in 
his superior delicacy of feeling, and 
would abide by what he proposed. With 
this answer he seemed flattered, and 
sat down to write a note to the Baron. 
Tt ran thus: 





243 

“Str,—My friend, M. P. , will 
hand you this note. I find it incum- 
bent upon me to request, at your 


earliest convenience, an explanation of 
this evening’s occurrences at your cham- 
bers. In the event of your declining 
this request, Mr. P. will be happy to 
arrange, with any friend whom you 
may appoint, the steps preliminary to 
a meeting. 

“With sentiments of perfect respect, 

“Your most humble servant, 
“JOHANN HERMANN.” 

“To the Baron Ritzner von Jung, 

August 18th, 18—.” 


Not knowing what better to do, I 
called upon Ritzner with this epistle. 
He bowed as I presented it; then, with 
a grave countenance, motioned me to a 
seat. Having perused the cartel, he 
wrote the following reply, which I car- 
ried to Hermann. 


“Srr—Through our common friend, 
Mr. P., I have received your note of 
this evening. Upon due reflection I 
frankly admit the propriety of the ex- 
planation you suggest. This being 
admitted, I still find great difficulty, 
(owing to the refinedly peculiar nature 
of our disagreement, and of the per- 
sonal affront offered on my part,) in so 
wording what I have to say by way of 
apology, as to meet all the minute 
exigencies, and all the variable shadows 
of the case. I have great reliance, 
however, on that extreme delicacy of 
discrimination, in matters appertaining 
to the rules of etiquette, for which you 
have been so long and so pre-eminently 
distinguished. With perfect certainty, 
therefore, of being comprehended, I beg 
leave, in lieu of offering any sentiments 


244 


of my own, to refer you to the opin- 
ions of the Sieur Hedelin, as set forth 
in the ninth paragraph of the chapter 
of “Injurie per applicationem, per con- 
structionem, et per se,’ in his “Duelli 
Lex scripta, et non; aliterque.” ‘The 
nicety of your discernment in all the 
matters here treated, will be sufficient, 
I am assured, to convince you that the 
mere circumstance of me referring you 
to this admirable passage, ought to 
satisfy your request, as a man of honor, 
for explanation. 

“With sentiments of profound re- 
spect, 

“Vour most obedient servant, 
“Von JUNG.” 

“The Herr Johann Hermann, 

August 18th, 18—.” 


Hermann commenced the perusal of 
this epistle with a scowl, which, how- 
ever, was converted into a smile of the 
most ludicrous self-complacency as he 
came to the rigmarole about IJnjurie 
per applicationem, per constructionem, 
et per se. Having finished reading, he 
begged me, with the blandest of all 
possible smiles, to be seated, while he 
made reference to the treatise in ques- 
tion. Turning to the passage specified, 
he read it with great care to himself, 
then closed the book, and desired me, 
in my character of confidential ac- 
quaintance, to express to the Baron von 
Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous 
behavior, and, in that of second, to 
assure him that the explanation offered 
was of the fullest, the most honorable, 
and the most unequivocally satisfactory 
nature. 

Somewhat amazed at all this, I made 
my retreat to the Baron. He seemed 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE : 


to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as 
a matter of course, and after a few 
words of general conversation, went to 
an inner room and brought out the 
everlasting treatise “Duelli Lex scripta, 
et non; aliterque.’ He handed me the 
volume and asked me to look over some 
portion of it. I did so, but to little 
purpose, not being able to gather the 
least particle of meaning. He then took 
the book himself, and read me a chapter 
aloud. ‘To my surprise, what he read 
proved to be a most horribly absurd 
account of a duel between two baboons. 
He now explained the mystery; show- 
ing that the volume, as it appeared 
prima facie, was written upon the plan 
of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas; 
that is to say, the language was ingeni- 
ously framed so as to present to the 
ear all the outward signs of intelligi- 
bility, and even of profundity, while in 
fact not a shadow of meaning existed. 
The key to the whole was found in 
leaving out every second and third word 
alternately, when there appeared a 
series of ludicrous quizzes upon a single 
combat as practised in modern times. 

The Baron afterwards informed me 
that he had purposely thrown the 
treatise in Hermann’s way two or three 
weeks before the adventure, and that 
he was satisfied, from the general tenor 
of his conversation, that he had studied 
it with the deepest attention, and firmly 
believed it to be a work of unusual 
merit. Upon this hint he proceeded. 
Hermann would have died a thousand 
deaths rather than acknowledge his 
inability to understand anything and 
everything in the universe that had ever 
been written about the duello. 


























The Man of the Crowd 


(First published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, December, 1840.—Ed.) 


Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre 
seul—LA BRUYERE. 


Ir was well said of a certain German 
book that “es lasst sich nicht lesen”— 
it does not permit itself to be read. 
There are some secrets which do not 
permit themselves to be told. Men 
die nightly in their beds, wringing the 
hands of ghostly confessors, and looking 
them piteously in the eyes—die with 
despair of heart and convulsion of 
throat, on account of the hideousness 
of mysteries which will not suffer them- 
selves to be revealed. Now and then, 
alas, the conscience of man takes up 
a burden so heavy in horror that it can 
be thrown down only into the grave. 
And thus the essence of all crime is 
undivulged. 

Not long ago, about the closing in of 
an evening in autumn, I sat at the large 
bow-window of the D Coffee-House 
in London. For some months I had 
been ill in health, but was now con- 
valescent, and, with returning strength, 
found myself in one of those happy 
moods which are so precisely the con- 
verse of ennui—moods of the keenest 
appetency, when the film from the 
mental vision departs—the achlus os 
prin epzen (Gr.)—and the _ intellect, 
electrified, surpasses as greatly its every- 
day condition, as does the vivid yet 
candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and 
flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to 
breathe was enjoyment; and derived 
positive pleasure even from many of the 
legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm 





but inquisitive interest in every thing. 
With a cigar in my mouth and a news- 
paper in my lap, I had been amusing 
myself for the greater part of the after- 
noon, now in poring over advertise- 
ments, now in observing the promiscu- 
ous company in the room, and now in 
peering through the smoky panes into 
the street. 

This latter is one of the principal 
thoroughfares of the city, and had been 
very much crowded during the whole 
day. But, as the darkness came on, 
the throng momently increased; and, 
by the time the lamps were well lighted, 
two dense and continuous tides of 
population were rushing past the door. 
At this particular period of the evening 
I had never before been in a similar 
situation, and the tumultuous sea of 
human heads filled me, therefore, with 
a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave 
up, at length, all care of things within 
the hotel, and became absorbed in con- 
templation of the scene without. 

At first my observations took an 
abstract and generalizing turn. I looked 
at the passengers in masses, and thought 
of them in their aggregate relations. 
Soon, however, I descended to details, 
and regarded with minute interest the 
innumerable varieties of figure, dress, 
air, gait, visage, and expression of 
countenance. 

By far the greater number of those 
who went by had a satisfied, business- 
like demeanor, and seemed to be think- 
ing only of making their way through 
the press. Their brows were knit, and 


245 


246 


their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed 
against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced 
no symptom of impatience, but adjusted 
their clothes and hurried on. Others, 
still a numerous classy were restless in 
their movements, had flushed faces, and 
talked and gesticulated to themselves, 
as if feeling in solitude on account of 
the very denseness of the company 
around. When impeded in their prog- 
ress, these people suddenly ceased mut- 
tering; but redoubled their gesticula- 
tions, and awaited, with an absent and 
overdone smile upon their lips, the 
course of the persons impeding them. 
If jostled, they bowed profusely to the 
jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed 
with confusion—There was nothing 
very distinctive about these two large 
classes beyond what I have noted. 
Their habiliments belonged to that 
order which is pointedly termed the 
decent. They were undoubtedly noble- 
men, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, 
stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids and the 
common-places of society—men of 
leisure and men actively engaged in 
affairs of their own—conducting busi- 
ness upon its own responsibility. They 
did not greatly excite my attention. 
The tribe of clerks was an obvious 
one; and here I discerned two remarka- 
ble divisions. There were the junior 
clerks of flash houses—young gentle- 
men with tight coats, bright boots, well- 
oiled hair, and supercilious lips. Setting 
aside a certain dapperness of carriage, 
which may be termed deskism for want 
of a better word, the manner of these 
persons seemed to be an exact fac- 
simile of what had been the perfection 
of bon ton about twelve or eighteen 
months before. They wore the cast-off 
graces of the gentry;—and this, I be- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


lieve, involves the best definition of the 
class. 

The division of the upper clerks of 
staunch firms, or of the “steady old 
fellows,” it was not possible to mistake. 
These were known by their coats and 
pantaloons of black or brown, made to 
sit comfortably, with white cravats and 
waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, 
and thick hose or gaiters. They had 
all slightly bald heads, from which the 
right ears, long used to pen-holding, 
had an odd habit of standing off on 
end. I observed that they always re- 
moved or settled their hats with both 
hands, and wore watches, with short 
gold chains of a substantial and ancient 
pattern. Theirs was the affectation of 
respectability—if indeed there be an 
affectation so honorable. 

There were many individuals of 
dashing appearance, whom I easily 
understood as belonging to the race of 
swell pick-pockets, with which all great 
cities are infested. I watched these 
gentry with much inquisitiveness, and 
found it difficult to imagine how they 
should ever be mistaken for gentlemen 
by gentlemen themselves. Their volu- 
minousness of wristband, with an air 
of excessive frankness, should betray 
them at once. 

The gamblers, of whom I descried 
not a few, were still more easily recog- 
nizable. They wore every variety of 
dress, from that of the desperate thim- 
ble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, 
fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and fila- 
greed buttons, to that of the scrupu- 
lously inornate clergyman, than which 
nothing could be less liable to suspicion. 
Still all were distinguished by a certain 
sodden swarthiness of complexion, a 
filmy dimness of eye, and pallor and 








THE MAN OF THE CROWD 


compression of lip. There were two 
other traits, moreover, by which I could 
always detect them: a guarded lowness 
of tone in conversation, and a more 
than ordinary extension of the thumb 
in a direction at right angles with the 
fingers. Very often, in company with 
these sharpers, I observed an order of 
men somewhat different in habits, but 
still birds of a kindred feather. ‘They 
may be defined as the gentlemen who 
live by their wits. They seem to prey 
upon the public in two _ battalions— 
that of the dandies and that of the 
military men. Of the first grade the 
leading features are long locks and 
smiles; of the second, frogged coats 
and frowns. : 
Descending in the scale of what is 
termed gentility, I found darker and 
deeper themes for speculation. 
Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing 
from countenances whose every other 
feature wore only an expression of 
abject. humility; sturdy professional 
street beggars scowling upon mendi- 
cants of a better stamp, whom despair 
alone had driven forth into the night 
for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, 
upon whom death had placed a sure 
hand, and- who sidled and _tottered 
through the mob, looking every one 
beseechingly in the face, as if in search 
of some chance consolation, some lost 
hope; modest young girls returning 
from long and later labor to a cheerless 
home, and shrinking more tearfully than 
indignantly from the glances of ruffians, 
whose direct contact, even, could not 
be avoided; women of the town of all 
kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal 
beauty in the prime of her womanhood, 
putting one in mind of the statue in 
Lucian, with the surface of Parian mar- 


I saw. 


247 


ble, and the interior filled with filth— 
the loathsome and utterly lost leper in 
rags—the wrinkled, . bejewelled, and 
paint-begrimed beldame, making a last 
effort at youth—the mere child of im- 
mature form, yet, from long associa- 
tion, an adept in the dreadful coquetries 
of her trade, and burning with a rabid 
ambition to be ranked the equal of her 
elders in vice; drunkards innumerable 
and indescribable—some in shreds and 
patches, reeling, inarticulate, with 
bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes— 
some in whole although filthy garments, 
with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick 
sensual lips, and hearty-looking rubi- 
cund faces—others clothed in materials 
which had once been good, and which 
even now were scrupulously well 
brushed—men who walked with a more 
than naturally firm and springy step, 
but whose countenances were fearfully 
pale, and whose eyes were hideously 
wild and red; and who clutched with 
quivering fingers, as they strode 
through the crowd, at every object 
which came within their reach; beside 
these, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers, 
sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhib- 
itors, and ballad-mongers, those who 
vended with those who sang; ragged 
artizans and exhausted laborers of every 
description, and all full of a noisy and 
inordinate vivacity which jarred dis- 
cordantly upon the ear, and gave an 
aching sensation to the eye. 

As the night deepened, so deepened 
to me the interest of the scene; for 
not only did the general character of 
the crowd materially alter (its gentler 
features retiring in the gradual with- 
drawal of the more orderly portion of 
the people, and its harsher ones coming 
out into bolder relief, as the late hour 


248 


brought forth every species of infamy 
from its den), but the rays of the gas- 
lamps, feeble at. first in their struggle 
with the dying day, had now at length 
gained ascendancy, and threw over 
every thing a fitful and garish lustre. 
All was dark yet splendid—as_ that 
ebony to which has been likened the 
style of Tertullian. 

The wild effects of the light en- 
chained me to an examination of indi- 
vidual faces; and although the rapidity 
with which the world of light flitted 
before the window prevented me from 
casting more than a glance upon each 
visage, still it seemed that, in my then 
peculiar mental state, I could fre- 
quently read, even in that brief interval 
of a glance, the history of long years. 

With my brow to the, glass, I was 
thus occupied in'scrutinizing the mob, 
when suddenly there came into view a 
countenance (that of a decrepid old 
man, some sixty-five or seventy years 
of age)—a countenance which at once 
arrested and absorbed my whole atten- 
tion, on account of the absolute idio- 
syncrasy of its expression. Any thing 
even remotely resembling that expres- 
sion I had never seen before. I well 
remember that my first thought, upon 
beholding it, was that Retszch, had he 
viewed it, would have greatly preferred 
it to his own pictural incarnations of 
the fiend. As I endeavored, during 
the brief minute of my original survey, 
to form some analysis of the meaning 
conveyed, there arose confusedly and 
paradoxically within my mind, the ideas 
of vast mental power, of caution, of 
penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, 
of malice, of blood-thirstiness, of. tri- 
umph, of merriment,.of excessive terror, 
of intense—of supreme despair. I felt 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. 
“How wild a history,” I said to myself, 
‘Gs written within that bosom!” Then 
came a craving desire to keep the man 
in view—to know more of him. MHur- 
riedly putting on an overcoat, and seiz- 
ing my hat and cane, I made my way 
into the street, and pushed through the 
crowd in the direction which I had 
seen him take; for he had already dis- 
appeared. With some little difficulty I 
at length came within sight of him, 
approached, and followed him closely, 
yet cautiously, so as not to attract his 
attention. 

I had now a good opportunity of 
examining his person. He was short 
in stature, very thin, and apparently 
very feeble. His clothes, generally, 
were filthy and ragged; but as he came, 


now and then, within the strong glare 


of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, 
although dirty, was of beautiful tex- 
ture; and my vision deceived me, or, 
through a rent in a closely-buttoned 
and evidently second-handed roque- 
laire which enveloped him, I caught a 
glimpse both of a diamond and of a 
dagger. ‘These observations heightened 
my curiosity, and I resolved to follow 
the stranger whithersoever he should go. 

It was now fully night-fall, and a 
thick humid fog hung over the city, 
soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. 
This change of weather had an odd 
effect upon the crowd, the whole of 
which was at once put into new com- 
motion, and overshadowed by a world 
of umbrellas. The waver, the jostle, 
and the hum increased in a tenfold 
degree. For my own part I did not 
much regard the rain—the lurking of 
an old fever in my system rendering 
the moisture somewhat too dangerously 








THE MAN OF THE CROWD 


pleasant. Tying a handkerchief about 
my mouth, I kept on. For half an 
hour the old man held his way with 
difficulty along the great thoroughfare; 
and I here walked close at his elbow 
through fear of losing sight of him. 
Never once turning his head to look 
back, he did not observe me. By and 
by he passed into a cross street, which, 
although densely filled with people, was 
not quite so much thronged as the main 
one he had quitted. Here a change in 
his demeanor became evident. He 
walked more slowly and with less object 
than before—more hesitatingly. He 
crossed and re-crossed the way repeat- 
edly, without apparent aim; and the 
press was still so thick, that, at every 
such movement, I was obliged to follow 
him closely. The street was a narrow 
and long one, and his course lay within 
it for nearly an hour, during which the 
passengers had gradually diminished to 
about that number which is ordinarily 
seen at noon on Broadway near the 
park—so vast a difference is there be- 
tween a London populace and that of 
the most frequented American city. A 
second turn brought us into a square, 
brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with 
life. The oid manner of the stranger 
re-appeared. His chin fell upon his 
breast, while his eyes rolled wildly from 
under his knit brows, in every direction, 
upon those who hemmed him in. He 
urged his way steadily and persever- 
ingly. I was surprised, however, to 
find, upon his having made the circuit 
of the square, that he turned and re- 
traced his steps. Still more was I 
astonished to see him repeat the same 
walk several times—once nearly detect- 
ing me as he came around with a ud: 
den movement. 


249 


In this exercise he spent another 
hour, at the end of which we met with 
far less interruption from passengers 
than at first. The rain fell fast; the 
air grew cool; and the people were 
retiring to their homes. With a ges- 
ture of impatience, the wanderer passed 
into a by-street comparatively deserted. 
Down this, some quarter of a mile long, 
he rushed with an activity I could not 
have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, 
and which put me to much trouble in 
pursuit. A few minutes brought us to 
a large and busy bazaar, with the locali- 
ties of which the stranger appeared well 
acquainted, and where his original de- 
meanor again became apparent, as he 
forced his way to and fro, without aim, 
among the host of buyers and sellers. 

During the hour and a half, or there- 
abouts, which we passed in this place, 
it required much caution on my part 
to keep him within reach without 
attracting his observation. Luckily I 
wore a pair of caoutchouc over-shoes, 
and could move about in perfect silence. 
At no moment did he see that I watched 
him. He entered shop after shop, 
priced nothing, spoke no word, and 
looked at all objects with a wild and 
vacant stare. I was new utterly amazed 
at his behavior, and firmly resolved 
that we should not part until I had 
satisfied myself in some measure re- 
specting him. 

A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and 
the company were fast deserting the 
bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up 
a shutter, jostled the old man, and at 
the instant I saw a strong shudder come 
over his frame. He hurried into the 
street, looked anxiously around him for 
an instant, and then ran with incredible 
swiftness through many crooked and 


250 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


peopleless lanes, until we emerged once 
more upon the great thoroughfare 
whence we had started—the street of 
the D Hotel. It no longer wore, 
however, the same aspect. It was still 
brilliant with gas; but the rain fell 
fiercely, and there were few persons to 
be seen. The stranger grew pale. He 
walked moodily some paces up the once 
populous avenue, then, with a heavy 
sigh, turned in the direction of the 
river, and, plunging through a great 
variety of devious ways, came out, at 
-length, in view of one of the principal 
theatres. It was about being closed, 
and the audience were thronging from 
the doors. I saw the old man gasp as 
if for breath while he threw himself 
amid the crowd; but I thought that the 
intense agony of his countenance had, 
in some measure, abated. His head 
again fell upon his breast; he appeared 
as I had seen him at first. I observed 
that he now took the course in which 
had gone the greater number of the 
audience—but, upon the whole, I was 
at a loss to comprehend the wayward- 
ness of his actions. 

As he proceeded, the company grew 
more scattered, and his old uneasiness 
and vacillation were resumed. For 
some time he followed closely a party 
of some ten or twelve roisterers; but 
from this number one by one dropped 
off, until three only remained together, 
in a narrow and gloomy lane, little 
frequented. The stranger paused, and, 
for a moment, seemed lost in thought; 
then, with every mark of agitation, 
pursued rapidly a route which brought 
us to the verge of the city, amid regions 
very different from those we had hith- 
erto traversed. It was the most noi- 
some quarter of London, where every 





thing wore the worst impress of the 
most deplorable poverty, and of the. 
most desperate crime. By the dim light 
of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, 
worm-eaten, wooden tenements were 
seen tottering to their fall, in directions 
so many and capricious, that scarce the 
semblance of a passage was discernibla 
between them. The paving-stones lay 
at random, displaced from their beds 
by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible 
filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. 
The whole atmosphere teemed with 
desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the 
sounds of human life revived by sure 
degrees, and at length large bands of 
the most abandoned of a London popu- 
lace were seen reeling to and fro. The 
spirits of the old man again flickered 
up, as a lamp which is near its death- 
hour. Once more he strode onward 
with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner 
was turned, a blaze of light burst upon 
our sight, and we stood before one of 
the huge suburban temples of Intem- 
perance—one of the palaces of the fiend, 
Gin. 

It was now nearly daybreak; but a 
number of wretched inebriates still 
pressed in and out of the flaunting en- 
trance. With a half shriek of joy the 
old man forced a passage within, 
resumed at once his original bearing, 
and stalked backward and _ forward, 
without apparent object, among the 
throng. He had not been thus long 
occupied, however, before a rush to the 
doors gave token that the host was 
closing them for the night. It was 
something even more intense than 
despair that I then observed upon the 
countenance of the singular being whem 
I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet 
he did not hesitate in his career, but. 











VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY 


with a mad energy, retraced his steps 
at once, to the heart of the mighty 
London. Long and swiftly he fled, 
while I followed him in the wildest 
amazement, resolute not to abandon a 
scrutiny in which I now felt an interest 
all-absorbing. ‘The sun arose while we 
proceeded, and, when we had once again 
reached that most thronged mart of the 
populous town, the street of the D 
Hotel, it presented an appearance of 
human bustle and activity scarcely in- 
ferior to what I had seen on the evening 
before. And here, long, amid the mo- 
mently increasing confusion, did I per- 
sist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, 
as usual, he walked to and fro, and 
during the day did not pass from out 





251 


the turmoil of that street. And, as the 
shades of the second evening came on, 
I grew wearied unto death, and, stop- 
ping fully in front of the wanderer, 
gazed at him steadfastly in the face. 
He noticed me not, but resumed his 
solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, 
remained absorbed in contemplation. 
“This old man,” I said at length, ‘“‘is 
the type and the genius of deep crime. 
He refuses to be alone. He is the man 
of the crowd. It will be in vain to 
follow; for I shall learn no more of 
him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart 
of the world is a grosser book than the 
“Hortulus Anime,’ and perhaps it is 
but one of the great mercies of God 
that “es lasst sich nicht lesen.’’* 


Von Kempelen and His Discovery 


AFTER the very minute and elaborate 
paper by Arago, to say nothing of the 
summary in Silliman’s Journal, with the 
detailed statement just published by 
Lieutenant Maury, it will not be sup- 
posed, of course, that in offering a few 
hurried remarks in reference to Von 
Kempelen’s discovery, I have any de- 
sign to look at the subject in a scientific 
point of view. My object is simply, 
in the first place, to say a few words 
of Von Kempelen himself (with whom, 
some years ago, I had the honor of a 
slight personal acquaintance), since 
every thing which concerns him must 
necessarily, at this moment, be of inter- 
est; and, in the second place, to look 
in a general way, and speculatively, at 
the results of the discovery. 

It may be as well, however, to pre- 
mise the cursory observations which I 


have to offer, by denying, very decid- 
edly, what seems to be a general im- 
pression (gleaned, as usual in a case of 
this kind, from the newspapers), viz.: 
that this discovery, astounding as it 
unquestionably is, is unanticipated. 
By reference to the “Diary of Sir 
Humphrey Davy” (Cottle and Munroe, 
London, pp. 150), it will be seen at 
pp. 53 and 82, that this illustrious chem- 
ist had not only conceived the idea 
now in question, but had actually made 
no inconsiderable progress, experimen- 
tally, in the very identical analysis now 
so triumphantly brought to an issue by 
Von Kempelen, who although he makes 
not the slightest allusion to it, is, with- 


* This is a favorite idea of Poe and 
forms the introduction to the tale, “The 
Premature Burial.”—Ed. 


252 


out dou®t (1 say it unhesitatingly, and 
can prove it, if required), indebted to 
the “Diary” for at least the first hint 
of his own undertaking. 

The paragraph from the Courier and 
Enquirer, which is now going the rounds 
of the press, and which purports to 
claim the invention for a Mr. Kissam, 
of Brunswick, Maine, appears to me, I 
confess, a little apocryphal, for several 
reasons; although there is nothing either 
impossible or very improbable in the 
statement made. I need not go into 
details. My opinion of the paragraph 
is founded principally upon its manner. 
It does not look true. Persons who 
are narrating facts, are seldom so par- 
ticular as Mr. Kissam seems to be, 
about day and date and precise loca- 
tion. Besides, if Mr. Kissam actually 
did come upon the discovery he says 
he did, at the period designated—nearly 
eight years ago,—how happens it that 
he took no steps, on the instant, to reap 
the immense benefits which the merest 
bumpkin must have known would have 
resulted to him individually, if not to 
the world at large, from the discovery? 
It seems to me quite incredible that 
any man of common _ understanding 
could have discovered what Mr. Kissam 
says he did, and yet have subsequently 
acted so like a baby—so like an owl— 
as Mr. Kissam admits that he did. By- 
the-way, who zs Mr. Kissam? and is not 
the whole paragraph in the Courier and 
Enquirer a fabrication got up to ‘make 
a talk”? It must be confessed that it 
has an amazingly moon-hoaxy-air. Very 
little dependence is to be placed upon 
it, in my humble opinion; and if I 
were not well aware, from experience, 
how very easily men of science are 
mystified, on points out of their usual 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


range of inquiry, I should be profoundly 
astonished at finding so eminent a chem- 
ist as Professor Draper, discussing Mr. 
Kissam’s (or is it Mr. Quizzem’s?) 
pretensions to the discovery, in so 
serious a tone. 

But to return to the “Diary” of Sir 
Humphrey Davy. This pamphlet was 
not designed for the public eye, even 
upon the decease of the writer, as any 
person at all conversant with author- 
ship may satisfy himself at once by 
the slightest inspection of the style. 
At page 13, for example, near the mid- 
dle, we read, in’ reference to his 
researches about the protoxide of azote: 
“Tn less than half a minute the respira- 
tion being continued, diminished gradu- 
ally and were succeeded by analogous 
to gentle pressure on all the muscles.” 
That the respiration was not “dimin- 
ished,” is not only clear by the subse- 
quent context, but by the use of the 
plural, “were.” The sentence, no doubt, 
was thus intended: “In less than half 
a minute, the respiration being con- 
tinued, [these feelings] diminished 
gradually, and were succeeded by [a 
sensation] analogous to gentle pressure 
on all the muscles.” A hundred similar 
instances go to show that the MS. so 
inconsiderately published, was merely a 
rough note-book, meant only for the 
writer’s own eye; but an inspection of 
the pamphlet will convince almost any 
thinking person of the truth of my 
suggestion. The fact is, Sir Humphrey 
Davy was about the last man in the 
world to commit himself on scientific 
topics. Not only had he a more than 
ordinary dislike to quackery, but he was 
morbidly afraid of appearing empirical; 
so that, however fully he might have 
been convinced that he was on the 











VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY 


right track in the matter now in ques- 
tion, he would never have spoken out, 
until he had every thing ready for the 
most practical demonstration. I verily 
believe that his last moments would 
have been rendered wretched, could he 
have suspected that his wishes in regard 
to burning this “Diary” (full of crude 
speculations) would have been unat- 
tended to; as, it seems, they were. I 
say “his wishes,” for that he meant to 
include this note-book among the mis- 
cellaneous papers directed “‘to be burnt,” 
IT think there can be no manner of 
doubt. Whether it escaped the flames 
by good fortune or by bad, yet remains 
to be seen. That the passages quoted 
above, with the other similar ones re- 
ferred to, gave Von Kempelen the hint, 
I do not in the slightest degree ques- 
tion; but I repeat, it yet remains to be 
seen whether this momentous discovery 
itself (momentous under any circum- 
stances) will be of service or disservice 
to mankind at large. That Von Kem- 
pelen and his immediate friends will 
reap a rich harvest, it would be folly 
to doubt for a moment. They will 
scarcely be so weak as not to “realize,” 
in time, by large purchases of houses 
and land, with other property of intrin- 
sic value. | 

In the brief account of Von Kem- 
pelen which appeared in the Home 
Journal, and has since been extensively 
copied, several misapprehensions of the 
German original seem to have been 
made by the translator, who professes 
to have taken the passage from a late 
number of the Presburg Schnellpost. 
“Viele” has evidently been miscon- 
ceived (as it often is), and what the 
translator renders by “sorrows,” is 
probably ‘“‘lieden,’ which, in its true 


253 


version, ‘sufferings,’ would give a 
totally different complexion to the 
whole account; but, of course, much 
of this is merely guess, on my part. 

Von Kempelen, however, is by ne 
means “a misanthrope,” in appearance, 
at least, whatever he may be in fact. 
My acquaintance with him was casual 
altogether; and I am scarcely war- 
ranted in saying that I know him at 
all; but. to have seen and conversed 
with a man of so prodigious a notoriety 
as he has attained, or will attain in a 
few days, is not a small matter, as 
times go. 

The Literary World speaks of him, 
confidently, as a mative of Presburg 
(misled, perhaps, by the account in 
The Home Journal) but I am pleased 
in being able to state positively, since 
I have it from his own lips, that he 
was born in Utica, in the State of New 
York, although both his parents, I be- 
lieve, are of Presburg descent. The 
family is connected, in some way, with 
Maelzel, of automaton - chess - player 
memory. In person, he is short and 
stout, with large, fat, blue eyes, sandy 
hair and whiskers, a wide but pleasing 
mouth, fine teeth, and I think a Roman. 
nose. There is some defect in one of 
his feet. His address is frank, and his 
whole manner noticeable for bonhomie. 
Altogether, he looks, speaks, and acts 
as little like “a misanthrope” as aiy 
man I ever saw. We were fellow- 
sojourners for a week about six years 
ago, at Earl’s Hotel, in Providence, 
Rhode Island; and I presume that I 
conversed with him, at various times, 
for some three or four hours altogether. 
His principal topics were those of the 
day; and nothing that fell from him 
led me to suspect his scientific attain- 


254 


ments. He left the hotel before me, 
intending to go to New York, and 
thence to Bremen; it was in the latter 
city that his great discovery was first 
made public; or, rather, it was there 
that he was first suspected of having 
made it. This is about all that I per- 
sonally know of the now immortal Von 
Kempelen; but I have thought that 
even these few details would have 
interest for the public. 

There can be little question that 
most of the marvellous rumors afloat 
about this affair are pure inventions, 
entitled to about as much credit as the 
story of Aladdin’s lamp; and yet, in 
a case of this kind, as in the case of 
the discoveries in California, it is clear 
that the truth may be stranger than 
fiction. The following anecdote, at 
least, is so well authenticated, that we 
may receive it implicitly. 

Von Kempelen had never been even 
tolerably well off during his residence 
at Bremen; and often, it was well 
known, he had been put to extreme 
shifts in order to raise trifling sums. 
When the great excitement occurred 
about the forgery on the house of 
Gutsmuth & Co., suspicion was directed 
toward Von Kempelen, on account of 
his having purchased a considerable 
property in Gasperitch Lane, and his 
refusing, when questioned, to explain 
how he became possessed of the pur- 
chase money. He was at length ar- 
rested, but nothing decisive appearing 
against him, was in the end set at 
liberty. The police, however, kept a 
strict watch upon his movements, and 
thus discovered that he left home fre- 
quently, taking always the same road, 
and invariably giving his watchers the 
slip in the neighborhood of that laby- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


rinth of narrow and crooked passages 
known by the flash name of the “Don- 
dergat.”” Finally, by dint of great per- 
severance, they traced him to a garret 
in an old house of seven stories, in an 
alley called Flatzplatz; and, coming 
upon him suddenly, found him, as they 
imagined, in the midst of his counter- 
feiting operations. His agitation is rep- 
resented as so excessive that the officers 
had not the slightest doubt of his guilt. 
After handcuffing him, they searched 
his room, or rather rooms, for it ap- 
pears he occupied all the mansarde. 
Opening into the garret where they 
caught him, was a closet, ten feet by 
eight, fitted up with some chemical 
apparatus, of which the object has not 
yet been ascertained. In one corner 
of the closet was a very small furnace, 
with a glowing fire in it, and on the 
fire a kind of duplicate crucible—two 
crucibles connected by a tube. One of 
these crucibles was nearly full of lead 
in a state of fusion, but not reaching 
up to the aperture of the tube, which 
was close to the brim. The other cru- 
cible had some liquid in it, which, as 
the officers entered, seemed to be fur- 
iously dissipating in vapor. They relate 
Kempelen seized the crucibles with both 
hands (which were encased in gloves 
that afterward turned out to be asbes- 
tic), and threw the contents on the 
tiled floor. It was now that they hand- 
cuffed him; and before proceeding to 
ransack the premises they searched his 
person, but nothing unusual was found 
about him, excepting a paper parcel, in 
his coat-pocket, containing what was 
afterward ascertained to be a mixture of 
antimony and some unknown substance, 
in nearly, but not quite, equal propor- 
tions. All attempts at analyzing the 

















VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY 


unknown substance have, so far, failed, 
but that it will ultimately be analyzed, 
is not to be doubted. 

Passing out of the closet with their 
prisoner, the officers went through a 
sort of ante-chamber, in which nothing 
material was found, to the chemist’s 
sleeping-room. They here rummaged 
some drawers and boxes, but discovered 
only a few papers, of no importance, 
and some good coin, silver and gold. 
At length, looking under the bed, they 
saw a large, common hair trunk, with- 
out hinges, hasp, or lock, and with the 
top lying carelessly across the bottom 
portion. Upon attempting to draw this 
trunk out from under the bed, they 
found that, with their united strength 
(there were three of them, all powerful 
men), they “could not stir it one inch.” 
‘Much astonished at this, one of them 
crawled under the bed, and looking into 
the trunk, said: 

“No wonder we couldn’t move it— 
why it’s full to the brim of old bits of 
brass!” 

Putting his feet, now, against the 
wall, so as to get a good purchase, and 
pushing with all his force, while his 
companions pulled with all theirs, the 
trunk, with much difficulty, was slid 
out from under the bed, and its con- 
tents examined. The supposed brass 
with which it was filled was all in small, 
smooth pieces, varying from the size of 
a pea to that of a dollar; but the pieces 
were irregular in shape, although more 
or less flat—looking, upon the whole, 
“very much as lead looks when thrown 
upon the ground in a molten state, and 
there suffered to grow cool.” Now, not 
one of these officers for a moment sus- 
pected this metal to be any thing but 
brass, The idea of its being gold never 


Zoe 


entered their brains, of course; how 
could such a wild fancy have entered 
it? And their astonishment may be 
well conceived, when the next day it 
became known, all over Bremen, that 
the “lot of brass” which they had 
carted so contemptuously to the police 
office, without putting themselves to the 
trouble of pocketing the smallest scrap, 
was not only gold—real gold—but gold 
far finer than any employed in coinage 
—gold, in fact, absolutely pure, virgin, 
without the slightest appreciable alloy. 

I need not go over the details of 
Von Kempelen’s confession (as far as 
it went) and release, for these are 
familiar to the public. That he has 
actually realized, in spirit and in effect, 
if not to the letter, the old chimera. 
of the philosopher’s stone, no sane per- 
son is at liberty to doubt. The opin- 
ions of Arago are, of course, entitled 
to the greatest consideration; but he 
is by no means infallible; and what he 
says of bismuth, in his report to the 
Academy, must be taken cum grano 
salis. ‘The simple truth is, that up to 
this period al] analysis has failed; and 
until Von Kempelen chooses to let us 
have the key to his own published 
enigma, it is more than probable that 
the matter will remain, for years, zn 
statu quo. All that yet can fairly be 
said to be known is, that “Pure gold 
can be made at will, and very readily 
from lead in connection with certain 
other substances, in kind and in pro- 
portions, unknown.” 

Speculation, of course, is busy as to 
the immediate and ultimate results of 
this discovery—a discovery which few 
thinking persons will hesitate in refer- 
ring to an increased interest in the mate 


256 


ter of gold generally, by the late de- 
velopments in California; and this re- 
flection brings us inevitably to another 
—the exceeding inopportuneness of Von 
Kempelen’s analysis. If many were 
prevented from adventuring to Califor- 
nia, by the mere apprehension that gold 
would so materially diminish in value, 
on account of its plentifulness in the 
mines there, as to render the specula- 
tion of going so far in search of it a 
doubtful one—what impression will be 
wrought zow, upon the minds of those 
about to emigrate, and especially upon 
the minds of those actually in the min- 
eral region, by the announcement of 
this astounding discovery of Von Kem- 
pelen, a discovery which declares, in 
so many words, that beyond its intrinsic 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


worth for manufacturing purposes 
(whatever that worth may be), gold 
now is, or at least soon will be (for 
it cannot be supposed that Von Kem- 
pelen can Jong retain his secret), of no 
greater value than lead, and of far in- 
ferior value to silver? It is, indeed, 
exceedingly difficult to speculate pros- 
pectively upon the consequences of the 
discovery; but one thing may be posi- 
tively maintained—that the announce- 
ment of the discovery six months ago 
would have had material influence in 
regard to the settlement of California. 

In Europe, as yet, the most notice- 
able results have been a rise of two 
hundred per cent. in the price of lead, 
and nearly twenty-five per cent. in that 
of silver. 


Lhe Power of Words 


(Oinos [Greek], Wine: Agathos, Good.—Ed.) 


Ornos. Pardon, Agathos, the weak- 
ness of a spirit new-fledged with immor- 
tality! 

Agathos. You have spoken nothing, 
my Oinos, for which pardon is to be de- 
manded. Not even here is knowledge 
a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask 
of the angels freely, that it may be 
given! 

Oinos. But in this existence, I 
dreamed that I should be at once cog- 
nizant of all things, and thus at once 
be happy in being cognizant of all. 

Agathos. Ah, not in knowledge is 
happiness, but in the acquisition of 
knowledge! In for ever knowing, we 
are for ever blessed; but to know all, 
were the curse of a fiend. 


Oinos. 
know all? 

Agathos. That (since he is The Most 
Happy) must be still the one thing un- 
known even to Him. 

Oinos. But, since we grow hourly in 
knowledge, must not at Jast all things 
be known? | 

Agathos. Look dowr. into the abys- 
mal distances!—attempt to force the 
gaze down the multitudinous vistas of 
the stars, as we sweep slowly through 
them thus—and thus—and thus! Even 
the spiritual vision, is it not at all 
points arrested by the continuous golden 
walls of the universe?—the walls of the 
myriads of the shining bodies that mere 


But does not The Most High 








THE POWER OF WORDS 


number has appeared to blend into 
unity? 

-Oinos. I clearly perceive that the 
infinity of matter is no dream. 

Agathos. There are no dreams in 
Aidenn—but it is here whispered that, 
of this infinity of matter, the sole pur- 
pose is to afford infinite springs, at 
which the soul may allay the thirst to 
know which is for ever unquenchable 
within it—since to quench it, would be 
to extinguish the soul’s self. Question 
me then, my Oinos, freely and without 
fear. Come! we will leave to the left 
the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and 
swoop outward from the throne into 
the starry meadows beyond Orion, 
where, for pansies and violets, and 
heart’s-ease, are the beds of the tripli- 
cate and triple-tinted suns. 

Oinos. And now, Agathos, as we pro- 
ceed, instruct me!—speak to me in the 
earth’s familiar tones. I understand 
not what you hinted to me, just now, 
of the modes or of the method of what, 
during mortality, we were accustomed 
to call Creation. Do you mean to say 
that the Creator is not God? 

Agathos. I mean to say that the 
Deity does not create. 

Oinos. Explain. 

Agathos. In the beginning only, he 
created. The seeming creatures which 
are now, throughout the universe, so 
perpetually springing into being, can 
only be considered as the mediate or 
{ndirect, not as the direct or immediate 
results of the Divine creative power. 

Oinos. Among men, my Agathos, 
zhis idea would be considered heretical 
in the extreme. | 

Agathos. Among angels, my Oinos, 
it is seen to be simply true. 

Oinos. I can comprehend you thus 


257, 


far—that certain operations oi what 
we term Nature, or the natural laws, 
will, under certain conditions, give rise 
to that which has all the appearance of 
creation. Shortly before the final over- 
throw of the earth, there were, I well 
remember, many very successful exper- 
iments in what some philosophers were 
weak enough to denominate the cre- 
ation of animalcule. 

Agathos. The cases of which you 
speak were, in fact, instances of the sec- 
ondary creation—and of the only spe- 
cies of creation which has ever been, 
since the first word spoke into existence 
the first law. 

Oinos. Are not the starry worlds 
that, from the abyss of nonentiiy, burst 
hourly forth into the heavens—are not 


these stars, Agathos, the immediate 
handiwork of the King? 
Agathos. Let me endeavor, my 


Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the 
conception I intend. You are well 
aware that, as no thought can perish, so 
no act is without infinite result. We 
moved our hands, for example, when 
we were dwellers on the earth, and, in 
so doing, we gave vibration to the at- 
mosphere which engirdled it. This vi- 
bration was indefinitely extended, till 
it gave impulse to every particle of the 
earth’s air, which thenceforward, and 
for ever, was actuated by the one move- 
ment of the hand. This fact the math- 
ematicians of our globe well knew. They 
made the special effects, indeed, wrought 
in the fluid by special impulses, the 
subject of exact calculation—so that it 
became easy to determine in what pre- 
cise period an impulse of given extent 
would engirdle the orb, and impress 
(for ever) every atom of the atmos- 
phere circumambient. Retrograding, 


258 


they found no difficulty, from a given 
effect, under given conditions, in deter- 
mining the value of the original im- 
pulse. Now the mathematicians who 
saw that the results of any given im- 
pulse were absolutely endless—and who 
saw that a portion of these results were 
accurately traceable through the agency 
of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the 
facility of the retrogradation—these 
men saw, at the same time, that this 
species of analysis itself, had within it- 
self a capacity for indefinite progress— 
that there were no bounds conceivable 
to its advancement and applicability, ex- 
cept within the intellect of him who ad- 
vanced or applied it. But at this point 
our mathematicians paused. 

Oinos. And why, Agathos, should 
they have proceeded? 

Agathos. Because there were some 
considerations of deep interest beyond. 
It was deducible from what they knew, 
that to a being of infinite understand- 
ing—one to whom the perfection of the 
algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there 
could be no difficulty in tracing every 
impulse given the air—and the ether 
through the air—to the remotest con- 
sequences at any even infinitely remote 
epoch of time. It is indeed demon- 
strable that every such impulse given 
the air, must, in the end, impress every 
individual thing that exists within the 
universe ;—and the being of infinite un- 
derstanding—the being whom we have 
imagined—might trace the remote un- 
dulations of the impulse—trace them 
upward and onward in their influences 
upon all particles of all matter—upward 
and onward for ever in their modifica- 
tions of old forms—or, in other words, 
in their creation of new—until he found 
them reflected—unimpressive at last— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


back from the throne of the Godhead. 
And not only could such a thing do this, 
but at any epoch, should a given result 
be afforded him—should one of these 
numberless comets, for example, be pre- 
sented to his inspection—he could have 
no difficulty in determining, by the an- 
alytic retrogradation, to what original 
impulse it was due. This power of 
retrogradation in its absolute fulness 
and perfection—this faculty of referring 
at all epochs, all effects to all causes— 
is of course the prerogative of the Deity 
alone—but in every variety of degree, 
short of the absolute perfection, is the 
power itself exercised by the whole host 
of the Angelic intelligences. 

Oinos. But you speak merely of im- 
pulses upon the air. 

Agathos. In speaking of the air, I 
referred only to the earth; but the gen- 
eral proposition has reference to im- 
pulses upon the ether—which, since it 
pervades, and alone pervades all space, 
is thus the great medium of creation. 


Oinos. ‘Then all motion, of whatever 
nature, creates? 
Agathos. It must: but a true phi- 


losophy has long taught that the source 
of all motion is thought—and the source 
of all thought is 

Oinos. God. 

Agathos. I have spoken to you, 
Oinos, as to a child of the fair Earth 
which lately perished—of impulses upon 
the atmosphere of the Earth. 

Oinos. You did. 

Agathos. And while I thus spoke, did 
there not cross your mind some thought 
of the physical power of words? Is not 
every word an impulse on thé air? 

Oinos. But. why, Agathos, do you 
weep—and why, oh why do your wings 
droop as we hover above this fair star 














THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA 


—which is the greenest and yet most 
terrible of all we have encountered in 
our flight? Its brilliant flowers look 
like a fairy dream—but its fierce vol- 
canoes like the passions of a turbulent 
heart. 

Agathos. They are!—they are! This 
wild star—it is ‘now three centuries 


259 


since, with clasped hands, and with 
streaming eyes, at the feet of my be- 
loved—I spoke it—with a few passion- 
ate sentences—into birth. Its brilliant 
flowers are the dearest of all unfulfilled 
dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the 
passions of the most turbulent and un, 
hallowed of hearts. 


The Colloguy of Monos and Una 


Una. “Born again?” 

Monos. Yes, fairest and best beloved 
Una, “born again.” These were the 
words upon whose mystical, meaning I 
had so long pondered, rejecting the ex- 
planations of the priesthood, until Death 
itself resolved for me the secret. 

Una. Death! 

Monos. How strangely, sweet Una, 
you echo my words! . I observe, too, a 
vacillation in your step, a joyous in- 
quietude in your eyes. You are con: 
fused and oppressed by the majestic 
novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was 
of Death I spoke. And here how sin- 
gularly sounds that word which of old 
was wont to bring terror to all hearts, 
throwing a mildew upon all pleasures! 

Una. Ah, Death, the spectre which 
sat at all feasts! How often, Monos, 
did we lose ourselves in speculations 
upon its nature! How mysteriously did 
it act as a check to human bliss, saying 
unto it “thus far and no further!” That 
earnest mutual love, my own Monos, 
which burned within our bosoms—how 
vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling 
happy in its first upspringing, that our 
happiness would strengthen with its 
strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in 
our hearts the dread of that evil hour 


which was hurrying to separate us for- 
ever! Thus, in time, it became pain- 
ful to love. Hate would have been 
mercy then. . 

Monos. Speak not here of these 
griefs, dear Una—mine, mine, forever 
now! 

Una. But the memory of past sorrow 
—is it not present joy? I have much 
to say yet of the things which have 
been. Above all, I burn to know the 
incidents of your own passage through 
the dark Valley and Shadow. 

Monos. And when did the radiant 
Una ask any thing of her Monos in 
vain? I will be minute in relating all— 
but at what point shall the weird nar- 
rative begin? 


Una. At what point? 
Monos. You have said. 
Una. Monos, I comprehend you. In 


Death we have both learned the pro- 
pensity of man to define the indefin- 
able. I will not say, then, commence 
with the moment of life’s cessation— 
but commence with that sad, sad in- 
stant when, the fever having aban- 
doned you, you sank into a breathless 
and motionless torpor, and I pressed 
down your pallid eyelids with the pas- 
sionate fingers of love. 


260 


Monos. One word first, my Una, in 
regard to man’s general condition at 
this epoch. You will remember that 
one or two of the wise among our fore- 
fathers—wise in fact, although not in 
the world’s esteem—had ventured to 
doubt the propriety of the term “im- 
provement,” as applied to the progress 
of our civilization. There were periods 
in each of the five or six centuries im- 
mediately preceding our dissolution, 
when arose some vigorous intellect, 
boldly contending for those principles 
whose truth appears now, to our disen- 
franchised reason, so utterly obvious— 
principles which should have taught our 
race to submit to the guidance of the 
natural laws, rather than attempt their 
control. At long intervals some master- 
minds appeared, looking upon each ad- 
vance in practical science as a retro- 
gradation in the true utility. Occasion- 
ally the poetic intellect—that intellect 
which we now feel to have been the 
most exalted of all—since those truths 
to us were of the most enduring im- 
portance could only be reached by that 
analogy which speaks in proof-tones to 
the imagination alone, and to the un- 
aided reason bears no weight—occa- 
sionally did this poetic intellect proceed 
a step farther in the evolving of the 
vague idea of the philosophic, and find 
in the mystic parable that tells of the 
tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden 
fruit, death-producing, a distinct inti- 
mation that knowledge was not meet 
for man in the infant condition of his 
soul. And these men, the poets, living 
and perishing amid the scorn of the 
“utilitarians’—or rough pedants, who 
arrogated to themselves a title which 
could have been properly applied only 
to the scorned—these men, the poets, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ponder piningly, yet not unwisely, upon 
the ancient days when our wants were 
not more simple than our enjoyments 
were keen—days when mirth was a 
word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned 
was happiness—holy, august and bliss- 
ful days, when blue rivers ran un- 
dammed, between hills unhewn, into far 
forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and 
unexplored. 

Yet these noble exceptions from the 
general misrule served but to strengthen 
it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen 
upon the most evil of all our evil days. 
The great “movement”—that was the 
cant term—went on: a diseased com- 
motion, moral and physical. Art—the 
Arts—arose supreme, and, once en- 
throned, cast chains upon the intellect 
which had elevated them to power. Man, 
because he could not but acknowledge 
the majesty of Nature, fell into child- 
ish exultation at his acquired and still- 
increasing dominion over her elements. 
Even while he stalked a God in his own 
fancy, an infantine imbecility came over 
him. As might be supposed from the 
origin of his disorder, he grew infected 
with system, and with abstraction. He 
enwrapped himself in _ generalities. 
Among other odd ideas, that of uni- 
versal equality gained ground; and in 
the face of analogy and of God—in 
despite of the loud warning voice of 
the laws of gradation so visibly pervad- 
ing all things in Earth and Heaven— 
wild attempts at an omni-prevalent 
Democracy were made. Yet this evil 
sprang necessarily from the leading evil 
—Knowledge. Man could not both 
know and succumb. Meantime huge 
smoking cities arose, innumerable. 
Green leaves shrank before the hot 
breath of furnaces. The fair face of 








THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA 


Nature was deformed as with the rav- 
ages of some loathsome disease. And 
methinks, sweet Una, even our slum- 
bering sense of the forced and of the 
farfetched might have arrested us here. 
But now it appears that we had worked 
out our own destruction in the perver- 
sion of our faste, or rather in the blind 
neglect of its culture in the schools. 
For, in truth, it was at this crisis that 
taste alone—that faculty which, holding 
a middle position between the pure in- 
tellect and the moral sense, could never 
safely have been disregarded—it was 
now that taste alone could have led us 
gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and 
to Life.’ But alas for the pure contem- 
plative spirit and majestic intuition of 
Plato! Alas for the mousikae (Gr.)* 
which he justly regarded as an all suf- 
ficient education for the soul! Alas for 
him and for it!—since both were most 
desperately needed when both were 
most entirely forgotten or despised. 
Pascal, a philosopher whom we both 
love, has said, how truly!—‘‘que tout 
notre raisonnement se reduit a ceder au 
sentiment ;”’ and it is not impossible 
that the sentiment of the natural, had 
time permitted it, would have regained 
its old ascendancy over the harsh math- 
ematical reason of the schools. But 


* Music had, among the Athenians, a 
far more comprehensive signification 
than with us. It included not only the 
harmonies of time and of tune, but the 
poetic diction, sentiment and creation 
each in its widest sense. The study of 
music was with them in fact, the gen- 
eral cultivation of the taste—of that 
which recognizes the beautiful—in con- 
tra-distinction from reason, which deals 
only with the true. 


‘cal remedies 


261 


this thing was not to be. Prematurely 
induced by intemperance of knowledge, 
the old age of the world drew on. This 
the mass of mankind saw not, or, liv- 
ing lustily although unhappily, affected 
not to see. But, for myself, the 
Earth’s records had taught me to look 
for widest ruin as the price of high- 
est civilization. I had imbibed a 
prescience of our Fate from comparison 
of China the simple and enduring, with 
Assyria the architect, with Egypt the 
astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than 
either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. 
In history* of these regions I met with 
a ray from the Future. The individual 
artificialities of the three latter were 
local diseases of the Earth, and in their 
individual overthrows we had seen lo-~' 
applied; but for the 
infected world at large I could antici- 
pate no regeneration save in death. That 
man, as a race, should not become ex- 
tinct, I saw that he must be “born 
again.” 

And now it was, fairest and dearest, 
that we wrapped our spirits, daily, in 
dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, 
we discoursed of the days to come, 
when the Art-scarred surface of the 
Earth, having undergone that purifica- 
tion+ which alone could efface its rec- 
tangular obscenities, should clothe it- 
self anew in the verdure and the moun- 
tain-slopes and the smiling waters of 
Paradise, and be rendered at length a 
fit dwelling-place for man:—for man 
the Death-purged—for man to whose 


*FTistory,”’ from istorein (Gr.), to 
contemplate. 

+The word “purification” seems here 
to be used with reference to its root in 
the Greek. pur, fire. 


262 


now exalted intellect there should be 
poison in knowledge no more—for the 
redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now 
immortal, but still for the material, 
man. 

Una. Well do I remember these con- 
versations, dear Monos; but the epoch 
of the fiery overthrow was not so near 
at hand as we believed, and as the cor- 
ruption you indicate did surely warrant 
us in believing. Men lived; and died 
individually. You yourself sickened, 
and passed into the grave; and thither 
your constant Una speedily followed 
you. And though the century which has 
since elapsed, and whose conclusion 
brings us thus together once more, tor- 
‘tured our slumbering senses with no 


impatience of duration, yet, my Monos,’ 


it was a century still. 

Monos. Say, rather, a point in the 
vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was 
in the Earth’s dotage that I died. 
Wearied at heart with anxieties which 
had their origin in the general turmoil 
and decay, I succumbed to the fierce 
fever. After some few days of pain, 
and many of dreamy delirium replete 
with ecstacy, the manifestations of 
which you mistook for pain, while I 
longed but was impotent to undeceive 
you—after some days there came upon 
me, as you have said, a breathless and 
motionless torpor; and this was termed 
Death by those who stood around me. 

Words are vague things. My condi- 
tion did not deprive me of sentience. 
It appeared to me not greatly dissimi- 
lar to the extreme quiescence of him, 
who, having slumbered long and pro- 
foundly, lying motionless and fully 
prostrate in a midsummer noon, begins 
to steal slowly back into consciousness, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


through the mere sufficiency of his 
sleep, and without being awakened by 
external disturbances. 

I breathed no longer. The pulses 
were still. The heart had ceased to 
beat. Volition had not departed, but 
was powerless. The senses were un- 
usually active, although eccentrically so 
—assuming often each other’s functions 
at random. The taste and the smell 
were inextricably confounded, and be- 
came one sentiment, abnormal and in- 
tense. The rose-water with which your 
tenderness had moistened my lips to the 
last, affected me with sweet fancies of 
flowers—fantastic flowers, far more 
lovely than any of the old Earth, but 
whose prototypes we have here bloom- 
ing around us. The eyelids, transpar- 
ent and bloodless, offered no complete 
impediment to vision. As volition was 
in abeyance the balls could not roll in 
their sockets—but all objects within 
the range of the visual hemisphere were 
seen with more or less distinctness; the 
rays which fell upon the _ external 
retina, or into the corner of the eye, 
producing a more vivid effect than those 
which struck the front or anterior sur- 
face. Yet, in the former instance, this 
effect was so far anomalous that I ap- 
preciated it only as sound—sound 
sweet or discordant as the matters pre- 
senting themselves at my side were 
light or dark in shade—curved or an- 
gular in outline. The hearing at the 
same time, although excited in degree, 
was not irregular in action—estimating 
real sounds with an extravagance of 
precision, not less than of sensibility. 
Touch had undergone a modification 
more peculiar. Its impressions were 
tardily received, but pertinaciously re- 
tained, and resulted always in the high- 








THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA 


est physical pleasure. Thus the pres- 
sure of your sweet fingers upon my eye- 
lids, at first only recognized through 
vision, at length, long after their re- 
moval, filled my whole being with a 
sensual delight immeasurable. I say 
with a sensual delight. All my percep- 
tions were purely sensual. ‘The ma- 
terials furnished the passive brain by 
the senses were not in the least degree 
wrought into shape by the deceased 
understanding. Of pain there was some 
little; of pleasure there was much; but 
of moral pain or pleasure none at all. 
Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear 
with all their mournful cadences, and 
were appreciated in their every varia- 
tion of sad tone; but they were soft 
musical sounds and no more; they con- 
veyed to the extinct reason no intima- 
tion of the sorrows which gave them 
birth; while the large and constant tears 
which fell upon my face, telling the 
bystanders of a heart which broke, 
thrilled every fibre of my frame with 
ecstasy alone. And this was in truth 
the Death of which these by-standers 
spoke reverently, in low whispers—you, 
sweet Una, gaspingly, with loud cries. 

They attired me for the coffin—three 
or four dark figures which flitted busily 
to and fro. As these crossed the direct 
line of my vision they affected me as 
forms; but upon passing to my side 
their images impressed me with the idea 
of shrieks, groans, and other dismal ex- 
pressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. 
You alone, habited in a white robe, 
passed in all directions musically about 
me. 

The day waned; and, as its light 
faded away, I became possessed by a 
vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as 
the sleeper feels when sad real sounds 


263 


fall continuously within his ear—low 
distant bell tones, solemn, at long but 
equal intervals, and commingling -with 
melancholy dreams. Night arrived; 
and with its shadows a heavy discom- 
fort. It oppressed my limbs with the 
oppression of some dull weight, and was 
palpable. There was also a moaning 
sound, not unlike the distant reverber- 
ation of surf, but more continuous, 
which beginning with the first twilight, 
had grown in strength with the dark- 
ness. Suddenly lights were brought into 
the room, and this reverberation became 
forthwith interrupted into frequent un- 
equal bursts of the same sound, but 
less dreary and less distinct. The pon- 
derous oppression was in a great meas- 
ure relieved; and, issuing from the flame 
of each lamp, (for there were many,) 
there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a 
strain of melodious monotone. And 
when now, dear Una, approaching the 
bed upon which I lay outstretched, you 
sat gently by my side, breathing odor 
from your sweet lips, and pressing them 
upon my brow, there arose tremu- 
lously within my bosom, and mingling 
with the merely physical sensations 
which circumstances had called forth, 
a something akin to sentiment itself— 
a feeling that, half appreciating, half 
responded to your earnest love and sor- 
row; but this feeling took no root in 
the pulseless heart, and seemed indeed 
rather a shadow than a reality, and 
faded quickly away, first into extreme 
quiescence, and then into a purely sen- 
sual pleasure as before. 

And now, from the wreck and the, 
chaos of the usual senses, there ap- 
peared to have arisen within me a sixth, 
all perfect. In its exercise I found a 
wild delight—yet a delight still physical, 


264 


inasmuch as the understanding in it 
had no part. Motion in the animal 
frame had fully ceased. No muscle 
quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery 
throbbed. But there seemed to have 
sprung up in the brain, that of which no 
words could convey to the merely hu- 
man intelligence even an indistinct con- 
ception. Let me term it 2 mental pen- 
qulous pulsation. It was the moral em- 
bodiment of man’s abstract idea of 
Time. By the absolute equalization of 
this movement—or of such as this— 
had the cycles of the firmamental orbs 
themselves, been adjusted. By its aid 
I measured the irregularities of the 
clock upon the mantel, and of the 
watches of the attendants. Their tick- 
ings came sonorously to my ears. The 
slightest deviation from the true pro- 
portion—and these deviations were 
omni-prevalent—affected me just as vi- 
olations of abstract truth are wont, on 
earth, to affect the moral sense. Al- 
though no two of the time-pieces in the 
chamber struck individual seconds ac- 
curately together, yet I had no difficulty 
in holding steadily in mind the tones, 
and the respective momentary errors of 
each. And this—this keen, perfect, self- 
existing sentiment of duration—this 
sentiment existing (as man could not 
possibly have conceived it to exist) in- 
dependently of any succession of events 
—this idea—this sixth sense, upspring- 
ing from the ashes of the rest, was the 
first obvious and certain step of the in- 
temporal soul upon the threshold of the 
temporal Eternity. 

It was midnight; and you still sat by 
‘my side. All others had departed from 
the chamber of Death. They had de- 
posited me in the coffin. The lamps 
burned flickeringly; for this I knew by 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the tremulousness of the monotonous 
strains. But, suddenly these strains di- 
minished in distinctness and in volume. 


Finally they ceased. The perfume in 


my nostrils died away. Forms affected 
my vision no longer. ‘The oppression 
of the Darkness uplifted itself from 
my bosom. A dull shock like that of 
electricity pervaded my frame, and was 
followed by total loss of the idea of 
contact. All of what man has termed 
sense was merged in the sole conscious- 
ness of entity, and in the one abiding 
sentiment of duration. The mortal 
body had been at length stricken with 
the hand of the deadly Decay. 

Yet had not all of sentience departed; 
for the consciousness and the sentiment 
remaining supplied some of its func- 
tions by a lethargic intuition. J appre- 
clated the direful change now in op- 
eration upon the flesh, and, as the 
dreamer is sometimes aware of the bod- 
ily presence of one who leans over him, 
so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you 
sat by my side. So, too, when the 
noon of the second day came, I was 
not unconscious of those movements 
which displaced you from my side, 
which confined me within the coffin, 
which deposited me within the hearse, 
which bore me to the grave, which low- 
ered me within it, which heaped heav 
ily the mould upon me, and which thus 
left me, in blackness and corruption, to 
my sad and solemn slumbers with the 
worm. 

And here, in the prison-house which 
has few secrets to disclose, they rolled 
away days and weeks and months; and 
the soul watched narrowly each second 
as it flew, and, without effort, took 
record of its flight—without effort. ang 
without object. 














THE CONVERSATION OF 


A year passed. The consciousness of 
being had grown hourly more indistinct, 
and that of mere Jocality had, in great 
measure, usurped its position. The 
idea of entity was becoming merged in 
that of place. The narrow space im- 
mediately surrounding what had been 
the body, was now going to be the 
body itself. At length, as often hap- 
pens to the sleeper (by sleep and its 
world alone is Death imaged)—at 
length, as sometimes happened on 
Earth to the deep slumberer, when some 
flitting light half startled him into 
awaking, yet left him half enveloped in 
dreams—so to me, in the strict em- 
brace of the Shadow, came that light 
which alone might have had power to 
startle—the light of enduring Love. 
Men toiled at the grave in which I lay 
darkling. They upthrew the damp 


EIROS AND CHARMION 265 


earth. Upon my mouldering bones 
there descended the coffin of Una. 

And now again all was void. That 
nebulous light had been extinguished. 
That feeble thrill had vibrated itself 
into quiescence.. Many Justra had su- 
pervened. Dust had returned to dust. 
The worm had food no more. The 
sense of being at length utterly de- 
parted, and there reigned in its stead— 
instead of all things—dominant and 
perpetual—the autocrats Place and 
Time. For that which was not—for 
that which had no form—for that which 
had no thought—for that which had ne 
sentience—for that which was soulless, 
yet of which matter formed no portion 
—for all this nothingness, yet for all 
this immortality, the grave was still a 
home, and the corrosive hours, co- 
mates. 


Lhe Conversation of Etros and Charmion 


(See Contents From “‘Politian” Scene JI—Ed.) 


Erros. Why do you call me Eiros? 

CHARMION. So henceforward will you 
always be called. You must forget, 
_ too, my earthly name, and speak to me 
- as Charmion. 
| Eros. ‘This is indeed no dream! 

CHARMION. Dreams are with us no 
more; but of these mysteries anon. I 
rejoice to see you looking life-like and 
rational. The film of the shadow has 
already passed from off your eyes. Be 
of heart and fear nothing. Your al- 
lotted days of stupor have expired; and, 
to-morrow, I will myself induct you in- 
to the full joys and wonders of your 


_ _ novel existence. 


Erros. ‘True, I feel no stupor, none 
at all. The wild sickness and the ter- 
rible darkness have left me, and I hear 
no longer that mad, rushing, horrible 
sound, like the “voice of many waters.” 
Yet my senses are bewildered, Char- 
mion, with the keenness of their percep- 
tion of the new. 

CuarMIon. A few days will remove 
all this;—but I fully understand you, 
and feel for you. It is now ten earthly 
years since I underwent what you un- 
dergo, yet the remembrance of it hangs 
by me still. You have now suffered all 


of pain, however, which you will suf- 


fer in Aidenn. 


266 


Erros. In Aidenn? 

CHARMION. In Aidenn. 

Erros. Oh, God!—pity me, Char- 
mion!—I am overburdened with the 
majesty of all things—of the unknown 
now known—of the speculative Future 
merged in the august and certain Pres- 
ent. 

CuHarRMION. Grapple not now with 
such thoughts. Tomorrow we will 
speak of this. Your mind wavers, and 
its agitation will find relief in the ex- 
ercise of simple memories. Look not 
around, nor forward—but back. I am 
burning with anxiety to hear the de- 
tails of that stupendous event which 
threw you among us. Tell me of it. 
Let us converse of familiar things, in 
the old familiar language of the world 
which has so fearfully perished. 

Erros. Most fearfully, fearfully!— 
this is indeed no dream. 

CHARMION. Dreams are no more. 
Was I much mourned, my Eiros? 

Eros. Mourned, Charmion?—oh 
deeply. To that last hour of all, there 
hung a cloud of intense gloom and de- 
vout sorrow over your household. 

CuHarmion. And that last hour— 
speak of it. Remember that, beyond 
the naked fact of the catastrophe itself, 
I know nothing. When, coming out 
from among mankind, I passed into 
Night through the Grave—at that pe- 
riod, if I remember aright, the calam- 
ity which overwhelmed you was utterly 
unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew 
little of the speculative philosophy of 
the day. 

Erros. The individual calamity was, 
as you say, entirely unanticipated; but 


analogous misfortunes had been long a 


subject of discussion with astronomers. 
I need scarce tell you my friend, that, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


even when you left us, men had agreed 
to understand those passages in the 
most holy writings which speak of the 
final destruction of all things by fire, 
as having reference to the orb of the 
earth alone. But in regard to the im- 
mediate agency of the ruin, speculation 
had been at fault from that epoch in 
astronomical knowledge in which the 
comets were divested of the terrors of 
flame. The very moderate density of 
these bodies had been well established. 
They had been observed to pass among 
the satellites of Jupiter, without bring- 
ing about any sensible alteration either 
in the masses or in the orbits of these 
secondary planets. We had long re- 
garded the wanderers as vapory cre- 
ations of inconceivable tenuity, and as 
altogether incapable of doing injury to 
our substantial globe, even in the event 
of contact. But contact was not in any 
degree dreaded; for the elements of all 
the comets were accurately known. That 
among them we should look for the 
agency of the threatened fiery destruc- 
tion had been for many years consid- 
ered an inadmissible idea. But wonders 
and wild fancies had been, of late days, 
strangely rife among mankind; and al- 
though it was only with a few of the 
ignorant that actual apprehension pre- 
vailed, upon the announcement by as- 
tronomers of a new comet, yet this an- 
nouncement was generally received with 
I know not what of agitation and mis- 
trust. 

The elements of the strange orb 
were immediately calculated, and it was 
at once conceded by all observers, that 
its path, at perihelion, would bring it 
into very close proximity with the 
earth. There were two or three as- 
tronomers, of secondary note, who res- ° 











THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION 


olutely maintained that a contact was 
inevitable. I cannot very well express 
to you the effect of this intelligence 
upon the people. For a few short days 
they would not believe an assertion 
which their intellect, so long employed 
among worldly considerations, could not 
in any manner grasp. But the truth 
of a vitally important fact soon makes 
its way into the understanding of even 
the most stolid. Finally, all men saw 
that astronomical knowledge lied not, 
and they awaited the comet. Its ap- 
proach was not, at first, seemingly 
rapid; nor was its appearance of very 
unusual character. It was of a dull red, 
and had little perceptible train. For 
seven or eight days we saw no material 
increase in its apparent diameter, and 
but a partial alteration in its color. 
Meanwhile the ordinary affairs of men 
were discarded, and all interests ab- 
sorbed in a growing discussion, insti- 
tuted by the philosophic, in respect to 
the cometary nature. Even the grossly 
ignorant aroused their sluggish capaci- 
ties to such considerations. The learned 
now gave their intellect—their soul—to 
no such points as the allaying of fear, 
.or to the sustenance of loved theory. 
They sought—they panted for right 
views. They groaned for perfected 
knowledge. Truth arose in the purity 
of her strength and exceeding majesty, 
and the wise bowed down and adored. 
That material injury to our globe or 
to its inhabitants would result from the 
apprehended contact, was an opinion 
which hourly lost ground among the 
wise; and the wise were now freely per- 
mitted to rule the reason and the fancy 
of the crowd. It was demonstrated, 
that the density of the comet’s nucleus 
was far less than that of our rarest gas; 


267 


and the harmless passage of a similar 
visitor among the satellites of Jupiter 
was a point strongly insisted upon, and 
which served greatly to allay terror. 
Theologists, with an earnestness fear- 
enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical pro- 
phecies, and expounded them to the peo- 
ple with a directness and simplicity of 
which no previous instance had been 
known. That the final destruction of 
the earth must be brought about by 
the agency of fire, was urged with a 
spirit that enforced everywhere con- 
viction; and that the comets were of no 
fiery nature (as all men now knew) was 
a truth which relieved all, in a great 
measure, from the apprehension of the 
great calamity foretold. It is notice- 
able that the popular prejudices and 
vulgar errors in regard to pestilences 
and wars—errors which were wont to 
prevail upon every appearance of a 
comet—were now altogether unknown. 
As if by some sudden convulsive exer- 


-tion, reason had at once hurled super- 


stition from her throne. The feeblest 
intellect had derived vigor from exces- 
sive interest. 

What minor evils might arise from 
the contact were points of elaborate 
question. The learned spoke of slight 
geological disturbances, of probable al- 
terations in climate, and consequently 
in vegetation; of possible magnetic and 
electric influences. Many held that no 
visible or perceptible effect would in 
any manner be produced. While such 
discussions were going on, their sub- 
ject gradually approached, growing 
larger in apparent diameter, and of a 
more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew 
paler as it came. All human operations 
were suspended. There was an epoch 
in the course of the general sentiment 


268 


when the comet had attained, at length, 
a size surpassing that of any previously 
recorded visitation. ‘The people now, 
dismissing any lingering hope that the 
astronomers were wrong, experienced all 
the certainty of evil. The chimerical 
aspect of their terror was gone. ‘The 
hearts of the stoutest of our race beat 
violently within their bosoms. A very 
few days sufficed, however, to merge 
even such feelings in sentiments more 
unendurable. We would no longer ap- 
ply to the strange orb any accustomed 
thoughts. Its Aistorical attributes had 
disappeared. It oppressed us with a 
hideous novelty of emotion. We saw 
it not as an astronomical phenomenon 
in the heavens, but as an incubus upon 
our hearts, and a shadow upon our 
brains. It had taken, with inconceiv- 
able rapidity, the character of a gigan- 
tic mantle of rare flame, extending from 
horizon to horizon. 

Yet a day, and men breathed with 


greater freedom. It was clear that we 


were already within the influence of the 
comet; yet we lived. We even felt an 
unusual elasticity of frame and vivac- 
ity of mind. The exceeding tenuity 
of the object of our dread was appar- 
ent; for all heavenly objects were 
plainly visible through it. Meantime, 
our vegetation had perceptibly altered; 
and. we gained faith, from this predicted 
circumstance, in the foresight of the 
wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, ut- 
terly unknown before, burst out upon 
every vegetable thing. 

Yet another day—and the evil was 
not altogether upon us. It was now ev- 
ident that its nucleus would first reach 
us. A wild change had come over all 
men; and the first sense of pain was the 
wild signal for general lamentation and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


horror. This first sense of pain lay in 
a rigorous constriction of the breast 
and lungs, and an insufferable dryness 
of the skin. It could not be denied that 
our atmosphere was radically affected; 
the conformation of this atmosphere 
and the possible modifications to which 
it might be subjected, were now the 
topics of discussion. The result of in- 
vestigation sent an electric thrill of the 
intensest terror through the universal 
heart of man. 

It had been long known that the air 
which encircled us was a compound of 
oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the pro- 
portion of twenty-one measures of oxy- 
gen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen, in 
every one hundred of the atmosphere. 
Oxygen, which was the principle of 
combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was 
absolutely necessary to the support of 
animal life, and was the most powerful 
and energetic agent in nature. Nitro- 
gen, on the contrary, was incapable of 
supporting either animal life or flame. 
An unnatural excess of oxygen would 
result, it had been ascertained, in just 
such an elevation of the animal spirits 
as we had latterly experienced. It was 
the pursuit, the extension of the idea, 
which had engendered awe. What. 
would be the result of a total extrac- 
tion of the nitrogen? A combustion ir- 
resistible, all-devouring, omni-prevalent, 
immediate;—the entire fulfillment, in 
all their minute and tenible details, of 
the fiery and horror-inspiring denunci- 
ations of the prophecies of the Holy 
Book. 

Why need I paint, Charmion, the now 
disenchained frenzy of mankind? That 
tenuity in the comet which had pre- 
viously inspired us with hope, was now 
the source of the bitterness of despair. 














SHADOW—A PARABLE 


In its inpalpable gaseous character we 
clearly perceived the consummation of 
Fate. Meantime a day again passed, 
bearing away with it the last shadow of 
Hope. We gasped in the rapid modi- 
fication of the air. 
bounded tumultuously through its strict 
channels. A furious delirium possessed 
all men; and, with arms rigidly out- 
stretched toward the threatening 
heavens, they trembled and _ shrieked 
aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer 
was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, 
I shudder while I speak. Let me be 
brief—brief as the ruin that over- 


The red blood 


269 


whelmed. For a moment there was a 
wild lurid light alone, visiting and pen- 
etrating all things. Then—let me bow 
down, Charmion, before the excessive 
majesty of the great God!—then, there 
came a shouting and pervading sound, 
as if from the mouth itself of Him; 
while the whole incumbent mass of 
ether in which we existed, burst at once 
into a species of intense flame, for 
whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fer- 
vid heat even the angels in the high 
Heaven of pure knowledge have no 
name. ‘Thus ended all. 


Shadow—A Parable 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, September, 1835.—Ed.) 


YE who read are still among the liv- 
ing; but I who write shall have long 
since gone my way into the region of 
shadows. For indeed strange things 
shall happen, and secret things be 
known, and many centuries shall pass 
away, ere these memorials be seen of 
men. And, when seen, there will be 
some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, 
and yet a few who will find much to 
ponder upon in the characters here gra- 
ven with a stylus of iron. 

The year had been a year of terror, 
and of feelings more intense than terror 
for which there is no name upon the 
earth. For many prodigies and signs 
had taken place, and far and wide, over 
sea and land, the black wings of the 
Pestilence were spread abroad. To 
those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, 
it was not unknown that the heavens 
wore ap aspect of ill; and to me, the 


Greek Oinos, among others, it was ev- 


ident that now had arrived the altera- 
tion of that seven hundred and ninety- 
fourth year when, at the entrance of 
Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined 
with the red ring of the terrible Satur- 
nus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, 
if I mistake not greatly, made itself 
manifest, not only in the physical orb 
of the earth, but in the souls, imagina- 
tions, and meditations of mankind. 
Over some flasks of the red Chian 
wine, within the walls of a noble hall, 
in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, 
at night, a company of seven. And to 
our chamber there was no entrance 
save by a lofty door of brass: and the 
door was fashioned by the artisan Cor- 
innos, and, being of rare workmanship, 
was fastened from within. Black drap- 
eries, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut 
out from our view the moon. the lurid 


270 


stars, and the peopleless streets—but 
the boding and the memory of Evil 
they would not be so excluded. There 
were things around us and about of 
which I can render no distinct account 
—things material and spiritual—heavi- 
ness in the atmosphere—a sense of suf- 
focation—anxiety—and, above all, that 
terrible state of existence which the nerv- 
ous experience when the senses are 
keenly living and awake, and meanwhile 
the powers of thought lie dormant. A 
dead weight hung upon us. It hung 
upon our limbs—upon the household 
furniture—upon the goblets from which 
we drank; and all things were de- 
pressed, and borne down thereby—all 
things save only the flames of the seven 
iron lamps which illuminated our revel. 
Uprearing themselves in tall slender 
lines of light, they thus remained burn- 
ing all pallid and motionless; and in 
the mirror which their lustre formed 
. upon the round table of ebony at which 
we sat, each of us there assembled be- 
held the pallor of his own countenance, 
and the unquiet glare in the downcast 
eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed 
and were merry in our proper way— 
which was hysterical; and sang the 
songs of Anacreon—which are madness; 
and drank deeply—although the purple 
wine reminded us of blood. For there 
was yet another tenant of our chamber 
in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, 
and at full length he lay, enshrouded; 
the genius and the demon of the scene. 
Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, 
save that his countenance, distorted 
with the plague, and his eyes, in which 
Death had but half extinguished the fire 
of the. pestilence, seemed to take such 
interest in our merriment as the dead 
may haply take in the merriment of 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


those who are to die. But although I, 
Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed 
were upon me, still I forced myself not 
to perceive the bitterness of their ex- 
pression, and gazing down steadily into 
the depths of the ebony mirror, sang 
with a loud and sonorous voice the 
songs of the son of Teios. But gradu- 
ally my songs they ceased, and their 
echoes, rolling afar off among the sable 
draperies of the chamber, became weak, 
and undistinguishable, and so faded 
away. And lo! from among those sable 
draperies where the sounds of the song 
departed, there came forth a dark and 
undefined shadow—a shadow such as 
the moon, when low in heaven, might 
fashion from the figure of a man: but 
it was the shadow neither of man nor of 
God, nor of any familiar thing. And 
quivering awhile among the draperies 
of the room, it at length rested in full 
view upon the surface of the door of 
brass. But the shadow was vague, and 
formless, and indefinite, and was the 
shadow neither of man nor God— 
neither God of Greece, nor God of 
Chaldea, nor any Egyptian God. And 
the shadow rested upon the brazen 
doorway, and under the arch of the 
entablature of the door, and moved not, 
nor spoke any word, but there became 
stationary and remained. And the door 
whereupon the shadow rested was, if I 
remember aright, over against the feet 
of the young Zoilus enshrouded. But 
we, the seven there assembled, having 
seen the shadow as it came out from 
among the draperies, dared not steadily 
behold it, but cast down our eyes, and 
gazed continually into the depths of the 
mirror of ebony. And at length I, 
Oinos, speaking some low words, de- 
manded of the shadow its dwelling and 











SILENCE—A FABLE 


its appellation. And the shadow an- 
swered, “I am SHADOW, and my 
dwelling is near to the Catacombs of 
Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains 
of Helusion which border upon the foul 
Charonian canal.” And then did we, 
the seven, start from our seats in hor- 
ror, and stand trembling, and shudder- 


271 


ing, and aghast, for the tones in the 
voice of the shadow were not the tones 
of any one being, but of a multitude of 
beings, and, varying in their cadences 
from syllable -to syllable fell duskly 
upon our ears in the well-remembered 
and familiar accents of many thousand 
departed friends. 


Stlence—A Fable 


(First published in the Baltimore Book, 1839. ‘This tale is also called Siope, the 
Greek word for silence.—Ed.) 


) 


“LISTEN to me,” said the Demon, as 
he placed his hand upon my head. “The 
region of which I speak is a dreary re- 
gion in Libya, by the borders of the 
river Zaire, and there is no quiet there, 
nor silence. 

“The waters of the river have a saf- 
fron and sickly hue; and they flow not 
onward to the sea, but palpitate forever 
and forever beneath the red eye of the 
sun with a tumultuous and convulsive 
motion. For many miles on either side 


of the river’s oozy bed is a pale desert. 


of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one 
unto the other in that solitude, and 
stretch toward the heavens their long 
and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro 
their everlasting heads. And there is 
an indistinct murmur which cometh out 
from among them like the rushing of 
subterrene water. And they sigh one 
unto the other. 

“But there is a boundary to their 
realm—the boundary of the dark, hor- 
rible, lofty forest. There, like the 
waves about the Hebrides, the low un- 
derwood is agitated continually. But 
there is no wind throughout the heaven. 


And the tall primeval trees rock eter. 
nally hither and thither with a crashing 
and mighty sound. And from their 
high summits, one by one, drop ever- 
lasting dews. And at the roots strange 
poisonous flowers lie writhing in per- 
turbed slumber. And overhead, with a 
rustling and loud noise, the gray clouds 
rush westwardly forever, until they roll, 
a cataract, over the fiery wall of the 
horizon. But there is no wind through- 
out the heaven. And by the shores of 
the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor 
silence. 

“It was night, and the rain fell; and, 
falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, 
it was blood. And I stood in the 
morass among the tall lilies, and the 
rain fell upon my head—and the lilies 
sighed one unto the other in the sol- 
emnity of their desolation. 

“And, all at once, the moon arose 
through the thin ghastly mist, and was 
crimson in color. And mine eyes fell 
upon a huge gray rock which stood by 
the shore of the river, and was lighted 
by the light of the moon. And the 
rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall,— 


272 


and the rock was gray. Upon its front 
were characters engraven in the stone; 
and I walked through the morass of 
water-lilies, until I came close unto the 
shore, that I might read the characters 
upon the stone. But I could not de- 
cipher them. And I was going back 
into the morass, when the moon shone 
with a fuller red, and I turned and 
looked again upon the rock, and upon 
the characters, and the characters were 
DESOLATION. 

“And I looked upward, and there 
stood a man upon the summit of the 
rock; and I hid myself among the 
water-lilies that I might discover the 
actions of the man. And the man was 
tall and stately in form, and was 
wrapped up from his shoulders to his 
feet in the toga of old Rome. And the 
outlines of his figure were indistinct— 
but his features were the features of a 
deity; for the mantle of the night, and 
of the mist, and of the moon, and of 
the dew, had left uncovered the fea- 
tures of his face. And his brow was 
lofty with thought, and his eye wild 
with care; and, in the few furrows upon 
his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, 
and weariness, and disgust with man- 
kind, and a longing after solitude. 

“And the man sat upon the rock, and 
leaned his head upon his hand, and 
looked out upon the desolation. He 
looked down into the low unquiet shrub- 
bery, and up into the tall primeval 
trees, and up higher at the rustling 
heaven, and into the crimson moon. 
And I lay close within shelter of the 
lilies, and observed the actions of the 
man. And the man trembled in the 
solitude ;—but the night waned, and he 
sat upon the rock. 

“And the man turned his attention 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


from the heaven, and looked out upon 
the dreary river Zaire, and upon the 
yellow ghastly waters, and upon the 
pale legions of the water-lilies. And 
the man listened to the sighs of the 
water-lilies, and to the murmur that 
came up from among them. And I lay 
close within my covert and observed 
the actions of the man. And the man 
trembled in the solitude;—but the night 
waned and he sat upon the rock. 

“Then I went down into the recesses 
of the morass and waded afar in among 
the wilderness of lilies, and called upon 
the hippopotami which dwelt among the 
fens in the recesses of the morass. And 
the hippopotami heard my call, and 
came, with the behemoth, unto the foot 
of the rock, and roared loudly and fear- 
fully beneath the moon. And I lay 
close within. my covert and observed 
the actions of the man. And the man 
trembled in the solitude;—but the night 
waned and he sat upon the rock. 

“Then I cursed the elements with the 
curse of tumult; and a frightful tem- 
pest gathered in the heaven, where, be- 
fore, there had been no wind. And the 
heaven became livid with the violence 
of the tempest—and the rain beat upon 
the head of the man—and the floods of 
the river came down—and the river 
was tormented into foam—and the 
water-lilies shrieked within their beds—. 
and the forest crumbled before the 
wind—and the thunder rolled—and the 
lightning fell—and the rock rocked to 
its foundation. And I lay close within 
my covert and observed the actions of 
the man. And the man trembled in 
the solitude;—but the night waned and 
he sat upon the rock. 

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with 





THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


the curse of silence, the river, and the 
lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and 
the heaven, and the thunder, and the 
sighs of the water-lilies. And they be- 
came accursed, and were still. And 
the moon ceased to totter up its path- 
way to heaven—and the thunder died 
away—and the lightning did not flash— 
and the clouds hung motionless—and 
the waters sunk to their level and re- 
mained—and the trees ceased to rock— 
and the water-lilies sighed no more— 
and the murmur was heard no longer 
from among them, nor any shadow of 
sound throughout the vast illimitable 


desert. And I looked upon the char- 
acters of the rock, and they were 
changed; and the characters were 
SILENCE. 


“And mine eyes fell upon the coun- 
tenance of the man and his countenance 
was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, 
he raised his head from his hand, and 
stood forth upon the rock and listened. 
But there was no voice throughout the 
vast illimitable desert, and the charac- 
ters upon the rock were silence. And 
the man shuddered, and turned his face 


The Fall of the 


273 


away, and fled afar off, in haste, so 
that I beheld him no more.” 
eee ce KK cee 
Now there are fine tales in the vol- 
umes of the Magi—in the iron-bound, 
melancholy volumes of the Magi. 
Therein, I say, are glorious histories of 
the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of 
the mighty sea—and of the Genii that 
overruled the sea, and the earth, and 
the lofty heaven. There were much 
lore too in the sayings which were said 
by the Sibyls; and holy, holy things 
were heard of old by the dim leaves 
that trembled around Dodona—but, as 
Allah liveth, that fable which the 
Demon told me as he sat by my side in 
the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be 
the most wonderful of all! And as 
the Demon made an end of his story, 
he fell back within the cavity of the 
tomb and laughed. And I could not 
laugh with the Demon, and he cursed 
me because I could not laugh. And the 
lynx which dwelleth forever in the 
tomb, came out therefrom, and_ lay 
down at the feet of the Demon, and 
looked at him steadily in the face. 


ia Elites of Usher 


(First published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, September, 1839.—Ed.) 


Son cceur est un luth suspendu; 
Sitot qu’on le touche il resonne. 
De Beranger. 


Durinc the whole of a dull, dark, 
and resoundless day in the autumn of 
the year, when the clouds hung oppres- 
sively low in the heavens, I had been 
passing alone, on horseback, through a 


singularly dreary tract of country, and 
at length found myself, as the shades 
of evening drew on, within view of the 
melancholy House of Usher. I know 
not how it was—but, with the first 
glimpse of the building, a sense of in- 
sufferable gloom pervaded my _ spirit. 
I say insufferable; for the feeling was 
unrelieved by any of that half-pleasur- 


274 


able, because poetic, sentiment, with 
which the mind usually receives even 
the sternest natural images of the des- 
olate or terrible. I looked upon the 
scene before me—upon the mere house, 
and the simple landscape features of 
the domain—upon the bleak walls— 
upon the vacant eye-like windows— 
upon a few rank sedges—and upon a 
few white trtinks of decayed trees— 
with an utter depression of soul, which 
I can compare to no earthly sensation 
more properly than to the after-dream 
of the reveller upon opium—the bitter 
lapse into every-day life—the hideous 
dropping of the veil. 

There was an iciness, a sinking, a 
sickening of the heart—an unredeemed 
dreariness of thought which no goading 
of the imagination could torture into 
aught of the sublime. What was it— 
I paused to think—what was it that so 
unnerved me in the contemplation of 
the House of Usher? It was a mys- 
tery all insoluble; nor could I grapple 
with the shadowy fancies that crowded 
upon me as I pondered. I was forced 
to fall back upon the unsatisfactory 
conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, 
there are combinations of very simple 
natural objects which have the power 
of thus affecting us, still the analysis 
of this power lies among considerations 
beyond our depth. It was possible, I 
reflected, that a mere different arrange- 
ment of the particulars of the scene, 
of the details of the picture, would be 
sufficient to modify, or perhaps to an- 
nihilate its capacity for sorrowful im- 
pression; and, acting upon this idea, 
I reined my horse to the precipitous 
brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay 
in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and 
gazed down—hbut with a shudder even 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


more thrilling than before—upon the 
remodelled and inverted images of the 
gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, 
and the vacant and eye-like windows. 
Nevertheless, in this mansion of 
gloom I now proposed to myself a so- 
journ of some weeks. Its proprietor, 
Roderick Usher, had been one of my 
boon cornpanions in boyhood; but many 
years had elapsed since our last meet- 
ing. A letter, however, had lately 
reached me in a distant part of the 
country—a letter from him—which, in 
its wildly importunate nature, had ad- 
mitted of no other than a personal 
reply. The MS. gave evidence of ner- 
vous agitation. The writer spoke of 
acute bodily illness—of a mental dis- 
order which oppressed him—and of an 
earnest desire to see me, as his best 
and indeed his only personal friend, 
with a view of attempting, by the cheer- 
fulness of my society, some alleviation 
of his malady. It was the manner in 
which all this, and much more, was 
said—it was the apparent heart that 
went with his request—which allowed 
me no room for hesitation; and I ac- 
cordingly obeyed forthwith what I still 
considered a very singular summons. 
Although, as boys, we had been even 
intimate associates, yet I really knew 
little of my friend. His reserve had 
been always excessive and habitual. I 
was aware, however, that his very an- 
cient family had been noted, time out 
of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of 
temperament, displaying itself, through 
long ages, in many works of exalted art, 
and manifested, of late, in repeated 
deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive 
charity, as well as in a passionate de- 
votion to the intricacies, perhaps even 
more than to the orthodox and easily 


THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


recognizable beauties, of musical 
science. I had learned, too, the very 
remarkable fact, that the stem of the 
Usher race, all time-honored as it was, 
had put forth, at no period, any endur- 
ing branch; in other words, that the 
entire family lay in the direct line of 
descent, and had always, with very 
trifling and very temporary variations, 
so lain. It was this deficiency, I con- 
sidered, while running over in thought 
the perfect keeping of the character of 
the premises with the accredited char- 
acter of the people, and while speculat- 
ing upon the possible influence which 
the one, in the long lapse of centuries, 
might have exercised upon the other— 
it was this deficiency, perhaps of col- 
lateral issue, and the consequent un- 
deviating transmission, from sire to son, 
of the patrimony with the name, which 
had, at length, so identified the two as 
to merge the original title of the estate 
in the quaint and equivocal appellation 
of the “House of Usher’—an appella- 
tion which ‘seemed to include, in the 
minds of the peasantry who used it, 
both the family and the family man- 
sion. 

I have said that the sole effect of my 
somewhat childish experiment—that of 
looking down within the tarn—had 
been to deepen the first singular im- 
pression. There can be no doubt that 
the consciousness of the rapid increase 
of my superstition—for why should I 
not so term itP—served mainly to 
accelerate the increase itself. Such, I 
have long known, is the paradoxical 
law of all sentiments having terror as 
a basis. And it might have been for 
this reason only, that, when I again 
uplifted my eyes to the house itself, 
from its image in the pool, there grew 


275 


in my mind a strange fancy—a fancy 
so ridiculous, indeed, that I but men- 
tion it to show the vivid force of: the 
sensations which oppressed me. I had 
so worked upon my imagination as 
really to believe that about the whole 
mansion and domain there hung an at- 
mosphere peculiar to themselves and 
their immediate vicinity—an atmos- 
phere which had no affinity with the air 
of heaven, but which had reeked up 
from the decayed trees, and the gray 
wall, and the silent tarn—a pestilent 
and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly 
discernible and leaden-hued. 

Shaking off from my spirit what must 
have been a dream, I scanned more nar- 
rowly the real aspect of the building. 
Its principal feature seemed to be that 
of an excessive antiquity. The dis- 
coloration of ages had been great. 
Minute fungi overspread the whole ex- 
terior, hanging in a fine tangled web- 
work from the eaves. Yet all this was 
apart from any extraordinary dilapida- 
tion. No portion of the masonry had 
fallen; and there appeared to be a wild 
inconsistency between its still perfect 
adaptation of parts, and the crumbling 
condition of the individual stones. In 
this there was much that reminded me 
of the specious totality of old wood- 
work which has rotted for long years in 
some neglected vault, with no distur- 
bance from the breath of the external 
air. Beyond this indication of exten- 
sive decay, however, the fabric gave 
little token of instability. Perhaps the 
eye of a scrutinizing observer might 
have discovered a barely perceptible 
fissure, which, extending from the roof — 
of the building in front, made its way 
down the wall in a zig-zag direction, 


276 


until it became lost in the sullen waters 
of the tarn. 

Noticing these things, I rode over a 
short causeway to the house. A ser- 
vant in waiting took my horse, and I 
entered the Gothic archway of the hall. 
A valet, of stealthy step, then con- 
ducted me, in silence, through many 
dark and intricate passages in my prog- 
ress to the studio of his master. Much 
that I encountered on the way con- 
tributed, I know not how, to heighten 
the vague sentiments of which I have 
already spoken. While the objects 
around me—while the carvings of the 
ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the 
walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, 
and the phantasmagoric armorial tro- 
phies which rattled as I strode, were but 
matters to which, or to such as which, I 
had been accustomed from my infancy 
—while I hesitated not to acknowledge 
how familiar was all this—I still won- 
dered to find how unfamiliar were the 
fancies which ordinary images were 
stirring up. On one of the staircases, 
I met the physician of the family. His 
countenance, I thought, wore a mingled 
expression of low cunning and perplex- 
ity. He accosted me with trepidation 
and passed on. The valet now threw 
open a door and ushered me into the 
presence of his master. 

The room in which I found myself 
was very large and lofty. The windows 
were long, narrow, and pointed, and at 
so vast a distance from the black oaken 
floor as to be altogether inaccessible 
from within. Feeble gleams of encrim- 
soned light made their way through the 
trellised panes, and served to render 
' sufficiently distinct the more prominent 
objects around; the eye, however, st:ug- 
gled in vain to reach the remoter angles 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the chamber, or the recesses of the 
vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark drap- 
eries hung upon the walls. The general 
furniture was profuse, comfortless, an- 
tique, and tattered. Many books and 
musical instruments lay scattered about, 
but failed to give any vitality to the 
scene. I felt that I breathed an at- 
mosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, 
deep, and irredeemable gloom hung 
over and pervaded all. 

Upon my entrance, Usher arose from 
a sofa on which he had been lying at 
full length, and greeted me with a 
vivacious warmth which had much in 
it, I at first thought, of an overdone 
cordiality—of the constrained effort of 
the ennuye man of the world. A glance, 
however, at his countenance convinced 
me of his perfect sincerity. We sat 
down; and for some moments, while he 
spoke not, I gazed upon him with a 
feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely, 
man had never before so_ terribly 
altered, in so brief a period, as had 
Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty 
that I could bring myself to admit the 
identity of the wan being before me 
with the companion of my early boy- 
hood. Yet the character of his face 
had been at all times remarkable. A 
cadaverousness of complexion; an eye 
large, liquid, and luminous beyond com- 
parison; lips somewhat thin and very 
pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful 
curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew 
model, but with a breadth of nostril 
unusual in similar formations; a finely 
moulded chin, speaking, in its want of 
prominence, of a want of moral energy; 
hair of a more than web-like softness 
and tenuity;—these features, with an 
inordinate expansion above the regions 
of the temple, made up altogether a 





THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


countenance not easily to be forgotten. 
And now in the mere exaggeration of 
the prevailing character of these fea- 
tures, and of the expression they were 
wont to convey, lay so much of change 
that I doubted to whom I spoke. The 
now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the 
now miraculous lustre of the eye, above 
all things startled and even awed me. 
The silken hair, too, had been suffered 
to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild 
gossamer texture, it floated rather than 
fell about the face, I could not, even 
with effort, connect its Arabesque ex- 
pression with any idea of simple hu- 
manity. 

In the manner of my friend I was at 
once struck with an incoherence—an 
inconsistency; and I soon found this to 


arise from a series of feeble and futile 


struggles to overcome an habitual trepi- 
dancy—an excessive nervous agitation. 
For something of this nature I had in- 
deed been prepared, no less by his letter 
than by reminiscences of certain boyish 
traits, and by conclusions deduced from 
his peculiar physical conformation and 
temperament. His action was alter- 
nately vivacious and sullen. His voice 
varied rapidly from a tremulous inde- 
cision (when the animal spirits seemed 
utterly in abeyance) to that species 
of energetic concision—that abrupt, 
weighty, un-hurried, and hollow-sound- 
ing enunciation—that leaden, self-bal- 
anced, and perfectly modulated gut- 
tural utterance, which may be observed 
in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaim- 
able eater of opium, during the periods 
of his most intense excitement. 

It was thus that he spoke of the 
object of my visit, of his earnest desire 
to see me, and of the solace he expected 
me to afford him. He entered, at some 


277 


length, into what he conceived to be 
the nature of his malady. It was, he 
said, 2 constitutional and a family evil 
and one for which he despaired to find 
a remedy—a mere nervous affection, he 
immediately added, which would un- 
doubtedly soon pass off. It displayed 
itself in a host of unnatural sensation. 
Some of these, as he detailed them, in- 
terested and bewildered me; although, 
perhaps, the terms and the general man- 
ner of their narration had their weight. 
He suffered much from a morbid acute- 
ness of the senses; the most insipid 
food was alone endurable; he could 
wear only garments of certain texture; 
the odors of all flowers were oppres- 
sive; his eyes were tortured by even 
a faint light; and there were but pecul- 
iar sounds, and these from stringed in- 
struments, which did not inspire him 
with horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I 
found him a bounden slave. “I shall 
perish,” said he, “I must perish in this 
deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not 
otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the 
events of the future, not in themselves, 
but in their results. I shudder at the 
thought of any, even the most trivial, 
incident, which may operate upon this 
intolerable agitation of soul. I have, 
indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except 
in its absolute effect—in terror. In 


_this unnerved, in this pitiable, condition 


I feel that the period will sooner or 
later arrive when I must abandon life 
and reason together, in some struggle 
with the grim phantasm, Frar.” 

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and 
through broken and equivocal hints, 
another singular feature of his mental: 
condition. He was enchained by cer- 
tain superstitious impressions in regard 


278 


to the dwelling which he tenanted, and 
whence, for many years, he had never 
ventured forth—in regard to an in- 
fluence whose supposititious force was 
conveyed in terms too shadowy here to 
be re-stated—an influence which some 
peculiarities in the mere form and sub- 
stance of his family mansion had, by 
dint of long sufferance, he said, ob- 
tained over his spirit—an effect which 
the physique of the gray walls and tur- 
rets, and of the dim tarn into which 
they all looked down, had at length, 
brought about upon the morale of his 
existence. 

He admitted, however, although with 
hesitation, that much of the peculiar 
gloom which thus afflicted him could 
be traced to a more natural and far 
more capable origin—to the severe and 
long-continued illness—indeed to the 
evidently approaching dissolution—of 
a tenderly beloved sister, his sole com- 
panion for long years, his last and only 
relative on earth. “Her decease,” he 
said, with a bitterness which I can 
never forget, “would leave him (him, 
the hopeless and the frail) the last of 
the ancient race of the Ushers.” While 
he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was 
she called) passed through a remote 
portion of the apartment, and, without 
having noticed my presence, disap- 
peared. I regarded her with an utter 
astonishment not unmingled with dread; 
and yet I found it impossible to account 
for such feelings. A sensation of stupor 
oppressed me as my eyes followed her 
retreating steps. When a door, at 
length, closed upon her, my glance 
sought instictively and eagerly the 
countenance of the brother; but he had 
buried his face in his hands, and I could 
only perceive that a far more than ordi- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nary wanness had overspread the ema- 
tiated fingers through which trickled 
many passionate tears. 

The disease of the lady Madeline 
had long baffled the skill of her phy- 
sicians. A settled apathy, a gradual 
wasting away of the person, and fre- 
quent although transient affections of 
a partially cataleptical character were 
the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she 
had steadily borne up against the pres- 
sure of her malady, and had not be- 
taken herself finally to bed; but on the 
closing in of the evening of my arrival 
at the house, she succumbed (as her 
brother told me at night with inex- 
pressible agitation) to the prostrating 
power of the destroyer; and I learned 
that the glimpse I had obtained of her 
person would thus probably be the last 
I should obtain—that the lady, at least 
while living, would be seen by me no 
more. 

For several days ensuing, her name 
was unmentioned by either Usher or 
myself; and during this period I was 
busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate 
the melancholy of my friend. We 
painted and read together, or I listened, 
as if in a dream, to the wild improvisa- 
tions of his speaking guitar. And thus, 
as a closer and still closer intimacy ad. 
mitted me more unreservedly into the 
recesses Of his spirit, the more bitterly 
did I perceive the futility of all attempt 
at cheering a mind from which dark- 
ness, as if an inherent positive quality, 
poured forth upon all objects of the 
moral and physical universe in one un- 
ceasing radiation of gloom. . 

I shall ever bear about me a memory 
of the many solemn hours I thus spent 
alone with the master of the House of 
Usher. Yet I should fail in any at- 








THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


tempt to convey an idea of the exact 
character of the studies, or of the oc- 
cupations, in which he involved me, or 
led me the way. An excited and highly 
distempered ideality threw a _ sulphu- 
reous lustre over all. His long impro- 
vised dirges will ring forever in my 
ears. Among other things, I hold pain- 
fully in mind a certain singular per- 
version and amplification of the wild air 
of the last waltz of Von Weber. From 
the paintings over which his elaborate 
fancy brooded, and which grew, touch 
by touch, into vaguenesses at which I 
shuddered the more thrillingly, because 
I shuddered knowing not why—from 
these paintings (vivid as their images 
now are before me) I would in vain 
endeavor to educe more than a small 
portion which should lie within the 
compass of merely written words. By 
the utter simplicity, by the nakedness 
of his designs, he arrested and over- 
awed attention. If ever mortal painted 
an idea, that mortal was Roderick 
Usher. For me at least, in the circum- 
stances then surrounding me, there 
arose out of the pure abstractions which 
the hypochondriac contrived to throw 
upon his canvas, an intensity of intoler- 
able awe, no shadow of which felt I 
ever yet in the contemplation of the 
certainly glowing yet too concrete 
reveries of Fuseli. 

One of the phantasmagoric concep- 
tions of my friend, partaking not so 
rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may 
be shadowed forth, although feebly, in 
words. A small picture presented the 
interior of an immensely long and rec- 
tangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, 
smooth, white and without interruption 
or device. Certain accessory points of 
the design served well to convey the 


279 


idea that this excavation lay at an ex- 
ceeding depth below the surface of the 
earth. No outlet was observed in any 
portion of its vast extent, and no torch 
or other artificial source of light was 
discernible; yet a flood of intense rays 
rolled throughout, and bathed the whole 
in a ghastly and inappropriate splendor. 

I have just spoken of that morbid 
condition of the auditory nerve which 
rendered all music intolerable to the 
sufferer, with the exception of certain 
effects of stringed instruments. It was, 
perhaps, the narrow limits to which 
he thus confined himself upon the gui- 
tar which gave birth, in great measure, 
to the fantastic character of* his per- 
formances. But the fervid facility of 
his impromptus could not be so ac- 
counted for. They must have been, 
and were, in the notes, as well as in the 
words of his wild fantasias (for he * 
not unfrequently accompanied himself 
with rhymed verbal improvisations), 
the result of that intense mental col- 
lectedness and concentration to which 
I have previously alluded as observable 
only in particular moments of the high- 
est artificial excitement. The words of 
one of these rhapsodies I have easily 
remembered. I was, perhaps, the more 
forcibly impressed with it as he gave 
it, because, in the under or mystic cur- 
rent of its meaning, I fancied that I 
perceived, and for the first time, a full 
consciousness on the part of Usher of 
the tottering of his lofty reason upon 
her throne. The verses, which were 
entitled “The Haunted Palace,’* ran 
very nearly, if not accurately, thus:— 





*This poem appeared in Brook’s 
Magazine published in Baltimore.—Ed. 


280 
I. 


In the greenest of our valleys, 
By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace— 
Radiant palace—reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought’s dominion— 
It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair. 


II. 


Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
On its roof did float and flow 
(This—all this—was in the olden 
Time Iong ago); 
And every gentle air that dallied, 
In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
A winged odor went away. 


III. 


Wanderers in that happy valley 
Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically 
To a lute’s well-tuned law; 
Round about a throne, where sitting 
(Porphyrogene! ) 
In state his glory well befitting, 
The ruler of the realm was seen. 


ars 


And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, 

flowing 

And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty 
Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 
The wit and wisdom of their king, 


- of his persuasion. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Vv. 


But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
Assailed the monarch’s high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 
And, round about his home, the glory 
That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 


VI. 


And travellers now within that valley, 
Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 

While, like a rapid ghastly river, 
Through the pale door, 

A hideous throng rush out forever, 
And laugh—but smile no more. 


I well remember that suggestions 
arising from this ballad led us into a 
train of thought wherein there became 
menifest an opinion of Usher’s which 
I mention not so much on account of 
its novelty (for other men have thought 
thus), as on account of the pertinacity 
with which he maintained it. This opin- 
ion, in its general form, was that of,the 
sentience of all vegetable things. But, 
in his disordered fancy the idea 
had assumed a more daring char- 
acter, and  trespassed, under cer- 
tain conditions, upon the kingdom of 
inorganization. J lack words to express 
the full extent, or the earnest abandon 
The belief, however, 
was connected (as I have previously 
hinted) with the gray stones of the 
home of his forefathers. The condi- 
tions of the sentence had been here, he 








I 
i 
i 





THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


imagined, fufilled in the method of col- 
location of these stones—in the order 
of their arrangement, as well as in that 


of the many fungi which overspread 


them, and of the decayed trees which 
stood around—above all, in the long 


’ undisturbed endurance of this arrange- 


ment, and in its reduplication in the 
still waters of the tarn. Its evidence— 
the evidence of the sentience—was to 
be seen, he said (and I here started as 
he spoke), in the gradual yet uncertain 
condensation of an atmosphere of their 
own about the waters and the walls. 
The result was discoverable, he added, 
in that silent yet importunate and ter- 
rible influence which for centuries had 
moulded the destinies of his family, and 


‘which made kim what I now saw him— 


what he was. Such opinions need no 
comment, and I will make none. 
Our books—the books which, for 


“years, had formed no small portion of 


the mental existence of the invalid— 
were, as might be supposed, in strict 
keeping with this character of phantasm. 
We pored together over such works as 
the “Belphegor” of Machiavelli; the 
“Heaven and Hell” of Swedenborg; the 
“Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas 
Klimm” by MHolberg; the ‘Chiro- 
mancy” of Robert Flud, of Jean D’ 
Indagine and of De la Chambre; the 
“Journey into the Blue Distance” of 
Tieck;*and the “City of the Sun” of 
Campanella. One favorite volume was 
a small octavo edition of the ‘“Direc- 
torium Inquisitorium,” by the Dom- 
inican Eymeric de Gironne; and there 
were passages in Pomponius Mela, 
about the old African Satyrs and Cégi- 
pans, over which Usher’ would sit 
dreaming for hours. His chief delight, 
however, was found in the perusal of 


281 


an exceedingly rare and curious book in 
quarto Gothic—the manual of a for- 
gotten church—the *Vigilice Mortuorum 
secundum Chorum Ecclesie Magun- 
tine. 

I could not help thinking of the wild 
ritual of this work, and of its probable 
influence upon the  hypochondriac, 
when, one evening, having informed 
me abruptly that the lady Madeline 
was no more, he stated his intention of 
preserving her corpse for a fortnight 
(previously to its final interment), in 
one of the numerous vaults within the 
main walls of the building. The worldly 
reason, however, assigned for this sin- 
gular proceeding, was one which I did 
not feel at liberty to dispute. The 
brother had been led to his resolution 
(so he told me) by consideration of 
the unusual character of the malady of 
the deceased, of certain obstrusive and 
eager inquiries on the part of her med- 
ical men, and of the remote and ex- 
posed situation of the burial-ground of 
the family. I will not deny that when 
I called to mind the sinister counte- 
nance of the person whom I met upon 
the staircase, on the day of my arrival 
at the house, I had no desiré to oppose 
what I regarded as at best but a harm- 
less, and by no means an unnatural 
precaution. 

At the request of Usher, I personally 
aided in the arrangements for the tem- 
porary entombment. The body having 
been encoffined, we two alone bore it to 
its rest. The vault in which we placed 
it (and which had been so long un- 
opened that our torches, half smoth- 
ered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave 
us little opportunity for investigation) 


*“Watches for the Dead.”—Ed. 


282 


was small, damp, and entirely without 
means of admission for light; lying, at 
great depth, immediately beneath that 
portion of the building in which was 
my own sleeping apartment. It had 
been used, apparently, in remote feudal 
times, for the worst purposes of a don- 
jon-keep, and, in later days, as a place 
of deposit for powder, or some other 
highly combustible substance, as a por- 
tion of its floor, and the whole interior 
of a long archway through which we 
reached it, were carefully sheathed 
with copper. The door, of massive 
iron, had been, also, similarly protected. 
Its immense weight caused an unusu- 
ally sharp, grating sound, as it moved 
upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful bur- 
den upon tressels within this region of 
horror, we partially turned aside the yet 
unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked 
upon the face of the tenant. A strik- 
ing similitude between the brother and 
sister now first arrested my attention; 
and Usher, divining, perhaps, my 
thoughts, murmured out some few 
words from which I learned that the 
deceased and himself had been twins, 
and that sympathies of a scarcely in- 
telligible nature had always existed be- 
tween them. Our glances, however, 
rested not long upon the dead—for we 
could not regard her unawed. The 
disease which had thus entombed the 
lady in the maturity of youth, had left, 
as usual in all maladies of a strictly 
cataleptical character, the mockery of 
a faint blush upon the bosom and the 
face, and that suspiciously lingering 
smile upon the lip which is so terrible 
in death. We replaced and screwed 
down the lid, and, having secured the 
door of iron, made our way, with toil, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


into the scarcely less gloomy apart- 
ments of the upper portion of the 
house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief 
having elapsed, an observable change 
came over the features of the mental 
disorder of my friend. His ordinary - 
manner had vanished. His ordinary 
occupations were neglected or forgot- 
ten. He roamed from chamber | to 
chamber with hurried, unequal, and ob- 
jectless step. The pallor of his counte- 
nance had assumed, if possible, a more 
ghastly hue—but the luminousness of 
his eye had utterly gone out. The once 
occasional huskiness of his tone was 
heard no more; and a tremulous quaver, 
as if of extreme terror, habitually char- 
acterized his utterance. There were 
times, indecd, when I thought his un- 
ceasingly agitated mind was laboring 
with some oppressive secret, to divulge 
which he struggled for the necessary 
courage. At times, again, I was obliged 
to resolve all into the mere inexplicable 
vagaries of madness, for I beheld him 
gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in 
an attitude of the profoundest atten. 
tion, as if listening to some imaginary 
sound. It was no wonder that his con- 
dition terrified—that it infected me. I 
felt creeping upon me, by slow yet un- 
certain degrees, the wild influences of 
his own fantastic yet impressive su- 
perstitions. 

It was, especially, upon retiring to 
bed late in the night of the seventh or 
eighth day after the placing of the lady 
Madeline within the don-jon, that I ex- 
perienced the full power of such feel- 
ings. Sleep came not near my couch— 
while the hours waned and waned away. 
I struggled to reason off the nervous- 
ness which had dominion over me. I 








THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


endeavored to believe that much, if not 
all of what I felt, was due to the bewil- 
dering influence of the gloomy furniture 
of the room—of the dark and tattered 
draperies, which, tortured into motion 
by the breath of a rising tempest, 
swayed fitfully to and fro upon the 
walls, and rustled uneasily about the 
decorations of the bed. But my efforts 
were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor 
gradually pervaded my frame; and, at 
length, there sat upon my very heart an 
incubus of utterly causeless alarm. 
Shaking this off with a gasp and a 
struggle, I uplifted myself upon the 
pillows, and, peering earnestly within 
the intense darkness of the chamber, 
hearkened—I know not why, except 
that an instinctive spirit prompted me 
—to certain low and indefinite sounds 
which came, through the pauses of the 
storm, at long intervals, I knew not 
whence. Overpowered by an intense 
sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet 
unendurable, I threw on my clothes 
with haste (for I felt that I should 
sleep no more during the night), and 
endeavored to arouse myself from the 
pitiable condition into which I had 
fallen by pacing rapidly to and fro 
through the apartment. 

I had taken but few turns in this 
manner, when a light step on an adjoin- 
ing staircase arrested my attention. I 
presently recognized it as that of Usher. 
In an instant afterward he rapped, with 
.. gentle touch, at my door, and entered, 
bearing a lamp. His countenance was, 
as usual, cadaverously wan—but, more- 
over, there was a species of mad hilar- 
ity in his eyes—an evidently restrained 
hysteria in his whole demeanor. His 
air appalled me—but any thing was 
preferable to the solitude which I had 


283 


so long endured, and I evet: welcomed 
his presence as a relief. 

“And you have not seen it?” he said 
abruptly, after having stared about him 
for some moments in _ silence—‘‘you 
have not then seen it?—but, stay! you 
shall.” Thus speaking, and having 
carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried 
to one of the casements, and threw it 
freely open to the storm. 

The impetuous fury of the entering 
gust nearly lifted us from our feet. 
It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet 
sternly beautiful night, and one wildly 
singular in its terror and its beauty. 
A whirlwind had apparently collected 
its force in our vicinity; for there were 
frequent and violent alterations in the 
direction of the wind; and the exceed- 
ing density of the clouds (which hung 
so low as to press upon the turrets of 
the house) did not prevent our perceiv- 
ing the life-like velocity with which 
they flew careering from all points 
against each other, without passing 
away into the distance. I say that even 
their exceeding density did not prevent 
our perceiving this—yet we had no 
glimpse of the moon or stars, nor was 
there any flashing forth of the light- 
ning. But the under surfaces of the 
huge masses of agitated vapor, as well 
as all terrestrial objects immediately 
around us, were glowing in the un- 
natural light of a faintly luminous and 
distinctly visible gaseous exhalation 
which hung about and enshrouded the 
mansion. 

“You must not—you shall not be- 
hold this!” said I, shuddering, to Usher, 
as I led him, with a gentle violence, 
from the window to a seat. “These 
appearances, which bewilder you, are 
merely electrical phenomena not un- 


284 


common—or it may be that they have 
their ghastly origin in the rank miasma 
of the tarn. Let us close this case- 
ment;—the air is chilling and danger- 
ous to your frame. Here is one of your 
favorite romances. I will read, and 
you shall listen:—and so we will pass 
away this terrible night together.” 

The antique volume which I had 
taken up was the “Mad Trist” of Sir 
Launcelot Canning; but I had called 
it a favorite of Usher’s more in sad 
jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there 
is little in its uncouth and unimagina- 
tive prolixity which could have had in- 
terest for the lofty and spiritual ideality 
of my friend. It was, however, the 
only book immediately at hand; and I 
indulged a vague hope that the excite- 
ment which now agitated the hypochon- 
driac, might find relief (for the history 
of mental disorder is full of similar 
anomalies) even in the extremeness of 
the folly which I should read. Could I 
have judged, indeed, by the wild over- 
strained air of vivacity with which he 
hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to 
the words of the tale, I might well have 
congratulated myself upon the success 
of my design. 

I had arrived at that well-known 
portion of the story where Ethelred, the 
hero of the Trist, having sought in vain 
for peaceable admission into the dwell- 
ing of the hermit, proceeds to make 
good an entrance by force. Here, it 
will be remembered, the words of the 
narrative cun thus: 

“And Ethelred, who was by nature 
of a doughty heart, and who was now 
mighty withal, on account of the power- 
fulness of the wine which he had 
drunken, waited no longer to hold par- 
ley with the hermit, who, in sooth, was 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but 
feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and 
fearing the rising of the tempest, up- 
lifted his mace outright, and, with 
blows, made quickly room in the plank- 
ings of the door for his gauntleted 
hand; and now _ pulling therewith 
sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and 
tore all asunder, that the noise of the 
dry and hollow-sounding wood alarumed 
and reverberated throughout the for- 
est.” 

At the termination of this sentence 
I started and, for a moment, paused; 
for it appeared to me (although I at 
once concluded that my excited fancy 
had deceived me)-—it appeared to me 
that, from some very remote portion of 
the mansion, there came, indistinctly to 
my ears, what might have been, in its 
exact similarity of character, the echo 
(but a stifled and dull one certainly) 
of the very cracking and ripping sound 
which Sir Launcelot had so particularly 
described. It was, beyond doubt, the 
coincidence alone which had arrested 
my attention; for, amid the rattling of 
the sashes of the casements, and the 
ordinary commingled noises of the still 
increasing storm, the sound, in itself, 
had nothing, surely, which should have 
interested or disturbed me. I con- 
tinued the story: 

“But the good champion Ethelred, 
now entering within the door, was sore 
enraged and amazed to perceive no sig- 
nal of the maliceful hermit; but, in 
the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly - 
and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery 
tongue, which sate in guard before a 
palace of gold, with a floor of silver; 
and upon the wall there hung a shield 
of shining brass with this legend en- 


written— 





THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 


Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath 
bin; 

Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he 
shall win. 


And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and 
struck upon the head of the dragon, 
which fell before him, and gave up his 
pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid 
and harsh, and withal so piercing, that 
Ethelred had fain to close his ears with 
his hands against the dreadful noise of 
it, the like whereof was never before 
heard.” 

Here again I paused abruptly, and 
now with a feeling of wild amazement 
—for there could be no doubt what- 
ever that, in this instance, I did actu- 
ally hear (although from what direction 
it proceeded I found it impossible to 
say) a low and apparently distant, but 
harsh, protracted, and most unusual 
screaming or grating sound—the exact 
counterpart of what my fancy had al- 
ready conjured up for the dragon’s 
unnatural shriek as described by the 
romancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon 
the extraordinary coincidence, by a 
thousand conflicting sensations, in which 
wonder and extreme terror was pre- 
dominant, I still retained sufficient 
presence of mind to avoid exciting, by 
an observation, the sensitive nervous- 
ness of my companion. I was by no 
means certain that he had noticed the 
sounds in question; although, assuredly, 
a strange alteration had, during the last 
few minutes, taken place in his de- 
meanor. From a position fronting my 
own, he had gradually brought round 
his chair, so as to sit with his face to 
the door of the chamber; and thus I 
could but partially perceive his features, 


285 


although I saw that his lips trembled 
as if he were murmuring inaudibly. 
His head had dropped upon his breast— 
yet I knew that he was not asleep, from 
the wide and rigid opening of the eye 
as I caught a glance of it in profile. 
The motion of his body, too, was at 
variance with this idea—for he rocked 
from side to side with a gentle yet 
constant and uniform sway. Having 
rapidly taken notice of all this, I re- 
sumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, 
which thus proceeded: 

“And now, the champion, having es- 
caped from the terrible fury of the 
dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen 
shield, and of the breaking up of the 
enchantment which was upon it, re- 
moved the carcass from out of the way 
before him, and approached valorously 
over the silver pavement of the castle 
to where the shield was upon the wall; 
which in sooth tarried not for his full 
coming, but fell down at his feet upon 
the silver floor, with a mighty great 
and terrible ringing sound.” 

No sooner had these syllables passed 
my lips, than—as if a shield of brass 
had indeed, at the moment, fallen 
heavily upon a floor of silver—I became 
aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, 
and clangorous, yet apparently muffled, 
reverberation. Completely unnerved, [ 
leaped to my feet; but the measureé 
rocking movement of Usher was undis- 
turbed. I rushed to the chair in which 
he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly 
before him, and throughout his whole 
countenance there reigned a_ stony 
rigidity. But, as I placed my hand 
upon his shoulder, there came a strong 
shudder over his whoie person; a sickly 
smile quivered about his lips; and I 
saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, 


286 


and gibbering murmur, as if uncon- 
scious of my presence. Bending closely 
over him I at length drank in the 
hideous import of his words. 

“Not hear itr—yes, I hear it, and 
have heard it. Long—long—long— 
many minutes, many hours, many days, 
have I heard it—yet I dared not—oh, 
pity me, miserable wretch that I am!— 
I dared not—I dared not speak! We 
have put her living in the tomb! Said I 
not that my senses were acute? I now 
tell you that I heard her first feeble 
movement in the hollow coffin. I heard 
them—many, many days ago—yet I 
dared not—J dared not speak! And 
now—to-night—Ethelred—ha! ha!—the 
breaking of the hermit’s door, and the 
death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor 
of the shield—say, rather, the rending 
of her coffin, and the grating of the 
iron hinges of her prison, and her strug- 
gles within the coppered archway of 
the vault! Oh! whither shall I fly? 
Will she not be here anon? Is she 
not hurrying to upbraid me for my 
haste? Have I not heard her footstep 
on the stair? Do I not distinguish 
that heavy and horrible beating of her 
heart? Madman!’”—here he sprang 
furiously to his feet, and shrieked out 
his syllables, as if in the effort he were 
giving up his soul—“Madman! TI tell 
you that she now stands without the 
door |” 

As if in the superhuman energy of 
his utterance there had been found the 
potency of a spell, the huge antique 
panels to which the speaker pointed 
threw slowly back, upon the instant, 
their ponderous and ebony jaws. It 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


was the work of the rushing gust—but 
then without those doors there did 
stand the lofty and enshrouded figure 
of the lady Madeline of Usher. ‘There 
was blood upon her white robes, and 
the evidence of some bitter struggle 
upon every portion of her emaciated 
frame. For a moment she remained 
trembling and reeling to and fro upon 
the threshold—then, with a low moan- 
ing cry, fell heavily inward upon the 
person of her brother, and in her violent 
and now final death-agonies, bore him 
to the floor a corpse, and a victim to 
the terrors he had anticipated. 

From that chamber, and from that 
mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was 
still abroad in all its wrath as I found 
myself crossing the old causeway. Sud- 
denly there shot along the path a wild 
light, and I turned to see whence a gleam 
so unusual could have .issued; for the 
vast house and its shadows were alone 
behind me. ‘The radiance was that of 
the full, setting, and blood-red moon 
which now shone vividly through that 
once barely-discernible fissure of which 
I have before spoken as extending from 
the roof of the building, in a zigzag 
direction, to the base. While I gazed, 
this fissure rapidly widened—there came 
a fierce breath of the whirlwind—the en- 
tire orb of the satellite burst at once 
upon my sight—my brain reeled as I 
saw the mighty walls rushing asunder— 
there was a long tumultuous shouting 
sound like the voice of a thousand 
waters—and the deep and dank tarn at 
my feet closed sullenly and silently over 
the fragments of the ‘“Housr or USHER ” 








The Domain of Arnheim 


(The story called The Landscape Garden, sometimes published separately, is 
nothing more than the first part of this tale—Ed.) 


The garden like a lady fair was cut, 
That lay as if she slumbered in 
delight, 
And to the open skies her eyes did shut. 
The azure fields of Heaven were 
’sembled right 
In a large round, set with the flowers 
of light. 
flowers-de-luce, 
sparks of dew. 
That hung upon their azure leaves did 
shew 
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the 
evening blue. 


The and the round 


Giles Fletcher. 


From his cradle to his grave a gale 
of prosperity bore my friend Ellison 
along. Nor do I use the word pros- 
perity in its mere worldly sense. I 
mean it as synonymous with happiness. 
The person of whom I speak seemed 
born for the purpose of forshadowing 
the doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priest- 
ley, and Condorcet—of exemplifying 
by individual instance what has been 
deemed the chimera of the perfection- 
ists. In the brief existence of Ellison 
I fancy that I have seen refuted the 
dogma, that in man’s very nature lies 
some hidden principle, the antagonist 
of bliss. An anxious examination of his 
career has given me to understand that 
in general, from the violation of a few 
simple laws of humanity arises the 
wretchedness of mankind—that as a 
species we have in our possession the 
as yet unwrought elements of content— 


and that, even now, in the present dark- 
ness and madness of all thought on the 
great question of the social condition, 
it is not impossible that man, the indi- 
vidual, under certain unusual and highly 
fortuitous conditions, may be happy. 
With opinions such as these my 
young friend, too, was fully imbued, 
and thus it is worthy of observation 
that the uninterrupted enjoyment whi¢h 
distinguished his life was, in great meas- 
ure, the result of preconcert. It is 
indeed evident that with less of the 
instinctive philosophy which, now and 
then, stands so well in the stead of 
experience, Mr. Ellison would have 
found himself precipitated, by the very 
extraordinary success of his life, into 
the common vortex of unhappiness 
which yawns for those of pre-eminent 
endowments. But it is by no meang 
my object to pen an essay on happiness. 
The ideas of my friend may be summed 
up in a few words. He admitted but 
four elementary principles, or more 
strictly, conditions of bliss. That 
which he considered chief was (strange 
to say!) the simple and purely physical 
one of free exercise in the open air. 
“The health,” he said, “attainable by 
other means is scarcely worth the 
name.” He instanced the ecstacies of 
the fox-hunter, and pointed to the 
tillers of the earth, the only people 
who, as a class, can be fairly considered 
happier than others. His second con- 
dition was the love of woman. His 
third, and most difficult of realization, 


287 


288 


was the contempt of ambition. His 
fourth was an object of unceasing pur- 
suit; and he held that, other things 
being equal, the extent of attainable 
happiness was in proportion to the 
spirituality of this object. 

Ellison was remarkable in the con- 
tinuous profusion of good gifts lav- 
ished upon him by fortune. In per- 
sonal grace and beauty he exceeded all 
men. His intellect was of that order 
to which the acquisition of knowledge 
is less a labor than an intuition and a 
necessity. His family was one of the 
‘most illustrious of the empire. His 
bride was the loveliest and most de- 
voted of women. His possessions had 
been always ample; but on the attain- 
ment of his majority, it was discovered 
that one of those extraordinary freaks 
of fate had been piayed in his behalf 
which startle the whole social world 
amid which they occur, and seldom fail 
radically to alter the moral constitution 
of those who are their objects. 

It appears that about a hundred 
years before Mr. Ellison’s coming of 
age, there had died, in a remote prov- 
ince, one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This 
gentleman had amassed a princely for- 
tune, and, having no immediate connec- 
tions, conceived the whim of suffering 
his wealth to accumulate for a century 
after his decease. Minutely and saga- 
ciously directing the various modes of 
investment, he bequeathed the aggre- 
gate amount to the nearest of blood, 
bearing the name of Ellison, who should 
be alive at the end of the hundred 
years. Many attempts had been made 
to set aside this singular bequest; their 
ex post facto character rendered them 
abortive; but the attention of a jealous 
government was aroused, and a legisla- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tive act finally obtained, forbidding al} 
similar accumulations. This act, how- 
ever, did not prevent young pllison from 
entering into possession, on his twenty-. 
first birthday, as the heir of his ances-: 
tor Seabright, of a fortune of four 
hundred and fifty millions of dollars.* 

When it had become known that such 
was the enormous wealth inherited, 
there were, of course, many specula- 
tions as to the mode of its disposal. 
The magnitude and the immediate 
availability of the sum bewildered all 
who thought on the topic. The pos- 
sessor of any appreciable amount of 
money might have been imagined to 
perform any one of a thousand things. 
With riches merely surpassing those of 
any citizen, it would have been easy 
to suppose him engaging to supreme 
excess in the fashionable extravagances 


* An incident, similar in outline to 
the one here imagined, occurred, not 


-very long ago, in England. The name 


of the fortunate heir was Thelluson. I 
first saw an account of this matter in 
the “Tour” of Prince Puckler Muskau, 
who makes the sum inherited ninety 
millions of pounds, and justly observes 
that ‘in the contemplation of so vast 
a sum, and of the services to which it 
might be applied, there is something 
even of the sublime.’ To suit the 
views of this article I have followed 
the Prince’s statement, although a 
grossly exaggerated one. The germ, and 
in fact, the commencement of the pres- 
ent paper was published many years 
ago—previous to the issue of the first 
number of Sue’s admirable “Juif Er- 
rant,’ which may possibly have been 
suggested to him by Muskau’s ac- 
count.—E. A. P. 











THE DOMAIN 


of his time—or* busying himself with 
political intrigue—or aiming at minis- 
terial power—or purchasing increase of 
nobility—or collecting large museums 
of wvirtu—or playing the munificent 
patron of letters, of science, of art— 
or endowing, and bestowing his name 
upon extensive institutions of charity. 
But for the inconceivable wealth in the 
actual possession of the heir, these 
objects and all ordinary objects were 
felt to afford too limited a field. Re- 
course was had to figures, and these 
but sufficed to confound. It was seen 
that, even at three per cent., the annual 
income of the inheritance amounted to 
no less than thirteen millions and five 
hundred thousand dollars; which was 
one million and one hundred and 
twenty-five thousand per month; or 
thirty-six thousand nine hundred and 
eighty-six per day; or one thousand 
five hundred and forty-one per hour; 
or six and twenty dollars for every 
minute that flew. Thus the usual track 
of supposition -was thoroughly broken 
up. Men knew not what to imagine. 
There were some who even conceived 
that Mr. Ellison would divest himself 
of at least one-half of his fortune, as 
of utterly superfluous opulence—en- 
riching whole troops of his relatives by 
division of his superabundance. To 
the nearest of these he did, in fact, 
abandon the very unusual wealth which 
was his own before the inheritance. 

I was not surprised, however, to per- 
ceive that he had long made up his 
mind on a point which had occasioned 
so much discussion to his friends. Nor 
was I greatly astonished at the nature 
of his decision. In regard to indi- 
vidual charities he had satisfied his con- 
science. In the possibility of any im- 


OF ARNHEIM 289 


provement, properly so called, being 
effected by man himself in the general 
condition of man, he had (I am sorry 
to confess it) little faith. Upon the 
whole, whether happily or unhappily, he 
was thrown back, in very great measure, 
upon self. 

In the widest and noblest sense he 
was a poet. He comprehended, more- 
over, the true character, the august 
aims, the supreme majesty and dignity 
of the poetic sentiment. The fullest, 
if not the sole proper satisfaction of 
this sentiment he instinctively felt to 
lie in the creation of novel form of 
beauty. Some peculiarities, either in 
his early education, or in the nature 
of his intellect, had tinged with what 
is termed materialism all his ethical 
speculations; and it was this bias, per- 
haps, which led him to believe that the 
most advantageous at least, if not the 
sole legitimate field for the poetic exer- 
cise, lies in the creation of novel moods 
of purely physical loveliness. Thus it 
happened he became neither musician 
nor poet—if we use this latter term in 
its every-day acceptation. Or it might 
have been that he neglected to become 
either, merely in pursuance of his idea 
that in contempt of ambition is to be 
found one of the essential principles 
of happiness on earth. Is it not indeed, 
possible that, while a high order of 
genius is necessarily ambitious, the 
highest is above that which is termed 
ambition? And may it not thus hap- 
pen that many far greater than Milton 
have contentedly remained “mute and 
inglorious?” I believe that the world 
has never seen—and that, unless through 
some series of accidents goading the 
noblest order of mind into distasteful 
exertion, the world will never see—that 


290 


full extent of triumphant execution, in 
the richer domains of art, of which the 
human nature is absolutely capable. 
Ellison became neither musician nor 
poet; although no man lived more pro- 
foundly enamored of music and poetry. 
Under other circumstances than those 
which invested him, it is not impossible 
that he would have become a painter. 
Sculpture, although in its nature rig- 
orously poetical, was too limited in its 
extent and consequences, to have occu- 
pied, at any time, much of his attention. 
And,I have now mentioned all the 
provinces in which the common under- 
standing of the poetic sentiment has 
declared it capable of expatiating. But 
Ellison maintained that the richest, the 
truest, and most natural, if not alto- 
gether the most extensive province, had 
been unaccountably neglected. No defi- 
nition had spoken of the landscape- 
gardener as of the poet; yet it seemed 
to my friend that the creation of the 
landscape-garden offered to the proper 
Muse the most magnificent of oppor- 
tunities. Here, indeed, was the faintest 
field for the display of imagination in 
the endless combining of forms of 
novel beauty; the elements to enter into 
combination being, by a vast superior- 
ity, the most glorious which the earth 
could afford. In the multiform and 
multicolor of the flower and the trees, 
he recognised the most direct and ener- 


getic efforts of Nature at physical love- ° 


liness. And in the direction or concen- 
tration of this effort—or, more prop- 
erly, in its adaptation to the eyes which 
were to behold it on earth—he per- 
ceived that he should be employing the 
best means—laboring to the greatest 
advantage—in the fulfilment, not only 
of his own destiny as poet, but of the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


august purposes for -which the Deity 
had implanted the poetic sentiment in 
man. 

“Its adaptation to the eyes which 
were to behold it on earth.” In his 
explanation of this phraseology, Mr. 
Ellison did much toward solving what 
has always seemed to me an enigma:— 
I mean the fact (which none but the 
ignorant dispute) that no such com- 
bination of scenery exists in nature as 
the painter of genius may produce. No 
such paradises are to be found in reality 
as have glowed on the canvas of Claude. 
In the most enchanting of natural land- 
scapes, there will always be found a 
defect or an excess—many excesses and 
defects. While the component parts 
may defy, individually, the highest skill 
of the artist, the arrangement of these 
parts will always be susceptible of im- 
provement. In short, no position can 
be attained on the wide surface of the 
natural earth, from which an artistical 
eye, looking steadily, will not find mat- 
ter of offence in what is termed the 
“composition” of the landscape. And 
yet how unintelligible is this! In all 
other matters we are justly instructed 
to regard nature as supreme. With her 
details we shrink from competition. 
Who shall presume to imitate the col- 
ors of the tulip, or to improve the 
proportions of the lily of the valley? 
The criticism which says, of sculpture 
or portraiture, that here nature is to 
be exalted or idealized rather than imi- 
tated, is in error. No pictorial or 
sculptural combinations of points of 
human loveliness do more than ap- 
proach the living and breathing beauty. 
In landscape alone is the principle of 
the critic true; and, having felt its 
truth here, it is but the headlong spirit 














THE DOMAIN 


of generalization which has led him to 
pronounce it true throughout all the 
domains of art. Having, I say, felt its 
truth here; for the feeling is no affecta- 
tion or chimera. The mathematics 
afford no more absolute demonstrations 
than the sentiments of his art yields 
the artist. He not only believes, but 
positively knows, that such and such 
apparently arbitrary arrangements of 
matter constitute and alone constitute 
the true beauty. His reasons, however, 
have not yet been matured into expres- 
sion. It remains for a more profound 
analysis than the world has yet seen, 
fully to investigate and express them. 
Nevertheless he is confirmed in his in- 
stinctive opinions by the voice of all 
his brethren. Let a “composition” be 
defective; let an emendation be wrought 
in its mere arrangement of form; let 
this emendation be submitted to every 
artist in the world; by each will its 
necessity be admitted. And even far 
more than this; in remedy of the defec- 
tive composition, each insulated mem- 
ber of the fraternity would have sug- 
gested the identical emendation. 

I repeat that in landscape arrange- 
ments alone is the physical nature sus- 
ceptible of exaltation, and that, there- 
fore, her susceptibility of improvement 
at this one point, was a mystery I had 
been unable to solve. My own thoughts 
on the subject had rested in the idea 
that the primitive intention of nature 
would have so arranged the earth’s sur- 
face as to have fulfilled at all points 
man’s sense of perfection in the beau- 
tiful, the sublime, or the picturesque; 
but that this primitive intention had 
been frustrated by the known geological 
disturbances—disturbances of form and 
color-grouping, in the correction or 


OF ARNHEIM 291 


allaying of which lies the soul of art. 
The force of this idea was much weak- 
ened, however, by the necessity which 
it involved of considering the disturb- 
ances abnormal and unadapted to any 
purpose. It was Ellison who suggested 
that they were prognostic of death. He 
thus explained:—Admit the earthly im- 
mortality of man to have been the first 
intention. We have then the primitive 
arrangement of the earth’s surface 
adapted to his blissful estate, as not 
existe..t but designed. The disturbances 
were the preparations for his subse- 
quently conceived deathful condition. 

“Now,” said my friend, “what we 
regard as exaltation of the landscape 
may be really such, as respects only 
the moral or human point of view. 
Each alteration of the natural scenery 
may possibly effect a blemish in the 
picture, if we can suppose this picture 
viewed at large—in mass—from some 
point distant from the earth’s surface, 
although not beyond the limits of its 
atmosphere. It is easily understood 
that what might improve a closely 
scrutinized detail, may at the same time 
injure a general or more distinctly ob- 
served effect. There may be a class of 
beings, human once, but now invisible 
to humanity, to whom, from afar, our 
disorder may seem order—our unpic- 
turesqueness picturesque; in a word, the 
earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more 
especially than our own, and for whose 
death-refined appreciation of the beau- 
tiful, may have been set in array by 
God the wide landscape-gardens of the 
hemispheres.” 

In the course of discussion, my friend 
quoted some passages from a writer on 
landscape-gardening, who has been sup- 
posed to have well treated his theme: 


292 


‘There are properly but two styles of 
landscape-gardening, the natural and the 
artificial. One seeks to recall the orig- 
inal beauty of the country, by adapting 
its means to the surrounding scenery; 
cultivating trees in harmony with the 
hills or plains of the neighboring land; 
detecting and bringing into practice 
those nice relations of size, proportion, 
and color which, hid from the common 
observer, are revealed everywhere to 
the experienced student of nature. The 
result of the natural style of gardening, 
is seen rather in the absence of all 
defects and incongruities—in the preva- 
lence of a healthy harmony and order— 
than in the creation of any special won- 
ders or miracles. ‘The artificial style 
has as many varieties as there are dif- 
ferent tastes to gratify. It has a cer- 
tain general relation to the various 
styles of building. There are the 
stately avenues and retirements of Ver- 
sailles; Italian terraces; and a various 
mixed old English style, which bears 
some relation to the domestic Gothic 
or English Elizabethan architecture. 
Whatever may be said against the 
abuses of the artificial landscape-gar- 
dening, a mixture of pure art in the 
garden scene adds to it a great beauty. 
This is partly pleasing to the eye, by 
the show of order and design, and partly 
moral. A terrace, with an old moss- 
covered balustrade, calls up at once to 
the eye the fair forms that have passed 
there in other days. The slightest exhi- 
bition of art is an evidence of care and 
human interest.” 

“From what I have already ob- 
served,” said Ellison, ‘you will under- 
stand that I reject the idea, here ex- 
pressed, of recalling the original beauty 
of the country. The original beauty is 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


never so great as that which may be 
introduced. Of course, every thing de- 
pends on the selection of a spot with 
capabilities. What is said about de- 
tecting and bringing into practice nice 
relations of size, proportion, and color, 
is one of those mere vaguenesses of 
speech which serve to veil inaccuracy 
of thought. The phrase quoted may 
mean any thing, or nothing, and guides 
in no degree. That the true result of 
the natural style of gardening is seen 
rather in the absence of all defects and 
incongruities than in the creation of 
any special wonders or miracles, is a 
proposition better suited to the grovel- 
ling apprehension of the herd than te 
the fervid dreams of the man of genius. 
The negative merit suggested apper- 
tains to that hobbling criticism which, 
in letters, would elevate Addison into 
apotheosis. In truth, while that virtue 
which consists in the mere avoidance 
of vice appeals directly to the under- 
standing, and can thus be circumscribed 
in rule, the loftier virtue, which flames 
in. creation, can be apprehended in its 
results alone. Rule applies but to the 
merits of denial—to the excellencies 
which refrain. Beyond these, the criti- 
cal art can but suggest. We may be 
instructed to build a “Cato,” but we 
are in vain told how to conceive a 
Parthenon or an “Inferno.” The thing 
done, however; the wonder accom- | 
plished; and the capacity for apprehen- 
sion becomes universal. The sophists 
of the negative school who, through 
inability to create, have scoffed at crea- 
tion, are now found the loudest in 
applause. What, in its chrysalis condi- 
tion of principle, affronted their demure 
reason, never fails, in its maturity of 

















THE DOMAIN 


accomplishment, to extort admiration 
from their instinct of beauty. 

“The author’s observations on the 
artificial, style,’ continued Ellison, “are 
less objectionable. A mixture of pure 
art in a garden scene adds to it a great 
beauty. This is just; as also is the 
reference to the sense of human inter- 
est. The principle expressed is incon- 
trovertible—but there may be some- 
thing beyond it. There may be an 
object in keeping with the principle— 
an object unattainable by the means 
ordinarily possessed by individuals, yet 
which, if attained, would lend a charm 
to the landscape-garden far surpassing 
that which a sense of merely human 
interest could bestow. A poet, having 
very unusual pecuniary resources, 
might, while retaining the necessary 
idea of art or culture, or, as our author 
expresses it, of interest, so imbue his 
designs at once with extent and novelty 
of beauty, as to convey the sentiment 
of spiritual interference. It will be seen 
that, in bringing about such result, he 
secures all the advantages of interest 
or design, while relieving his work of 
the harshness or technicality of the 
worldly art. In the most rugged of 
wildernesses—in the most savage of the 
scenes of pure nature—there is apparent 
the art of a creator; yet this art is 
apparent to reflection only; in no 
respect has it the obvious force of a 
feeling. Now let us suppose this sense 
of the Almighty design to be one sted 
depressed—to be brought into some- 
thing like harmony or consistency with 
the sense of human art—to form an 
intermedium between the two:—let us 
imagine, for example, a landscape whose 
combined vastness and definitiveness— 
whose united beauty, magnificence, and 


OF ARNHEIM 293 
strangeness, shall convey the idea of 
care, or culture, or superintendence, on 
the part of beings superior, yet akin to 
humanity—then the sentiment of znter- 
est is preserved, while the art inter- 
volved is made to assume the air of 
an intermediate or secondary nature— 
a nature which is not God, nor an 
emanation from God, but which still is 
nature in the sense of the. handiwork 
of the angels that hover between man 
and God.” 

It was in devoting his enormous 
wealth to the embodiment of a vision 
such as this—in the free exercise in the 
open air ensured by the personal super- 
intendence of his plans—in the unceas- 
ing object which these plans afforded— 
in the high spirituality of the object— 
in the contempt of ambition which it 
enabled him truly to feel—in the peren- 
nial springs with which it gratified, 
without possibility of satiating, that 
one master passion cf his soul, the 
thirst for beauty; above all, it was in 
the sympathy of a woman, not unwom- 
anly, whose loveliness and love envel- 
oped his existence in the purple atmos- 
phere of Paradise, that Ellison thought 
to find, and found, exemption from the 
ordinary cares of humanity, with a far 
greater amount of positive happiness 
than ever glowed in the rapt day- 
dreams of De Stael. 

I despair of conveying to the reader 
any distinct conception of the marvels 
which my friend did actually accom- 
plish. I wish to describe, but am dis- 
heartened by the difficulty of descrip- 
tion, and hesitate between detail and 
generality. Perhaps the better course 
will be to unite the two in their 
extremes. 

Mr. Ellison’s first step regarded, of 


294 


course, the choice of a locality; and 
scarcely had he commenced thinking on 
this point, when the luxuriant nature 
of the Pacific Islands arrested his at- 
tention. In fact, he had made up his 
mind for a voyage to the South Seas, 
when a night’s reflection induced him 
to abandon the idea. ‘Were I misan- 
thropic,’ he said, “such a locale would 
suit me. The thoroughness of its insu- 
lation and seclusion, and the difficulty 
of ingress and egress, would in such 
case be the charm of charms; but as 
yet I am not Timon. I wish the com- 
posure but not the depression of soli- 
tude. There must remain with me a 
certain control over the extent and du- 
ration of my repose. There will be 
frequent hours in which I shall need, 
too, the sympathy of the poetic in what 
I have done. Let me seek, then, a 
spot not far from a populous city— 
whose vicinity, also, will best enable 
me to execute my plans.” 

In search of a suitable place so situ- 
ated, Ellison travelled for several years, 
and I was permitted to accompany him. 
A thousand spots with which I was 
enraptured he rejected without hesita- 
tion, for reasons which satisfied me, in 
the end, that he was right. We came 
at length to an elevated table-land of 
wonderful fertility and beauty, afford- 
ing a panoramic prospect very little 
less in extent than that of A®tna, and, 
in Ellison’s ‘opinion as well as my own, 
surpassing the far-famed view from that 
mountain in all the true elements of 
the picturesque. 

“T am aware,” said the traveller, as 
he drew a sigh of deep delight after 
gazing on this scene, entranced, for 
nearly an hour, “I know that here, in 
my circumstances, nine-tenths of the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


most fastidious of men would rest con- 
tent. This panorama is indeed glorious, 
and I should rejoice in it but for the 
excess of its glory. The taste of all 
the architects I have ever known leads 
them, for the sake of ‘prospect,’ to put 
up buildings on hill-tops. The error 
is obvious. Grandeur in any of its 
moods, but especially in that of extent, 
startles, excites—and then fatigues, de- 
presses. For the occasional scene noth- 
ing can be better—for the constant 
view nothing worse. And, in the con- 
stant view, the most objectionable 
phase of grandeur is that of extent; 
the worst phase of extent, that of dis- 
tance. It is at war with the sentiment 
and with the sense of seclusion—the 
sentiment and sense which we seek to 
humor in ‘retiring to the country.’ In 
looking from the summit of a mountain 
we cannot help feeling abroad in the 
world. The heart-sick avoid distant 
prospects as a pestilence.” 

It was not until toward the close of 
the fourth year of our search that we 
found a locality with which Ellison pro- 
fessed himself satisfied. It is, of course, 
needless to say where was the locality. 
The late death of my friend, in causing 
his domain to be thrown open to cer- 
tain classes of visitors, has given to 
Arnheim a species of secret and sub- 
dued if not solemn celebrity, similar in 
kind, although infinitely superior in 
degree, to that which so long distin- 
guished Fonthill. 

The usual approach to Arnheim was 
by the river. The visitor left the city 
in the early morning. During the fore- 
noon he passed between shores of a 
tranquil and domestic beauty, on which 
grazed innumerable sheep, their white 
fleeces spotting the vivid green of roll« 





THE DOMAIN 


ing meadows. By degrees the idea of 
cultivation subsided into that of merely 
pastoral care. This slowly became 
merged in a’ sense of retirement—this 
again in a consciousness of solitude. 
As the evening approached, the channel 
grew more narrow; the banks more and 
more precipitous; and these latter were 
clothed in richer, more profuse, and 
more sombre foliage. ‘The water in- 
creased in transparency. The stream 
took a thousand turns, so that at no 
moment could its gleaming surface be 
seen for a greater distance than a fur- 
long. At every instant the vessel 
seemed imprisoned within an enchanted 
circle, having insuperable and impene- 
trable walls of foliage, a roof of ultra- 
marine satin, and no floor—the keel 
balancing itself with admirable nicety 
on that of a phantom bark which, by 
some accident having been turned up- 
side down, floated in constant company 
with the substantial one, for the pur- 
pose of sustaining it. The channel now 
pecame a gorge—although the term is 
somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it 
merely because the language has no 
word which better represents the most 
striking—not the most distinctive— 
feature of the scene. ‘The character 
of gorge was maintained only in the 
height and parallelism of the shores; it 
was lost altogether in their other traits. 
The walls of the ravine (through which 
the clear water still tranquilly flowed) 
arose to an elevation of a hundred and 
occasionally of a hundred and fifty 
feet, and inclined so much toward each 
other as, in a great measure, to shut 
out the light of day; while the long 
plume-like moss which depended densely 
from the intertwining shrubberies over- 
head, gave the whole chasm an air ‘of 


OF ARNHEIM 295 


funereal gloom. The windings became 
more frequent and intricate, and seemed 
often as if returning in upon them- 
selves, so that the voyager had long 
lost all idea of direction. He was, 
moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense 
of the strange. The thought of nature 
still remained, but her character seemed 
to have undergone modification, there 
was a weird symmetry, a thrilling uni- 
formity, a wizard propriety in these her 
works. Not a dead branch—not a with- 
ered leaf—not a stray pebble—not a 
patch of the brown earth was anywhere 
visible. The crystal water welled up 
against the clean granite, or the un- 
blemished moss, with a sharpness of 
outline that delighted while it bewil- 
dered the eye. 

Having threaded the mazes of this 
channel for some hours, the gloom 
deepening every moment, a sharp and 
unexpected turn of the vessel brought 
it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, 
into a circular basin of very consider- 
able extent when compared with the 
width of the gorge. It was about two 
hundred yards in diameter, and girt in 
at all points but one—that immediately 
fronting the vessel as it entered—by 
hills equal in general height to the walls 
of the chasm, although of a thoroughly 
different character. Their sides sloped 
to the water’s edge at an angle of some 
forty-five degrees, and they were 
clothed from base to summit—not a 
perceptible point escaping—in a drap- 
ery of the most gorgeous flower-blos- 
soms; scarcely a green leaf being visible 
among the sea of odorous and fluctuat- 
ing color. This basin was of great 
depth, but so transparent was the water 
that the bottom, which seemed to con- 
sist of a thick mass of small round 


296 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


alabaster pebbles, was distinctly visible 
by glimpses—that is to say, whenever 
the eye could permit itself mot to see, 
far down in the inverted heaven, the 
duplicate blooming of the hills. On 
these latter there were no trees, nor 
even shrubs of any size. The impres- 
sions wrought on the observer were 
those of richness, wartnth, color, quie- 
tude, uniformity, softness, delicacy, 
daintiness, voluptuousness, and a mirac- 
ulous extremeness of culture that sug- 
gested dreams of a new race of fairies, 
laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and 
fastidious; but as the eye traced upward 
the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp 
junction with the water to its vague 
termination amid the folds of over- 
hanging cloud, it became, indeed, diffi- 
cult not to fancy a panoramic cataract 
of rubies, sapphires, opals, and golden 
onyxes, rolling silently out of the sky. 

The visitor, shooting suddenly into 
this bay from out the gloom of the 
ravine, is delighted but astounded by 
the full orb of the declining sun, which 
he had supposed to be already far 
below the horizon, but which now con- 
fronts him, and forms the sole termina- 
tion of an otherwise limitless vista seen 


through another chasm-like rift in the 


hills, 

But here the voyager quits the vessel 
which has borne him so far, and de- 
scends into a light canoe of ivory, 
stained with arabesque devices in vivid 
scarlet, both within and without. The 
poop and beak of this boat arise high 
above the water, with sharp points, so 
that the general form is that of an 
irregular crescent. It lies on the sur- 
face of the bay with the proud grace of 


a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a 
single feathery paddle of satin-wood; 
but no oarsmen or attendant is to be 
seen. The guest is bidden to be of 
good cheer—that the fates will take 
care of him. The larger vessel dis- 
appears, and he is left alone in the 
canoe, which lies apparently motionless 
in the middle of the lake. While he 
considers what course to pursue, how- 
ever, he becomes aware of a gentle 
movement in the fairy bark. It slowly 
swings itself around until its prow 
points toward the sun. It advances 
with a gentle but gradually accelerated 
velocity, while the slight ripples it 
creates seem to break about the ivory 
side in divinest melody—seem to offer 
the only possible explanation of the 
soothing yet melancholy music for 
whose unseen origin the bewildered voy- 
ager looks around him in vain. 

The canoe steadily proceeds, and the 
rocky gate of the vista is approached, 
so that its depths can be more dis- 
tinctly seen. ‘To the right arise a chain 
of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly 
wooded. It is observed, however, that 
the trait of exquisite cleanness where 
the bank dips into the water, still pre- 
vails. There is not one token of the 
usual river debris. To the left the 
character of the scene is softer and 
more obviously artificial. Here the 
bank slopes upward from the stream 
in a very gentle ascent, forming a broad 
sward of grass of a texture resembling 
nothing so much as velvet, and of a 
brilliancy of green which would bear 
comparison with the tint of the purest 
emerald. This plateau varies in width 
from ten to three hundred yards; reach- 


Paes a 























THE DOMAIN 


ing from the river-bank to a wall, fifty 
feet high, which extends, in an infinity 
of curves, but following the general 
direction of the river, until lost in the 
distance to the westward. This wall 
is of one continuous rock, and has been 
formed by cutting perpendicularly the 
once rugged precipice of the stream’s 
southern bank; but no «race of the 
labor has been suffered to remain. The 
chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and 
is profusely overhung and overspread 
with the ivy, the coral honeysuckle, the 
eglantine, and the clematis. The uni- 
formity of the top and bottom lines of 
the wall is fully relieved by occasional 
trees of gigantic height, growing singly 
or in small groups, both along the 
plateau and in the domain behind the 
wall, but in close proximity to it; so 
that frequent limbs (of the black wal- 
nut especially) reach over and dip their 
pendent extremities in the water. Far- 
ther back within the domain, the vision 
is impeded by an impenetrable screen 
of foliage. 

These things are observed during the 
canoe’s gradual approach to what I have 
called the gate of the vista. On draw- 
ing nearer to this, however, its chasm- 
like appearance vanishes; a new outlet 
from the bay is discovered to the left— 
in which direction the wall is also seen 
to sweep, still following the general 
course of the stream. Down this new 
opening the eye cannot penetrate very 
far; for the stream, accompanied by 
the wall, still bends to the left, until 
both are swallowed up by the leaves. 

The boat, nevertheless, glides mag- 
ically into the winding channel; and 
here the shore opposite the wall is 


OF ARNHEIM 297 


found to resemble that opposite the 
wall in the straight vista. Lofty hills, 
rising occasionally into mountains, and 
covered with vegetation in wild luxu-- 
riance, still shut in the scene. 

Floating gently onward, but with a 
velocity slightly augmented, the voy- 
ager, after many short turns, finds his 
progress apparently barred by a gigan- 
tic gate or rather door of burnished - 
gold, elaborately carved and fretted, and 
reflecting the direct rays of the now 
fast-sinking sun with an effulgence that 
seems to wreath the whole surrounding 
forest in flames. This gate is inserted 
in the lofty wall; which here appears 
to cross the river at right angles. In 
a few moments, however, it is seen that 
the main body of the water still sweeps 
in a gentle and extensive curve to the 
left, the wall following it as before, 
while a stream of considerable volume, 
diverging from the principal one, makes 
its way, with a slight ripple, under the 
door, and is thus hidden from sight. 
The canoe falls into the lesser channel 
and approaches the gate. Its ponderous 
wings are slowly and musically ex- 
panded. The boat glides between them, 
and commences a rapid descent into a 
vast amphitheatre entirely begirt with 
purple mountains, whose bases are laved 
by a gleaming river throughout the 
full extent of their circuit. Meantime 
the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts 
upon the view. There is a gush of 
entrancing melody; there is an oppres- 
sive sense of strange sweet odor;— 
there is a dream-like intermingling to 
the eye of tall slender Eastern trees— 
bosky shrubberies—flocks of golden and 
crimson birds—lily-fringed lakes — 


298 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, 
hyacinths, and tuberoses—long inter- 
tangled lines of silver streamlets—and, 
upspringing confusedly from amid all, 
a mass of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic 
architecture, sustaining itself by miracle 


in mid-air; glittering in the red sun- 
light with a hundred oriels, minarets, 
and pinnacles; and seeming the phan- 
tom handiwork, conjointly, of the 
Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Genii, and 
of the Gnomes. 


Landor’s Cottage 


A PENDANT TO “THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM” 


DurRING a pedestrian trip last sum- 
mer, through one or two of the river 
counties of New York, I found myself, 
as the day declined, somewhat embar- 
rassed about the road I was pursuing. 
The land undulated very remarkably; 
and my path, for the last hour, had 
wound about and about so confusedly, 
in its effort to keep in the valleys, that 
I no longer knew in what direction lay 
the sweet village of B , where I 
had determined to stop for the night. 
The sun had scarcely shone—strictly 
speaking—during the day, which never- 
theless, had been unpleasantly warm. 
A smoky mist, resembling that of the 
Indian summer, enveloped all things, 
and of course, added to my uncertainty. 
Not that I cared much about the mat- 
ter. If I did not hit upon the village 
before sunset, or even before dark, it 
was more than possible that a little 
Dutch farmhouse, or something of that 
kind, would soon make its appearance 
—although, in fact, the neighborhood 
(perhaps on account of being more pic- 
turesque than fertile) was very sparsely 
inhabited. At all events, with my knap- 
sack for a pillow, and my hound as a 
sentry, a bivouac in the open air was 
just the thing which would have amused 





me. I sauntered on, therefore, quite 
at ease—Ponto taking charge of my 
gun—until at length, just as I had 
begun to consider whether the numer- 
ous little glades that led hither and 
thither, were intended to be paths at 
all, I was conducted by one of them 
into an unquestionable carriage track. 
There could be no mistaking it. The 
traces of light wheels were evident; 
and although the tall shrubberies and 
overgrown undergrowth met overhead, 
there was no obstruction whatever be- 
low, even to the passage of a Virginian 
mountain wagon—the most aspiring 
vehicle, I take it, of its kind. The 
road, however, except in being open 
through the wood—if wood be not too 
weighty a name for such an assemblage 
of light trees—and except in the par- 
ticulars of evident wheel-tracks—bore 
no resemblance to any road I haa 
before seen. The tracks of which I 
speak were but faintly perceptible— 
having been impressed upon the firm, 
yet pleasantly moist surface of—what 
looked more like green Genoese velvet 
than any thing else. It was grass, 
clearly—but grass such as we seldom 
see out of England—so short, so thick, 
so even, and so vivid in color. Nota 





1| 








I knew not. 
_—that did not surprise me—all roads, 


expense. 
but the character of the art which 
- caused me to take a seat on one of the 





- or more in bewildered admiration. 





LANDOR’S COTTAGE 


single impediment lay in the wheel- 


route—not even a chip or dead twig. 
The stones that once obstructed the 


way had been carefully placed—not 


thrown—along the sides of the lane, 
so as to define its beundaries at bottom 


with a kind of half-precise, half-negli- 
gent, and wholly picturesque definition. 
Clumps of wild flowers grew every- 
_ where, luxuriantly, in the interspaces. 


What to make of all this, of course 
Here was art undoubtedly 


in the ordinary sense, are works of art; 
nor can I say that there was much to 
wonder at in the mere excess of art 
manifested; all that seemed to have 
been done, might have been done here 
—with such natural “capabilities” (as 
they have it in the books on Landscape 
Gardening )—with very little labor and 
No; it was not the amount 


blossomy stones and gaze up and down 
this fairy-like avenue for half an hour 
One 
thing became more and more evident 
the longer I gazed: an artist, and one 
with a most scrupulous eye for form, 
had superintended all these arrange- 
ments. The greatest care had been 
taken to preserve a due medium be- 
tween the neat and graceful on the 
one hand, and the pittoresque, in the 
true sense of the Italian term, on the 
other. There were few straight, and no 
long uninterrupted lines. The same 
effect of curvature or of color appeared 
twice, usually, but not oftener, at any 
one point of view. Everywhere was 
variety in uniformity. It was a piece 
of “composition,’ in which the most 


299 


fastidiously critical taste could scarcely 
have suggested an emendation. 

I had turned to the right as I en- 
tered this road, and now, arising, I con- 
tinued in the same direction. The path 
was so serpentine, that at no moment 
could I trace its course for more than 
two or three paces in advance. Its 
character did not undergo any material 
change. 

Presently the murmur of water fell 
gently upon my ear—and in a few mo- 
ments afterward, as I turned with the 
road somewhat more abruptly than 
hitherto, I became aware that a build- 
ing of some kind lay at the foot of a 
gentle declivity just before me. I could 
see nothing distinctly on account of the 
mist which occupied all the little valley 
below. A gentle breeze, however, now 
arose, as the sun was about descending; 
and while I remained standing on the 
brow of the slope, the fog gradually 
became dissipated into wreaths, and so 
floated over the scene. 

As it came fully into view—thus 
gradually as I describe it—piece by 
piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of 
water, and here again the summit of a 
chimney, I could scarcely help fancying 
that the whole was one of the ingenious 
illusions sometimes exhibited under the 
name of “vanishing pictures.” 

By the time, however, that the fog 
had thoroughly disappeared, the sun had 
made its way down behind the gentle 
hills, and thence,’ as if with a slight 
chassez to the south, had come again 
fully into sight, glaring with a purplish 
lustre through a chasm that entered the 
valley from the west. Suddenly, there- 
fore—and as if by the hand of magic— 
this whole valley and every thing in it 
became brilliantly visible. 


300 


The first coup dail, as the sun slid 
into the position described, impressed 
me very much as I have been im- 
pressed, when a boy, by the concluding 
scene of some well-arranged theatrical 
spectacle or melodrama. Not even the 
monstrosity of color was wanting; for 
the sunlight came out through the 
chasm, tinted all orange and purple; 
while the vivid green of the grass in 
the valley was reflected more or less 
upon all objects from the curtain of 
vapor that still hung overhead, as if 
loth to take its total departure from a 
scene so enchantingly beautiful. 

The little vale into which I thus 
peered down from under the fog-canopy 
could not have been more than four 
hundred yards long; while in breadth 
it varied from fifty to one hundred and 
fifty or perhaps two hundred. It was 
most narrow at its northern extremity, 
opening out as it tended southwardly, 
but with no very precise regularity. 
The widest portion was within eighty 
yards of the southern extreme. The 
slopes which encompassed the vale 
could not fairly be called hills, unless 
at their northern face. Here a precipi- 
tous ledge of granite arose to a height 
of some ninety feet; and, as I have 
mentioned, the valley at this point was 
not more than fifty feet wide; but as 
the visitor proceeded southwardly from 
the cliff, he found on his right hand 
and on his left, declivities at once less 
high, less precipitous, and less rocky. 
All, in a word, sloped and softened to 
the south; and yet the whole vale was 
engirdled by eminences, more or less 
high, except at two points. One of 
these I have already spoken of. It lay 
considerably to the north of west, and 
was where the setting sun made its 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


way, as I have before described, into 
the amphitheatre, through a clean cut 
natural cleft in the granite embank- 
ment; this fissure might have been ten 
yards wide at its widest point, so far 
as the eye could trace it. It seemed 
to lead up, up like a natural causeway, 
into the recesses of unexplored moun~ 
tains and forests. The other opening 
was directly at the southern end of the 
vale. Here, generally, the slopes were 
nothing more than gentle inclinations, 
extending from east to west about one 
hundred and fifty yards. In the middle 
of this extent was a depression, level 
with the ordinary floor of the valley. 
As regards vegetation, as well as in 
respect to every thing else, the scene 
softened and sloped to the south. To 
the north—on the craggy precipice—a 
few paces from the verge—up sprang 
the magnificent trunks of numerous 
hickories, black walnuts, and chestnuts, 
interspersed with occasional oak; and 
the strong lateral branches thrown out 
by the walnuts especially, spread far 
over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding 
southwardly, the explorer saw, at first, 
the same class of trees, but less and 
less lofty and Salvatorish in character; 
then he saw the gentler elm, succeeded 
by the sassafras and locust—these again 
by the softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, 
and maple—these yet again by still 
more graceful and more modest varie- 
ties. The whole face of the southern 
declivity was covered with wild shrub- 
bery alone—an occasional silver willow 
or white poplar excepted. In the bot- 
tom of the valley itselfi—(for it must 
be borne in mind that the vegetation 
hitherto mentioned grew only on the 
cliffs or hillsides)—were to be seen 
three insulated trees. One was an elm 


LANDOR’S COTTAGE 


of fine size and exquisite form: it stood 
guard over the southern gate of the 
vale. Another was a hickory, much 
larger than the elm, and altogether a 
much finer tree, although both were 
exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have 
taken charge of the northwestern en- 
trance, springing from a group of rocks 
in the very jaws of the ravine, and 
throwing its graceful body, at an angle 
of nearly forty-five degrees, far out 
into the sunshine of the amphitheatre. 
About thirty yards east of this tree 
stood, however, the pride of the valley, 
and beyond all question the most mag- 
nificent tree I have ever seen, unless, 
perhaps, among the cypresses of the 
Itchiatuckanee. It was a. triple- 
stemmed tulip-tree—the Liriodendron 
Tulipiferum—one of the natural order 
of magnolias. Its three trunks sepa- 
rated from the parent at about three 
feet from the soil, and diverging very 
slightly and gradually, were not more 
than four feet apart at the point where 
the largest stem shot out into foliage: 
this was at an elevation of about eighty 
feet. The whole height of the principal 
division was one hundred and twenty 
feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty 
the form, or the glossy, vivid green of 
the leaves of the tulip-tree. In the 
present instance they were fully eight 
inches wide; but their glory was alto- 
gether eclipsed by the gorgeous splendor 
of the profuse blossoms. Conceive, 
closely congregated, a million of the 
largest and most resplendent tulips! 
Only thus can the reader get any idea 
of the picture I would convey. And 
then the stately grace of the clean, deli- 
cately-granulated columnar stems, the 
largest four feet in diameter, at twenty 
from the ground. The innumerable 


301 


blossoms, mingling with those of other 
trees scarcely less beautiful, although 
infinitely less majestic, filled the valley 
with more than Arabian perfumes. 

_ The general floor of the amphitheatre 
was grass of the same character as that 
IT had found in the road; if any thing, 
more deliciously soft, thick, velvety, 
and miraculously green. It was hard 
to conceive how all this beauty had 
been attained. 

I have spoken of two openings into 
the vale. From the one to the north- 
west issued a rivulet, which came, gently 
murmuring and slightly foaming, down 
the ravine, until it dashed against the 
group of rocks out of which sprang the 
insulated hickory. Here, after encir- 
cling the tree, it passed on a little tc 
the north of east, leaving the tulip tree 
some twenty feet to the south, anc 
making no decided alteration in its 
course until it came near the midway 
between the eastern and western boun- 
daries of the valley. At this point, 
after a series of sweeps, it turned off 
at right angles and pursued a generally 
southern direction—meandering as it 
went—until it became lost in a small 
lake of irregular figure (although 
roughly oval), that lay gleaming near 
the lower extremity of the vale. This 
lakelet was, perhaps, a hundred yards 
in diameter at its widest part. No 
crystal could be clearer than its waters. 
Its bottom, which could be distinctly 
seen, consisted altogether of pebbles 
brilliantly white. Its banks, of the 
emerald grass already described, 
rounded, rather than sloped, off into 
the clear heaven below; and so clear 
was this heaven, so perfectly, at times, 
did it reflect all objects above it, that 
where the true bank ended and where 


302 


the mimic one commenced, it was a 
point of no little difficulty to deter- 
mine. ‘The trout, and some other va- 
rieties of fish, with which this pond 
seemed to be almost inconveniently 
crowded, had all the appearance of ver- 
itable flying-fish. It was almost impos- 
sible to believe that they were not 
absolutely suspended in the air. A 
light birch canoe that lay placidly on 
the water, was reflected in its minutest 
fibres with a fidelity unsurpassed by 
the most exquisitely polished mirror. 
A small island, fairly laughing with 
flowers in full bloom, and affording 
little more space than just enough for 
a picturesque little building, seemingly 
a fowl-house—arose from the lake not 
far from its northern shore—to which 
it was connected by means of an incon- 
ceivably light-looking and yet very 
primitive bridge. It was formed of a 
single, broad and thick plank of the 
tulip wood. This was forty feet long, 
and spanned the interval between shore 
and shore with a slight but very per- 
ceptible arch, preventing all oscillation. 
From the southern extreme of the lake 
issued a continuation of the rivulet, 
which, after meandering for, perhaps, 
thirty yards, finally passed through the 
“depression” (already described) in the 
middle of the southern declivity, and 
tumbling down a sheer precipice of a 
hundred feet, made its devious and 
unnoticed way to the Hudson. 

The lake was deep—at some points 
thirty feet—but the rivulet seldom ex- 
ceeded three, while its greatest width 
was about eight. Its bottom and banks 
were as those of the pond—if a defect 
could have been attributed, in point of 
picturesqueness, it was that of excessive 
neatness. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The expanse of the green turf was 
relieved, here and there, by an occa- 
sional showy shrub, such as the hydran- 
gea, or the common snowball, or the 
aromatic seringa; or, more frequently, 
by a clump of geraniums blossoming 
gorgeously in great varieties. These 
latter grew in pots which were carefully 
buried in the soil, so as to give the 
plants the appearance of being indig- 
eneous. Besides all this, the lawn’s 
velvet was exquisitely spotted with 
sheep—a considerable flock of which 
roamed about the vale, in company with 
three tamed deter, and a vast number 
of brilliantly-plumed ducks. A_ very 
large mastiff seemed to be in vigilant 
attendance upon these animals, each 
and all. Along the eastern and western 
cliffs—where, toward the upper portion 
of the amphitheatre, the boundaries 
were more or less precipitous—grew ivy 
in great profusion—so that only here 
and there could even a glimpse of the 
naked rock be obtained. The northern 
precipice, in like manner, was almost 
entirely clothed by grape-vines of rare 
luxuriance; some springing from the 
soil at the base of the cliff, and others 
from ledges on its face. 

The slight elevation which formed 
the lower boundary of this little do- 
main, was crowned by a neat stone wall, 
of sufficient height to prevent the es- 
cape of the deer. Nothing of the fence 
kind was observable elsewhere, for no- 
where else was an artificial enclosure 
needed :—any stray sheep, for example, 
which should attempt to make its way 
out of the vale by means of the ravine, 
would find its progress arrested, after 
a few yards’ advance, by the precipitous 
ledge of rock over which tumbled the 
cascade that had arrested my attention 

















LANDOR’S COTTAGE 


7 


as I first drew near the domain. In 
short, the only ingress or egress was 
through a gate occupying a rocky pass 
in the road, a few paces below the 
point at which I stopped to reconnoitre 
the scene. 

I have described the brook as mean- 
dering very irregularly through the 
whole of its course. Its two general 
directions, as I have said, were first 
from west to east, and then from north 
to south. At the turn, the stream, 
sweeping backward, made an almost 
circular loop, so as to form a peninsula 
which was very nearly an island, and 
which included about the sixteenth of 
an acre. On this peninsula stood a 
dwelling-house—and when I say that 
this house, like the infernal terrace seen 
by Vathek, “etait d'une architecture 
inconnue dans les annales de la terre,” 
I mean, merely, that its tout ensemble 
struck me with the keenest sense of 
combined novelty and propriety—in a 
word, of poetry—(for, than in the 
words just employed, I could scarcely 
give, of poetry in the abstract, a more 
rigorous definition)—and I do not mean 
that merely outre was perceptible in 
any respect. 

In fact nothing could well be more 
simple—more utterly unpretending than 
this cottage. Its marvellous effect lay 
altogether in its artistic arrangement as 
a picture. I could have fancied, while 
I looked at it, that some eminent land- 
scape-painter had built it with his 
brush. 

The point of view from which I 
first saw the valley, was not altogether, 
although it was nearly, the best point 
from which to survey the house. I 
will therefore describe it as I after- 
wards saw it—from a position on the 


303 


stone wall at the southern extreme of 
the amphitheatre. 

The main building was about twenty- 
four feet long and sixteen broad—cer- 
tainly not more. Its total height, from 
the ground to the apex of the roof, 
could not have exceeMed eighteen feet. 
To the west end of this structure was 
attached one about a third smaller in 
all its proportions:—the line of its 
front standing back about two yards 
from that of the larger house; and the 
line of its roof, of course, being con- 
siderably depressed below that of the 
roof adjoining. At right angles to these 
buildings, and from the rear of the 
main one—not exactly in the middle— 
extended a third compartment, very 
small—being, in general, one-third less 
than the western wing. The roofs of 
the two larger were very steep—sweep- 
ing down from the ridge-beam with a 
long concave curve, and extending at 
least four feet beyond the walls in 
front, so as to form the roofs of tw3 
piazzas. These latter roofs, of course, 
needed no support; but as they had 
the air of needing it, slight and per- 
fectly plain pillars were inserted at the 
corners alone. The roof of the north- 
ern wing was merely an extension of a 
portion of the main roof. Between the 
chief building and western wing arose 
a very tall and rather slender square 
chimney of hard Dutch bricks, alter- 
nately black and red:—a slight cornice 
of projecting bricks at the top. Over 
the gables the roofs also projected very 
much:—in the main building about four 
feet to the east and two to the west. 
The principal door was not exactly in 
the main division, being a little to the 
east—while the two windows were to 
the west. These latter did not extend 


304 


to the floor, but were much longer and 
narrower than usual—they had single 
shutters like doors—the panes were of 
lozenge form, but quite large. The 
door itself had its upper half of glass, 
also in lozenge panes—a moveable shut- 
ter secured it at night. The door to 
the west wing was in its gable, and 
quite simple—a single window looked 
out to the south. There was no ex- 
ternal door to the north wing, and it 
also had only one window to the east. 

The blank wall of the eastern gable 
was relieved by stairs (with a balus- 
trade) running diagonally across it—the 
ascent being from the south. Under 
cover of the widely projecting eave 
these steps gave access to a door lead- 
ing into the garret, or rather loft—for 
jt was lighted only by a single window 
to the north, and seemed to have been 
intended as a store room. 

The piazzas of the main building and 
westérn wing had no floors, as is usual; 
but at the doors. and at each window, 
large, flat irregular slabs of granite lay 
imbedded in the delicious turf, affording 
comfortable footing in all weather. 
Excellent paths of the same material— 
not nicely adapted, but with the velvety 
sod filling frequent intervals between 
the stones, led hither and thither from 
the house, to a crystal spring above 
five paces off, to the road, or to one 
or two out-houses that lay to the north, 
beyond the brook, and were thoroughly 
concealed by a few locusts and catalpas. 

Not more than six steps from the 
main door of the cottage stood the dead 
trunk of a fantastic pear-tree, so 
clothed from head to foot in the gor- 
geous bignonia blossoms that one re- 
quired no little scrutiny. to determine 
what manner of sweet thing it could be. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


From various arms of this tree hung 
cages of different kinds. In one, a large 
wicker cylinder with a ring at top, 
revelled a mocking bird; in another an 
oriole; in a third the impudent bobo- 
link—while three or four more delicate 
prisons were loudly vocal with canaries. 

The pillars of the piazza were en- 
wreathed in jasmine and sweet honey- 
suckle; while from the angle formed 
by the main structure and its west 
wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of 
unexampled luxuriance. Scorning all 
restraint, it had clambered first to the 
lower roof—then to the higher; and 
along the ridge of this latter it con- 
tinued to writhe on, throwing out ten- 
drils to the right and left, until at 
length it fairly attained the east gable, 
and fell trailing over the stairs. 

The whole house, with its wings, was 
constructed of the old-fashioned Dutch 
shingles—broad, and with unrounded 
corners. It is a peculiarity of this 
material to give houses built of it the 
appearance of being wider at bottom 
than at top—after the manner of Egyp- 
tian architecture; and in the present 
instance, this exceedingly picturesque 
effect was aided by numerous pots of 
gorgeous flowers that almost encom- 
passed the base of the buildings. 

The shingles were painted a dull 
gray; and the happiness with which this 
neutral tint melted into the vivid green 
of the tulip tree leaves that partially 
overshadowed the cottage, can readily 
be conceived by an artist. 

From the position near the stone 
wall, as described, the buildings were 
seen at great advantage—for the south- 
eastern angle was thrown forward—so 
that the eye took in at once the whole 
of the two fronts, with the picturesque 


LANDOR’S COTTAGE 


eastern gable, and at the same time 
obtained just a sufficient glimpse of the 
northern wing, with parts of a pretty 
roof to the spring-house, and nearly 
nalf a light bridge that spanned the 
brook in the near vicinity of the main 
buildings. 

I did not remain very long on the 
brow of the hill, although long enough 
to make a thorough survey of the scene 
at my feet. It was clear that I had 


wandered from the road to the village, 


and I had thus good travellers’ excuse 
to open the gate before me, and inquire 
my way, at all events; so, without more 
ado, I proceeded. 

The road, after passing the gate, 
seemed to lie upon a natural ledge, 
sloping gradually down along the face 
of the north-eastern cliffs. It led me 
on to the foot of the northern precipice, 
and thence over the bridge, round by 
the eastern gable to the front door. In 
this progress, I took notice that no 
sight of the out-houses could be ob- 
tained. 

As I turned the corner of the gable, 
the mastiff bounded towards me in 
stern silence, but with the eye and the 
whole air of a tiger. I held him out 
my hand, however, in token of amity— 
and I never yet knew the dog who was 
proof against such an appeal to his 
courtesy. He not only shut his mouth 
and wagged his tail, but absolutely 
offered me his paw—afterward extend- 
ing his civilities to Ponto. 

As no bell was discernible, I rapped 
with my stick against the door, which 
stood half open. Instantly a figure 
advanced to the threshold—that of a 
young woman about twenty-eight years 
of age—slender, or rather slight, and 
somewhat above the medium height. 


305 


As she approached, with a certain mod- 
est decision of step altogether inde- 
scribable, I said to myself, “Surely 
here I have found the perfection of 
natural, in contradistinction from arti- 
ficial grace.” The second impression 
which she made on me, but by far the 
more vivid of the two, was that of 
enthusiasm. So intense an expression 
of romance, perhaps I should call it, or 
of unworldliness, as that which gleamed 
from her deep-set eyes, had never so 
sunk into my heart of hearts before. 


‘ I know not how it is, but this peculiar 


expression of the eye, wreathing itself 
occasionally into the lips, is the most 
powerful, if not absolutely the sole 


spell, which rivets my interest in 
woman. “Romance,” provided my 
readers fully comprehended what I 


would here imply by the word—‘ro- 
mance” and “womanliness” seem to me 
convertible terms: and, after all, what 
man truly Joves in woman, is simply 
her womanhood. The eyes of Annie* 
(I heard some one from the interior 
call her “Annie, darling!”) were “spir- 
itual gray;” her hair, a light chestnut: 
this is all I had time to observe of her. 
At her most courteous of invitations, 
I entered—passing first into a tolerably 
wide vestibule. Having come mainly to 
observe, I took notice that to my right 
as I stepped in, was a window, such as 
those in front of the house; to the left, 
a door leading into the principal room; 
while, opposite me, an open door 
enabled me to see a small apartment, 
just the size of the vestibule, arranged 
as a study, and having a large bow 
window looking out to the north. 
Passing into the parlor, I found my- 


* See poem ‘For Annie.”—Ed. 


306 


self with Mr. Landor—for this, I after- 
wards found, was his name. He was 
civil, even cordial in his manner; but 
just then, I was more intent on observ- 
ing the arrangements of the dwelling 
which had so much interested me, than 
the personal appearance of the tenant. 

The north wing, I now saw, was a 
bed-chamber; its door opened into the 
parlor. West of this door was a single 
window, looking toward the brook. At 
the west end of the parlor, were a fire- 
place, and a door leading into the west 
wing—probably a kitchen. 

Nothing could be more rigorously 
simple than the furniture of the parlor. 
On the floor was an ingrain carpet, of 


excellent texture—a white ground, 
spotted with small circular green 
figures. At the windows were curtains 


of snowy white jaconet muslin: they 
were tolerably full, and hung decisively, 
perhaps rather formally in sharp, paral- 
lel plaits to the floor—just¢ to the floor. 
The walls were prepared with a French 
paper of great delicacy, a silver ground, 
with a faint green cord running zig-zag 
throughout. Its expanse was relieved 
merely by three of Julien’s exquisite 
lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to 
the wall without frames. One of these 
drawings was a scene of Oriental lux- 
ury, or rather voluptuousness; another 
was a “carnival piece,” spirited beyond 
cempare; the third was a Greek female 


- Same 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


head—a face so divinely beautiful, and 
yet of an expression so provokingly in- 
determinate, never before arrested my 
attention. 

The more substantial furniture con- 
sisted of a round table, a few chairs 
(including a large rocking-chair), and 
a sofa, or rather “settee;” its material 
was plain maple painted a creamy 
white, slightly interstriped with green; 
the seat of cane. The chairs and table 
were “to match,” but the forms of all 
had evidently been designed by the 
brain which planned “the 
grounds;” it is impossible to conceive 
anything more graceful. 

On the table were a few books, a 
large, square, crystal bottle of some 
novel perfume, a plain ground-glass 
astral (not solar) lamp with an Italian 
shade, and a large vase of resplen. 
dently-blooming flowers. Flowers, in- 
deed, of gorgeous colours and delicate 
odour formed the sole mere decoration 
of the apartment. The fire-place was 
nearly filled with a vase of brilliant 
geranium. On a triangular shelf in each 
angle of the room stood also a similar 
vase, varied only as to its lovely con- 
tents. One or two smaller bouquets 
adorned the mantel, and late violets 
clustered about the open windows. 

It is not the purpose of this work 
to do more than give in detail, a picture 
of Mr. Landor’s residence as I found it. 











VOLUME IV 





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1 





The Island of the Fay 


(First published in Graham’s Magazine, June, 1841.—Ed.) 


Nullus enim locus sine genio est.— 
Servius. 


“LA MUSIQUE,” says Marmontel, in 
those “Contes Moraux” * which in all 
our translations, we have insisted upon 
calling “Moral Tales,” as if in mock- 
ery of their spirit—“/a musique est le 
seul des talents qui jouissent de lui- 
meme; tous les autres veulent des te- 
moins.” He here confounds the pleas- 
ure derivable from sweet sounds with 
the capacity for creating them. No 
more than any other ‘alent, is that for 
music susceptible of complete enjoy- 
ment, where there is no second party 
to appreciate its exercise. And it is 
only in common with other talents 
that it produces effects which may be 
fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea 
which the raconteur has either failed 
to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed 
in its expression to his national love of 
point, is, doubtless, the very tenable 
one that the higher order of music 
is the most thoroughly estimated when 
we are exclusively alone. The prop- 
osition, in this form, will be ad- 
mitted at once by those who love 
the lyre for its own sake, and for its 
spiritual uses. But there is one pleas- 
ure still within the reach of fallen 
mortality—and perhaps only one— 


*Moraux is here derived from 
maeurs, and its meaning is “of man- 
ners.”—E. A. P. 


307 


which owes even more than does music 
to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. 
I mean the happiness experienced in 
the contemplation of natural scenery. 
In truth, the man who would behold 
aright the glory of God upon earth 
must in solitude behold that glory. To 
me, at least, the presence—not of hu- 
man life only, but of life in any other 
form than that of the green things 
which grow upon the soil and are voice- 
less—is a stain upon the landscape— 
is at war with the genius of the scene. 
I love, indeed, to regard the dark val- 
leys, and the gray rocks, and the wa- 
ters that silently smile, and the forests 
that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the 
proud watchful mountains that look 
down upon all,—I love to regard these 
as themselves but the colossal mem- 
bers of one vast animate and sentient 
whole—a whole whose form (that of 
the sphere) is the most perfect and 
most inclusive of all; whose path is 
among associate planets; whose meek 
handmaiden is the moon, whose medi- 
ate sovereign is the sun; whose life 


- is eternity; whose thought is that of a 


God; whose enjoyment is knowledge; 
whose destinies are lost in immensity; 
whose cognizance of ourselves is akin 
with our own cognizance of the animal- 
cule which infest the brain—a_ being 
which we, in consequence, regard as 
purely inanimate and material, much 
in the same manner as these animal- 
cule must regard us. 


308 


Our telescopes and our mathematical 
investigations assure us on every hand 
—notwithstanding the cant of the more 
ignorant of the priesthood—that space, 
and therefore that buik, is an impor- 
tant consideration in the eyes of the 
Almighty. The cycles in which the 
stars move are those best adapted 
for the evolution, without collision, of 
the greatest possible number of bodies. 
The forms of those bodies are accu- 
rately such as, within a given surface, 
to include the greatest possible amount 
of matter;—while the surfaces them- 
selves are so disposed as to accommo- 
date a denser population than could 
be accommodated on the same sur- 
faces otherwise arranged. Nor is it 
any argument against bulk being an 
object with God, that space itself is 
infinite; for there may be an infinity 
of matter to fill it. And since we see 
clearly that the endowment of matter 
with vitality is a principle—indeed, as 
far as our judgments extend, the lead- 
ing principle in the operations of Deity, 
—it is scarcely logical to imagine it 
confined to the regions of the minute, 
where we daily trace it, and not ex- 
tending to those of the august. As 
we find cycle within cycle without 
end,—yet all revolving around one far- 
distant centre which is the God-head, 
may we not analogically suppose in the 
same manner, life within life, the less 
within the greater, and all within the 
Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly 
erring, through self-esteem, in believ- 
ing man, in either his temporal or fu- 
ture destinies, to be of more moment 
in the universe than that vast ‘“‘clod 
of the valley” which he tills and con- 
temns, and to which he denies a soul 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


for no more profound reason than that 
he does not behold it in operation.* 

These fancies, and such as these, 
have always given to my meditations 
among the mountains and the forests, 
by the rivers and the ocean, a tinge 
of what the everyday world would not 
fail to term fantastic. My wanderings 
amid such scenes have been many, and 
far-searching, and often solitary; and 
the interest with which I have strayed 
through many a dim, deep valley, or 
gazed into the reflected heaven of many 
a bright lake, has been an interest 
greatly deepened by the thought that 
I have strayed and gazed alone. What 
flippant ‘Frenchman + was it who said 
in allusion to the well-known work of 
Zimmerman, that, “Ja solitude est une 
belle chose; mais i faut quelqu’un pour 
vous dire que la solitude est une belle 
chose?” The epigram cannot be gain- 
said; but the necessity is a thing that 
does not exist. 

It was during one of my lonely jour- 
neyings, amid a far distant region of 
mountain locked within mountain, and 
sad rivers and melancholy tarns writh- 
ing or sleeping within all—that I 
chanced upon a certain rivulet and is- 
land. I came upon them suddenly in 
the leafy June, and threw myself upon 
the turf, beneath the branches of an 
unknown odorous shrub, that I might 
doze as I contemplated the scene. I 
felt that thus only should IT look uner 





* Speaking of the tides, Pomponius 
Mela, in his treatise “De Situ Orbis,” 
says “either the world is a great ani- 
mal, or” etc.—E. A. P. 

+ Balzac—in substance—I do not re- 
member the words.——E. A. P. 














THE ISLAND OF THE FAY 


_ it—such was the character of phantasm 
which it wore. 


On all sides—save to the west, where 


the sun was about sinking—arose the 
_ verdant walls of the forest. 
_ river which turned sharply in its course, 


The little 


and was thus immediately lost to sight, 
seemed to have no exit from its prison, 


_ but to be absorbed by the deep green 


foliage of the trees to the east—while 


in the opposite quarter (so it appeared 


to me as I lay at length and glanced 
upward) there poured down noiselessly 
and continuously into the valley, a rich 
golden and crimson waterfall from the 
sunset fountains of the sky. 

About midway in the short vista 
which my dreamy vision took in, one 
small circular island, * profusely ver- 
dured, reposed upon the bosom of the 
stream. 


So blended bank and shadow there 
That each seemed pendulous in air— 


so mirror-like was the glassy water, 
that it was scarcely possible to say 
at what point upon the slope of the 
emerald turf its crystal dominion be- 
gan. 

My position enabled me to include 
in a single view both the eastern and 
western extremities of the islet, and 
I observed a singularly marked differ- 
ence in their aspects. The latter was 
all one radiant harem of garden beau- 
ties. It glowed and blushed beneath 
the eyes of the slant sunlight, and 
fairly laughed with flowers. The grass 
was short, springy, sweet-scented, and 
asphodel-interspersed. ‘The trees were 
lithe, mirthful, erect—bright, slender, 
and graceful,—of Eastern figure and 


309 


foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and 
parti-colored. There seemed a deep 
sense of life and joy about all; and 
although no airs blew from out the 
heavens, yet every thing had motion 
through the gentle sweepings to and 
fro of innumerable butterflies, that 
might have been mistaken for tulips 
with wings.* 

The other or eastern end of the isle 
was whelmed in the blackest shade. A 
sombre, yet beautiful and _ peaceful 
gloom here pervaded all things. The 
trees were dark in color, and mourn- 
ful in form and attitude, wreathing 
themselves into sad, solemn, and spec- 
tral shapes that conveyed ideas of mor- 
tal sorrow and untimely death. The 
grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, 
and the heads of its blades hung droop- 
ingly, and hither and thither among it 
were many small unsightly hillocks, 
low and narrow, and not very long, that 
had the aspect of graves, but were not; 
although over and all about them the 
rue and the rosemary clambered. The 
shade of the trees fell heavily upon 
the water, and seemed to bury itself 
therein, impregnating the depths of the 
element with darkness. I fancied that 
each shadow, as the sun descended 
lower and lower, separated itself sul- 
lenly from the trunk that gave it birth, 
and thus became absorbed by the 
stream; while other shadows issued mo- 
mently from the trees, taking the place 
of their predecessors thus entombed. 

This idea, having once seized upon 
my fancy, greatly excited it, and I lost 
myself forthwith in revery. “If ever 
island were enchanted,” said I to my- 


*Florem putares nare per liquidum 
ethera—P. Commire. 


310 


self, “this is it. This is the haunt of 
the few gentle Fays who remain from 
the wreck of the race. Are these green 
tombs theirsPp—or do they yield up 
their sweet lives as mankind yield up 
their own? In dying, do they not 
rather waste away mournfully, render- 
ing unto God, little by little, their ex- 
istence, as these trees render up shadow 
after shadow, exhausting their sub- 
stance unto dissolution? What the 
wasting tree is to the water that im- 
bibes its shade, growing thus blacker 
by what it preys upon, may not the 
life of the Fay be to the death which 
engulfs it?” 

As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, 
while the sun sank rapidly to rest, and 
eddying currents careered round and 
round the island, bearing upon their 
bosom large, dazzling, white flakes of 
the bark of the sycamore—flakes which, 
in their multiform positions upon the 
water, a quick imagination might have 
converted into any thing it pleased,— 
while I thus mused, it appeared to me 
that the form of one of those very 
Fays about whom I had been pon- 
dering made its way slowly into the 
darkness from out the light at the west- 
ern end of the island. She stood erect 
in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged 
it with the mere phantom of an oar. 
While within the influence of the lin- 
gering sunbeams, her attitude seemed 
indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed 
it as she passed within the shade. 
Slowly she glided along, and at length 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


rounded the islet and re-entered the re- 
gion of light. ‘The revolution which 
has just been made by the Fay,” con- 
tinued I, musingly, “is the cycle of the 
brief year of her life. She has floated 
through her winter and through her 
summer. She is a year nearer unto 
death; for I did not fail to see that, 
as she came into the shade, her shadow 
fell from her, and was swallowed up 
in the dark water, making its blackness 
more black.” 

And again the boat appeared and the 
Fay, but about the attitude of the lat- 
ter there was more of care and un- 
certainty and less of elastic joy. She 
floated again from out the light and 
into the gloom (which deepened mo- 
mently) and again her shadow fell from 
her into the ebony water, and became 
absorbed into its blackness. And again 
and again she made the circuit of the 
island, (while the sun rushed down 
to his slumbers), and at each issuing 
into the light there was more sorrow 
about her person, while it greew feebler 
and far fainter and more indistinct, 
and at each passage into the gloom 
there fell from her a darker shade, 
which became whelmed in a shadow 
more black. But at length when the 
sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now 
the mere ghost of her former self, 
went disconsolately with her boat into 
the region of the ebony flood, and that 
she issued thence at all I cannot say, 
for darkness fell over all things and I 
beheld her magical figure no more. 





— 











The Oval Portrait 


(First published in Graham’s Magazine, April, 1842. 


Also called Life in 


Death.—Ed.) | 


THE chateau into which my valet had 
} ventured to make forcible entrance, 
rather than permit me, in my desper- 
| ately wounded condition, to pass a 
| night in the open air, was one of those 
| piles of commingled gloom and gran- 
| deur which have so long frowned among 
the Appennines, not less in fact than 
| in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all 
' appearance it had been temporarily and 
_ very lately abandoned. We established 
ourselves in’ one of the smallest and 
least sumptuously furnished  apart- 
ments. It lay. in a remote turret of 
the building. Its decorations were rich, 
yet tattered and antique. Its walls 
were hung with tapestry and bedecked 
with manifold and multiform armorial 
trophies, together with an unusually 
great number of very spirited modern 
paintings in frames of rich golden ara- 
besque. In these paintings, which de- 
pended from the walls not only in their 
main surfaces, but in very many nooks 
which the bizarre architecture of the 
chateau rendered necessary—in these 
paintings my incipient delirium, per- 
haps, had caused me to take deep in- 
terest; so that I bade Pedro to close 
the heavy shutters of the room—since 
it was already night—to light the 
tongues of a tall candelabrum which 
stood by the head of my bed, and 
to throw open far and wide the fringed 
curtains of black velvet which envel- 
oped the bed itself. I wished all this 
done that I might resign myself, if 
not to sleep, at least alternately to the 


contemplation of these pictures, and the 
perusal of a small volume which had 
been found upon the pillow, and which 
purported to criticise and _ describe 
them. 

Long, long I read—and devoutly, de- 
voutly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously 
thé hours flew by and the deep mid- 
night came. The position of the can- 
delabrum displeased me, and outreach- 
ing my hand with difficulty, rather than 
disturb my slumbering valet, I placed 
it so as to throw its rays more fully 
upon the book. 

But the action produced an effect 
altogether unanticipated. The rays of 
the numerous candles (for there were 
many) now fell within a niche of the 
room which had hitherto been thrown 
into deep shade by one of the bed- 
posts. I thus saw in vivid light a pic- 
ture all unnoticed before. It was the 
portrait of a young girl just ripening 
into womanhood. I glanced at the 
painting hurriedly, and then closed my 
eyes. Why I did this was not at first 
apparent even to my own perception. 
But while my lids remained thus shut, 
T ran over in my mind my reason for 
so shutting them. It was an impulsive 
movement to gain time for thought— 
to make sure that my vision had not 
deceived me—to calm and subdue my 
fancy for a more sober and more cer- 
tain gaze. In a very few moments I 
again looked fixedly at the painting. 

That I now saw aright I could not 
and would not doubt; for the first 


gil 


312 


flashing of the candles upon that can- 
vas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy 
stupor which was stealing over my 
senses, and to startle me at once into 
waking life. — 

The portrait, I have already said, 
was that of a young girl. It was a 
mere head and shoulders, done in what 
is technically termed a vignette. man- 
ner; much in the style of the favorite 
heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, 
and even the ends of the radiant hair 
melted imperceptibly into the vague 
yet deep shadow which formed the 
background of the whole. The frame 
was oval, richly gilded and filigreed 
in Moresque. As a thing of art noth- 
ing could be more admirable than the 
painting itself. But it could have been 
neither the execution of the work, nor 
the immortal beauty of the counte- 
nance, which had so suddenly and so 
vehemently moved me. Least of all, 
could it have been that my fancy, 
shaken from its half slumber, had mis- 
taken the head for that of a living per- 
son. I saw at once that the peculiari- 
ties of the design, of the vignetting, 
and of the frame, must have instantly 
dispelled such idea—must have pre- 
vented even its momentary entertain- 
ment. Thinking earnestly upon these 
points, I remained, for an hour per- 
haps, half sitting, half reclining, with 
my vision riveted upon the portrait. 
At length, satisfied with the true secret 
of its effect, I fell back within the 
bed. I had found the spell of the pic- 
ture in an absolute Jife-likeliness of ex- 
pression, which, at first startling, finally 
confounded, subdued, and appalled me. 
With deep and reverent awe I replaced 
the candelabrum in its former position. 
The cause of my deep agitation being 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thus shut from view, I sought eagerly 
the volume which discussed the paint- 
ings and their histories. Turning to 
the number which designated the oval 
portrait, I there read the vague and 
quaint words which follow: 

“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, 
and not more lovely than full of glee. 
And evil was the hour when she saw, 
and loved, and wedded the painter. 
He, passionate, studious, austere, and 
having already a bride in his Art; she 
a maiden of rarest beauty, and not 
more lovely than full of glee; all light 
and smiles, and frolicsome as the young 
fawn; loving and cherishing all things; 
hating only the Art which was her rival; 
dreading only the pallet and brushes 
and other untoward instruments which 
deprived her of the countenance of her 
lover. It was thus a terrible thing for 
this lady to hear the painter speak of 
his desire to portray even his young 
bride. But she was humble and obe- 
dient, and sat meekly for many weeks 
in the dark, high turret-chamber where 
the light dripped upon the pale canvas 
only from overhead. But he, the 
painter, took glory in his work, which 
went on from hour to hour, and from 
day to day. And he was a passionate, 
and wild, and moody man, who became 
lost in reveries; so that he would not 
see that the light which fell so ghastly 
in that lone turret withered the health 
and the spirits of his bride, who pined 
visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled 
on and still on, uncomplainingly, be- 
cause she saw that the painter (who 
had high renown) took a fervid and 
burning pleasure in his task, and 
wrought day and night to depict her 
who so loved him, yet who grew daily 


BERENICE 


more dispirited and weak. And in sooth 
some who beheld the portrait spoke 
of its resemblance in low words, as of 
a mighty marvel, and a proof not less 
of the power of the painter than of 
his deep love for her whom he depicted 
so surpassingly well. But at length, 
as the labor drew nearer to its conclu- 
sion, there were admitted none into 
the turret; for the painter had grown 
wild with the ardor of his work, and 
turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, 
even to regard the countenance of his 
wife. And he would not see that the 
tints which he spread upon the can- 
vas were drawn from the cheeks of 


313 


her who sat beside him. And when 
many weeks had passed, and but little 
remained to do, save one brush upon 
the mouth and one tint upon the eye, 
the spirit of the lady again flickered 
up as the flame within the socket of 
the lamp. And then the brush was 
given, and then the tint was placed; 
and, for one moment, the painter stood 
entranced before the work which he 
had wrought; but in the next, while he 
yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very 
pallid, and aghast, and crying with a 
loud voice, “This is indeed Life itself!’ 
turned suddenly to regard his beloved: 
—She was dead!” 


Berenice 


(First published in the Southern Literary Messenger, March, 1835.—Ed.) 


Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum 
amicz visitarem, curas meas aliquan- 
tulum fore levatas—Ebn Zaiat. 


Misery is manifold. The wretched- 
ness of earth is multiform. Overarch- 
ing the wide horizon as the rainbow, 
its hues are as various as the hues of 
that arch, as distinct too, yet as inti- 
mately blended. Overarching the wide 
horizon as the rainbow! How is it 
that from beauty I have derived a 
type of unloveliness? from the cove- 
nant of peace a simile of sorrow? But 
as in ethics, evil is a consequence of 
good, so in fact, out of joy is sorrow 
born. Either the memory of the past 
bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the 
agonies which are have their origin 
in the ecstasies which might have been. 

My baptismal name is Egeus, that of 


my family I will not mention. Yet 
there are no towers in the land more 
time-honoured than my gloomy, grey, 
hereditary halls. Our line has been 
called a race of visionaries; and in 
many striking particulars—in the char- 
acter of the family mansion, in the 
frescoes of the chief saloon, in the tap- 
estries of the dormitories, in the chisel- 
ling of some buttresses in the armoury, 
but more especially in the gallery oi 
antique paintings, in the fashion of the 
library chamber, and lastly, in the very 
peculiar nature of the library’s contents 
—there is more than sufficient evidence 
to warrant the belief. 

The recollections of my earliest years 
are connected with that chamber, and 
with its volumes—of which latter I will 
say no more. Here died my mother. 
Herein was I born. But it is mere idle- 


314 


ness to say that I had not lived be- 
fore—that the soul has no previous ex- 
istence. You deny it —let us not 
argue the matter. Convinced myself, 
I seek not to convince. There is, how- 
ever, a remembrance of aerial forms— 
of spiritual and meaning eyes—of 
sounds, musical yet sad; a remembrance 
which will not be excluded; a memory 
like a shadow—vague, variable, indefi- 
nite, unsteady; and like a shadow, too, 
in the impossibility of my getting rid 
of it while the sunlight of my reason 
shall exist. 

In that chamber was I born. Thus 
awaking from the long night of what 
seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once 
into the very regions of fairy land— 
into a palace of imagination—into the 
wild dominions of monastic thought 
and erudition—it is not singular that I 
gazed around me with a startled and 
ardent eye—that I loitered away my 
boyhood in books, and dissipated my 
youth in revery; but it zs singular, that 
as years rolled away, and the noon of 
manhood found me still in the mansion 
of my fathers—it is wonderful what a 
stagnation there fell upon the springs 
of my life—wonderful how total an 
inversion took place in the character of 
my commonest thought. ‘The realities 
of the world affected me as visions, and 
as visions only, while the wild ideas of 
the land of dreams became, in turn, not 
the material of my every-day existence, 
but in very deed that existence utterly 
and solely in itself. 

x OK ** * * * 

Berenice and I were cousins, and we 
grew up together in my paternal halls. 
Yet differently we grew—l, ill of health, 
and buried in gloom—she, agile, grace- 
ful, and overflowing with energy; her’s 


its fountains! 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the ramble on the hiil-side—mine, the 
studies of the cloister; I, living within 
my own heart, and addicted, body and 
soul, to the most intense and painful 
meditation — she, roaming carelessly 
through life, with no thought of the 
shadows in her path, or the silent flight 
of the raven-winged hours. Berenice! 
—TI call upon her name—Berenice!— 
and from the gray ruins of memory a 
thousand tumultuous recollections are 
startled at the sound! Ah, vividly is 
her image before me now, as in the 
early days of her light-heartedness and 
joy! Oh, gorgeous yet fantastic 
beauty! Oh, syiph amid the shrub- 
beries of Arnheim! Oh, naiad among 
And then—then all is 
mystery and terror, and a tale which 
should not be told. Disease—a fatal 
disease, fell like the simoom upon her 
frame; and even, while I gazed upon 
her, the spirit of change swept over 
her, pervading her mind, her. habits 
and her character, and, in a manner 
the most subtle and terrible, disturbing 
even the identity of her person! Alas! 
the destroyer came and went!—and the 
victim—where is she? JI knew her 
not—or knew her no longer as Bere- 
nice! 

Among the numerous train of mala- 
dies superinduced by that fatal and 
primary one which effected a revolu- 
tion of so horrible a kind in the moral 
and physical being of my cousin, may 
be mentioned as the most distressing 
and obstinate in its nature, a species 
of epilepsy not unfrequently terminat- 
ing in trance itself—trance very nearly 
resembling positive dissolution, and from 
which her manner of recovery was, in 
most instances, startlingly abrupt. In 
the meantime, my own disease—for © 








most 
_ This monomania, if I must so term it, 
consisted in a morbid irritability of 





BERENICE 


have been told that I should call it by 
no other appellation—my own disease, 
then, grew rapidly upon me, and as- 
sumed finally a monomaniac character 
' of a novel and extraordinary form— 
hourly and momently gaining vigor— 


and at length obtaining over me the 
incomprehensible ascendency. 


those properties of the mind in meta- 


_ physical science termed the attentive. 
_ It is more than probable that I am not 
understood; but I fear, indeed, that it 


| 
! 


is In no manner possible to convey to 


_ the mind of the merely general reader, 
an adequate idea of that nervous zn- 


tensity of interest with which, in my 
case, the powers of meditation (not to 
speak technically) busied and buried 
themselves, in the contemplation of 
even the most ordinary objects of the 
universe. 

To muse for long unwearied hours, 
with my attention riveted to some frivo- 
lous device on the margin or in the 
typography of a book; to become ab- 
sorbed, for the better part of a sum- 
mer’s day, in a quaint shadow falling 
aslant upon the tapestry or upon the 
floor; to lose myself, for an entire 
night, in watching the steady flame of a 
jamp, or the embers of a fire, to dream 
away whole days over the perfume of 
a flower; to repeat, monotonously, 
some common word, until the sound, by 
dint of frequent repetition, ceased to 
convey any idea whatever to the mind; 
to lose all sense of motion or physical 
existence, by means of absolute bodily 
quiescence long and obstinately per- 
severed in: such were a few of the most 
common and least pernicious vagaries 


315 


induced by a condition of the mental 
faculties, not, indeed, altogether un- 
paralleled, but certainly bidding de- 
fiance to any thing like analysis or 
explanation. 

Yet let me not be misapprehended. 
The undue, earnest, and morbid atten- 
tion thus excited by objects in their 
own nature frivolous, must not be con- 
founded in character with that rumi- 
nating propensity common to all man- 
kind, and more especially indulged in 
by persons of ardent imagination. It 
was not even, as might be at first sup- 
posed, an extreme conditions, or exag- 
geration of such propensity, but pri- 
marily and essentially distinct and 
different. In the one instance, the 
dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested 
by an object usually not frivolous, im- 
perceptibly loses sight of this object in 
a wilderness of deductions and sugges- 
tions issuing therefrom, until, at the 
conclusion of a day-dream often replete 
with luxury, he finds the incitamentum, 
or first cause of his musings, entirely 
vanished and forgotten. In my case, 
the primary object was invariably frivo- 
lous, although assuming, through the 
medium of my distempered vision, a 
refracted and unreal importance. Few 
deductions, if any, were made; and 
those few pertinaciously returning in 
upon the original object as a centre. 
The meditations were mever pleasure- 
able; and, at the termination of the 
revery, the first cause, so far from being 
out of sight, had attained that super- 
naturally exaggerated interest which 
was the prevailing feature of the dis- 
ease. In a word, the powers of mind 
more particularly exercised were, with 
me, as I have said before, the attentive, 


316 


and are, with the day-dreamer, the 
speculative. 

My books, at this epoch, if they did 
not actually serve to irritate the dis- 
order, partook, it will be perceived, 
largely, in their imaginative and in- 
consequential nature, of the character- 
istic qualities of the disorder itself. I 
well remember, among others, the trea- 
tise of the noble Italian, Ccelius Secun- 
dus Curio, “De Amplitudine Beati 
Regni Dei’; St. Austin’s great work, 
“The City of God’; and Tertullian’s 
“De Carne Christi,’ in which the para- 
doxical sentence, “Mortuus est Dei 
filius; credibile est quia ineptum est; 
et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia 
impossible est,” occupied my undivided 
time, for many weeks of laborious and 
fruitless investigation. 

Thus it will appear that, shaken 
{rom its balance only by trivial things, 
my reason bore resemblance to that 
ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy He- 
phestion, which steadily resisting the 
attacks of human violence, and the 
fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, 
trembled only to the touch of the 
flower called Asphodel. And although, 
to a careless thinker, it might appear 
a matter beyond doubt, that the altera- 
tion produced by her unhappy malady, 
in the moral condition of Berenice, 
would afford me many objects for the 
exercise of that intense and abnormal 
meditation whose nature I have been 
at some trouble in explaining, yet such 
was not in any degree the case. In 
the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her 
calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, 
taking deeply to heart that total wreck 
of her fair and gentle life, I did not fail 
to ponder, frequently and bitterly, upon 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the wonder-working means by which 
so strange a revolution had been so 
suddenly brought to pass. But these 
reflections partook not of the idiosyn- 
crasy of my disease, and were such as 
would have occurred, under similar cir- 
cumstances, to the ordinary mass of 
mankind. True to its own character, 
my disorder revelled in the less impor- 
tant but more startling changes wrought 
in the physical frame of Berenice—in 
the singular and most appalling distor- 
tortion of her personal identity. 
During the brightest days of her un- 
paralleled beauty, most surely I had 
never loved her. In the strange anomaly 
of my existence, feelings with me, had 
never been of the heart, and my pas- 
sions always were of the mind. Through 
the gray of the early morning—among 
the trellised shadows of the forest at 
noonday—and in the silence of my 
library at night—she had flitted by my 
eyes; and I had seen her—not as the 
living and breathing Berenice, but as 
the Berenice of a dream; not as a being 
of the earth, earthly, but as the ab- 
straction of such a being; not as a 
thing to admire, but to analyze; not as 
an object of love, but as the theme of 
the most abstruse although desultory 
speculation. And now—now I shud- 
dered in her presence, and grew pale at 
her approach; yet, bitterly lamenting 
her fallen and desolate condition, I 
called to mind that she had loved me 


long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke 


to her of marriage. 

And at length the period of our nup- 
tials was approaching, when, upon an 
afternoon in the winter of the year— 
one of those unseasonably warm, calm, 
and misty days which are the nurse 











BERENICE 


of the beautiful Halcyon,*—I sat (and 
sat, as I thought, alone) in the inner 
apartment of the library. But uplift- 
ing my eyes, I saw that Berenice stood 
before me. 

Was it my own excited imagination— 
or the misty influence of the atmosphere 
—or the uncertain twilight of the cham- 
ber—or the gray draperies which fell 
around her figure—that. caused in it so 
vacillating and indistinct an outline? 
I could not tell. She spoke no word; 
and I—nct for words could I have 
uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran 
through my frame; a sense of insuffer- 
able anxiety oppressed me; a consum- 
ing curiosity pervaded my soul; and, 
sinking back upon the chair, I remained 
for some time breathless and motion- 
less, with my eyes riveted upon her 
person. Alas! its emaciation was ex- 
cessive, and not one vestige of the 
fermer being lurked in any single line 
of the conotur. My burning glances at 
length fell upon the face. 

The forehead was high, and very pale, 
and singularly placid; and the once 
jetty hair fell partially over it, and 
overshadowed the hollow temples with 
innumerable ringlets, now of a vivid 
yellow, and jarring discordantly, in 
their fantastic character, with the reign- 
ing melancholy of the countenance. The 
eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and 
seemingly pupilless, and I shrank. in- 
voluntarily from their glassy stare to 
the contemplation of the thin and 
shrunken lips. They parted; and in a 





* For as Jove, during the winter sea- 
son, gives twice seven days of warmth, 
men have called this element and tem- 
perate time the nurse cf the beautiful 
Halcyon.—Simonides. 


317 


smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth 
of the changed Berenice disclosed them- 
selves slowly to my view. ‘Would to 
God that I had never beheld them, or 
that, having done so, I had died! 
x * x * X * 

The shutting of a door disturbed me, 
and looking up, I found that my cousin . 
had departed from the chamber. But 
from the disordered chamber of my 
brain, had not, alas! departed, and 
would not be driven away, the white 
and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not 
a speck on their surface—not a shade 
on their enamel—not an. indenture in 
their edges—but what the brief period 
of her smile had sufficed to brand in 
upon my memory. I saw them now 
even more unequivocally than I be- 
held them then. The teeth!—the teeth! 
—they were here, and there, and every- 
where, and visibly and palpably before 
me; long, narrow, and excessively white, 
with the pale lips writhing about them, 
as in the very moment of their first 
terrible development. Then came the 
full fury of my monomania, and I 
struggled in vain against its strange and 
irresistible influence. In the multiplied 
objects of the external world I had no 
thoughts but for the teeth. For these 
I longed with a frenzied desire. All 
other matters and all different interests 
became absorbed in their single con- 
templation. They—they alone were 
present to the mental eye, and they, 
in their sole individuality, became the 
essence of my mental life. I held them 
in every light. I turned them in every 
attitude. I surveyed their character- 
istics. I dwelt upon their peculiarities, 
I pondered upon their conformation. I 
mused upon the alteration in their na- 
ture. I shuddered as I assigned to 


318 


them, in imagination, a sensitive and 
sentient power, and even when unas- 
sisted by the lips, a capability of moral 
expression. Of Mademoiselle Salle it 
has been well said: “Que tous ses pas 
etaient des sentiments,’ and of Berenice 
I more seriously believed que tous ses 
dents etaient des idees. Des idees!— 
ah, here was the idiotic thought that 
destroyed me! Des idees!—ah, there- 
fore it was that I coveted them so 
madly! I felt that their possession 
could alone ever restore me to peace, 
in giving me back to reason. 

And the evening closed in upon me 
thus—and then the darkness came, and 
tarried, and went—and the day again 
dawned—and the mists of a second 
night were now gathering around—and 
still I sat motionless in that solitary 
room—and still I sat buried in medita- 
tion—and still the phantasma of the 
teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy, 
as, with the most vivid and hideous dis- 
tinctness, it floated about amid the 
changing lights and shadows of the 
chamber. At length there broke in 
upon my dreams a cry as of horror and 
dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, 
succeeded the sound of troubled voices, 
intermingled with many low moanings 
of sorrow or of pain. I arose from 
my seat, and throwing open one of the 
doors of the library, saw standing out 
in the antechamber a servant maiden, 
all in tears, who told me that Berenice 
was—no more! She had been seized 
with epilepsy in the early morning, and 
now, at the closing in of the night, the 
grave was ready for its tenant, and all 
the preparations for the burial were 
completed. 

* 2 


I found myself sitting in the library, 


* * * ok 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and again sitting there alone. It seemed 
to me that I had newly awakened from 
a confused and exciting dream. I 
knew that it was now midnight, and 
I was well aware, that since the setting 
of the sun, Berenice had been interred. 
But of that dreary period which inter- 
vened I had no positive, at least no 
definite, comprehension. Yet its mem- 
ory was replete with horror—horror 
more horrible from being vague, and 
terror more terrible from ambiguity. It 
was a fearful page in the record of my ex- 
istence, written all over with dim, and 
hideous, and unintelligible recollections. 
I strived to decipher them, but in vain; 
while ever and anon, like the spirit of 
a departed sound, the shrill and pierc- 
ing shriek of a female voice seemed to 
be ringing in my ears. I had done a 
deed—what was it? I asked myself the 
question aloud, and the whispering 
echoes of the chamber answered me— 
“What was it?” 

On the table beside me burned a 
lamp, and near it lay a little box. It 
was of no remarkable character, and I 
had seen it frequently before, for it 
was the property of the family physi- 
cian; but how came it there, upon my 
table, and why did I shudder in regard- 
ing it These things were in no man- 
ner to be accounted for, and my eyes 
at length dropped to the open pages 
of a book, and to a sentence under- 
scored therein. The words were the 
singular but simple ones of the poet 
Ebn Zaiat:—“Dicebant mihi sodales sé 
sepulchrum amice visitarem, curas meas 
aliquantulum. fore levatas.” Why, then, 
as I perused them, did the hairs of 
my head erect themselves on end, and 
the blood of my body become congealed 
within my veins? 








eS ee ee ee 


el ns 

















ELEONORA 


There came a light tap at the library 
door—and, pale as the tenant of a 
tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. 
His looks were wild with terror, and 
he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, 
husky and very low. What said he? 
—some broken sentences I heard. He 
told of a wild cry disturbing the silence 
of the night—of the gathering together 
of the household—of a search in the 
direction of the sound; and then his 
tones grew thrillingly distinct as he 
whispered me of a violated grave—of 
a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still 
breathing—still palpitating—szill alive! 

He pointed to my garments; they 
were muddy and clotted with gore. I 


319 


spoke not, and he toox me gently by 
the hand: it was indented with the im- 
press of human nails. He directed my 
attention to some object against the 
wall. I looked at it for some minutes: 
it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded 
to the table, and grasped the box that 
lay upon it. But I could not force it 
open; and, in my tremor, it slipped 
from my hands, and fell heavily, and 
burst into pieces; and from it, with 
a rattling sound, there rolled out some 
instruments of dental surgery, inter- 
mingled with thirty-two small, white, 
and ivory-looking substances that were 
scattered to and fro about the floor. 


Eleonora 
(First published in The Gift, 1842 Ed.) 


Sub conservatione forme specifice salva 
anima.—Raymond Lully. 


I AM come of a race noted for vigor 
of fancy and ardor of passion. Men 
have called me mad; but the question 
is not yet settled, whether madness is 
or is not the loftiest intelligence— 
whether much that is glorious—whether 
all that is profound—does not spring 
from disease of thought—from moods 
of mind exalted at the expense of the 
general intellect. They who dream by 
day are cognizant of many things which 
escape those who dream only by night. 
In their gray visions they obtain 


glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in wak- . 


ing, to find that they have been upon 
the verge of the great secret. In 
snatches, they learn something of the 


wisdom which is of good, and more of 
the mere knowledge which is of evil. 
They penetrate, however, rudderless or 
compassless into the vast ocean of the 
“light ineffable,” and again, like the 
adventures of the Nubian geographer, 
“agresst sunt mare tenebrarum,* quid 
in eo esset exploraturt.” 

We will say, then, that Iam mad. I 
grant, at least, that there are two dis- 
tinct conditions of my mental existence 
—the condition of a lucid reason, not 
to be disputed, and belonging to the 
memory of events forming the first 
epoch of my life—and a condition of 





*The phrase and idea of mare te- 
nebrarum is a favorite prose and poetic 
theme of Poe. It means “Sea of 
Shadows.”’—Ed. 


320 


shadow and doubt, appertaining to the 
present, and to the recollection of what 
constitutes the second great era of my 
being. Therefore, what I shall tell of 
the earlier period, believe; and to what 
I may relate of the later time, give 
only such credit as may seem due; or 
doubt it altogether; or, if doubt it ye 
cannot, then play unto its riddle the 
(Edipus. 

She whom I loved in youth, and of 
whom I now pen calmly and distinctly 
these remembrances, was the sole daugh- 
ter of the only sister of my mother 
long departed. Eleonora was the name 
of my cousin. We had always dwelled 
together, beneath a tropical sun, in the 
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No 
unguided footstep ever came upon that 
vale; for it lay far’ away up among 
a range of giant hills that hung beetling 
around about it, shutting out the sun- 
light from its sweetest recesses. No 
path was trodden in its vicinity; and, 
to reach our happy home, there was 
need of putting back, with force, the 
foliage of many thousands of forest 
trees, and of crushing to death the 
glories of many millions of fragrant 
flowers. Thus it was that we lived all 
alone, knowing nothing of the world 
without the valley—I, and my cousin, 
and her mother. 

From the dim regions beyond the 
mountains at the upper end of our en- 
circled domain, there crept out a nar- 
row and deep river, brighter than all 
save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding 
stealthily about in mazy courses, it 
passed away, at length, through a 
shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer 
than those whence it had issued. We 
called it the “River of Silence;” for 
there seemed to be a hushing influence 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in its flow. No murmur arose from its 
bed, and so gently it wandered along, 
that the pearly pebbles upon which we 
loved to gaze, far down within its 
bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a 
motionless content, each in its own old 
station, shining on gloriously forever. 

The margin of the river, and of the 
many dazzling rivulets that glided 
through devious ways into its channel, 
as well as the spaces that extended 
from the margins away down into the 


depths of the streams until they 
reached the bed of pebbles at 
the bottom—these spots, not less 


than the whole surface of the valley, 
from the river to the mountains that 
girdled it in, were carpeted all by 
a soft green grass, thick, short, per- 
fectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but 
so besprinkled throughout with the yel- 
low buttercup, the white daisy, the pur- 
ple violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, 
that its exceeding beauty spoke to 
our hearts in loud tones, of the love 
and of the glory of God. 

And, here and there, in groves about 
this grass, like wildernesses of dreams, 
sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall 
slender stems stood not upright, but 
slanted gracefully toward the light that 
peered at noon-day into the centre of 
the valley. Their bark was speckled 
with the vivid alternate splendor of 
ebony and silver, and was smoother 
than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; 
so that, but for the brilliant green of 
the huge leaves that spread from their 
summits in long, tremulous lines, dally- 


ing with the Zephyrs, one might have 


fancied them giant serpents of Syria 
doing homage to their Sovereign the 
Sun. 





ELEONORA 


Haid in hand about this valley, for 
fifteen years, roamed I with Eleonora 
before Love entered within our hearts. 
It was one evening at the close of the 
third lustrum of her life, and of the 
fourth of my own, that we sat, locked 
in each other’s embrace, beneath the 
serpent-like trees, and looked down 
within the water of the River of Silence 
at our images therein. We spoke no 
words during the rest of that sweet 
day; and our words even upon the 
morrow were tremulous and few. We 
had drawn the god Eros from that 
wave, and now we felt that he had 
enkindled within us the fiery souls of 
our forefathers. The passions which 
had for centuries distinguished our 
race, came thronging with the fancies 
for which they had been equally noted, 
and together breathed a delirious bliss 
over the Valley of the Many-Colored 
Grass. A change fell upon all things. 
Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, 
burst out upon the trees where no flow- 
ers had been known before. The tints 
of the green carpet deepened; and when, 
one by one, the white daisies shrank 
away, there sprang up in place of them, 
ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. 
And life arose in our paths; for the tall 
flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay 
glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plum- 
age before us. The golden and silver 
fish haunted the river, out of the bosom 
of which issued, little by little, a mur- 
mur that swelled, at length, into a 
lulling melody more divine than that of 
the harp of Aolus—sweeter than all 
save the voice of Eleonora. And now, 
too, a voluminous cloud, which we had 
long watched in the regions of Hesper, 
floated out thence, all gorgeous in crim- 
son and gold, and settling in peace 


321 


above us, sank, day by day, lower and 
lower, until its edges rested upon the 
tops of the mountains, turning all their 
dimness into magnificence, and shutting 
us up, as if forever, within a magic 
prison-house of grandeur and of glory. 

The loveliness of Eleonora was that 
of the seraphim; but she was a maiden 
artless and innocent as the brief life 
she had led among the flowers. No 
guile disguised the fervor of love which 
animated her heart, and she examined 
with me its inmost recesses as we 
walked together in the Valley of the 
Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of 
the mighty changes which had lately 
taken place therein. 

At length, having spoken one day, in 
tears, of the last sad change which 
must befall Humanity, she thencefor- 
ward dwelt only upon this one sorrow- 
ful theme, interweaving it into all our 
converse, as, in the songs of the bard 
of Schiraz, the same images are found 
occurring, again and again, in every im- 
pressive variation of phrase. 

She had seen that the finger of Death 
was upon her bosom—that, like the 
ephemeron, she had been made _ per- 
fect in lovliness only to die; but the 
terrors of the grave to her lay solely 
in a consideration which she revealed 
to me, one evening at twilight, by the 
banks of the River of Silence. She 
grieved to think that, having entombed 
her in the Valley of the Many-Colored 
Grass, I would quit forever its happy 
recesses, transferring the love which 
now was so passionately her own to 
some maiden of the outer and every- 
day world. And, then and there, I 
threw myself hurriedly at the feet of 
Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to 
herself and to Heaven, that I would 


322 


never bind myself in marriage to any 
daughter of Earth—that I would in tio 
manner prove recreant to her dear 
memory, or to the memory of the 
devout affection with which she had 
blessed me. And I called the Mighty 
Ruler of the Universe to witness the 
pious solemnity of my vow. And the 
curse which I invoked of Him and of 
her, a saint in Helusion should I prove 
traitorous to that promise, involved a 
penalty the exceeding great horror of 
which will not permit me to make rec- 
ord of it here. And the bright eyes of 
Eleonora grew brighter at my words; 
and she sighed as if a deadly burthen 
had been taken from her breast; and 
she trembled and very bitterly wept; 
but she made acceptance of the vow, 
(for what was she but a child?) and 
it made easy to her the bed of her 
death. And she said to me, not many 
days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, 
because of what I had done for the 
comfort of her spirit she would watch 
over me in that spirit when departed, 
and, if so it were permitted her return 
to me visibly in the watches of the 
night; but, if this thing were, indeed, 
beyond the power of the souls in Para- 
dise, that she would, at least, give me 
frequent indications of her presence; 
sighing upon me in the evening winds, 
or filling the air which I breathed with 
perfume from the censers of the angels. 
And, with these words upon her lips, 
she yielded up her innocent life, put- 
ting an end to the first epoch of my 
own. 

Thus far I have faithfully said. 
But as I pass the barrier in Time’s 
path, formed by the death of my be- 
loved, and proceed with the second era 
of my existence, I feel that a shadow 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


gathers over my brain, and I mistrust 
the perfect sanity of the record. But 
let me on.—Years dragged themselves 
along heavily, and still I dwelled within 
the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; 
but a second change had come upon 
all things. The star-shaped flowers 
shrank into the stems of the trees, and 
appeared no more. The tints of the 
green carpet faded; and, one by cne, 
the ruby-red asphodels withered away; 
and there sprang up, in place of them, 
ten by ten, dark, eye-like violets, that 
writhed uneasily and were ever en- 
cumbered with dew. And Life de- 
parted from our paths; for the tall 
flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet 
plumage before us, but flew sadly from 
the vale into the hills, with all the 
gay glowing birds that had arrived in 
his company. And the golden and 
silver fish swam down through the 
gorge at the lower end of our domain 
and bedecked the sweet river never 
again. And the lulling melody that 
had been softer than the wind-harp of 
Zolus, and more divine than all save 
the voice of Eleonora, it died little by 
little away, in murmurs growing lower 
and lower, until the stream returned, 
at length, utterly, into the solemnity 
of its original silence. And then, lastly, 
the voluminous cloud uprose, and, 
abandoning the tops of the mountains 
to the dimness of old, fell back into 
the regions of Hesper, and took away 
all its manifold golden and gorgeous 
glories from the Valley of the Many- 
Colored Grass. 

Yet the promises of Eleonora were 
not forgotten; for I heard the sounds 
of the swinging of the censers of the 
angels; and streams of a holy perfume 
floated ever and ever about the valley; 


ELEONORA 


and at lone hours, when my’heart beat 
heavily, the winds that bathed my brow 
came unto me laden with soft sighs; 
and indistinct murmurs filled often the 
night air; and once— oh, but once only! 
I was awakened from a slumber, like 
the slumber of death, by the pressing 
of spiritual lips upon my own. 

But the void within my heart re- 
fused, even thus, to be filled. I longed 
for the love which had before filled it 
to overflowing. At length the valley 
pained me ‘through its memories of 
Eleonora, and I left it for ever for the 
vanities and the turbulent triumphs of 
the world. 

2 X* x * * * 

I found myself within a strange city, 
where all things might have served to 
blot from recollection the sweet dreams 
I had dreamed so long in the Valley 
of the Many-Colored Grass. The 
pomps and pageantries of a stately 
court, and the mad clangor of arms, 
and the radiant loveliness of women, 
bewildered and intoxicated my brain. 
But as yet my soul had proved true 
to its vows, and the indications of the 
presence of Eleonora were still given 
me in the silent hours of the night. 
Suddenly these manifestations they 
ceased, and the world grew dark before 
mine eyes, and I stood aghast at the 
burning thoughts which possessed, 
at the terrible temptations which beset 


323 


me; for there came from some far, 
far distant and unknown land, into the 
gay court of the king I served, a maiden 
to whose beauty my whole recreant 
heart yielded at once—at whose foot- 
stool I bowed down without a struggle, 
in the most ardent, in the most abject 
worship of love. What, indeed, was 
my passion for the young girl of the 
valley in comparison with the fervor, 
and the delirium, and the spirit-lifting 
ecstasy of adoration with which I 
poured out my whole soul in tears at 
the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? 
Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde! 
and in that knowledge I had room for 
none other. Oh, divine was the angel 
Ermengarde! and as I looked down 
into the depths of her memorial eyes, 
I thought only of them—and of her. 

I wedded—nor dreaded the curse I 
had invoked; and its bitterness was not 
visited upon me. And once—but once 
again in the silence of the night—there 
came through my lattice the soft sighs 
which had forsaken me; and _ they 
modelled themselves into familiar and 
sweet voice, saying: 

“Sleep in peace! for the Spirit of 
Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in tak- 
ing to thy passionate heart her who is 
Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for 
reasons which shall be made known to 
thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto 
Eleonora.” 


Ligeta 


(See poem, “Al Aaraaf.’’—Ed.) 


I cannot, for my soul, remember 
how, when, or even precisely where, I 
first became acquainted with the lady 
Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, 
and my memory is feeble through much 
suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now 
bring these points to mind, because, in 
truth, the character of my beloved, her 
rare learning, her singular yet placid 
cast of beauty, and the thrilling: and 
enthralling eloquence of her low musi- 
cal language, made their way into my 
heart by paces so steadily and stealthily 
progressive, that they have been un- 
noticed and unknown. Yet I believe 
that I met her first and most fre- 
quently in some large, old, decaying 
city near the Rhine. Of her family— 
I have surely heard her speak. That it 
is of a remotely ancient date cannot be 
doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! Buried in 
studies of a nature more than all else 
adapted to deaden impressions of the 
outward world, it is by that sweet word 
alone—by Ligeia—that I bring before 
mine eyes in fancy the image of her 
who is no more. And now, while I 
write, a recollection flashes upon me 
that I have never known the paternal 
name of her who was my friend and my 
betrothed, and who became the partner 
of my studies, and finally the wife of 
my bosom. Was it a playful charge 
on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a 
test of my strength of affection, that I 
should institute no inquiries upon this 
point? or was it rather a caprice of 
my own—a wildly romantic offering on 
the shrine of the most passionate devo- 


324 


tion? I but indistinctly recall the fact 
itselfi—what wonder that I have utterly 
forgotten the circumstances which origi- 
nated or attended it? And, indeed, if 
ever that spirit which is entitled Ro- 
mance—if ever she, the wan and the 
misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous 
Egypt, presided, as they tell, over mar- 
riages ill-omened, then most surely she 
presided over mine. 

There is one dear topic, however, 
on which my memory fails me not. It 
is the person of Ligeia. In stature she 
was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her 
latter days, even emaciated. I would 
in vain attempt to portray the majesty, 
the quiet ease of her demeanor, or the 
incomprehensible lightness and elastic- 
ity of her footfall. She came and de- 
parted as a shadow. I was never made 
aware of her entrance into my closed 
study, save by the dear music of her 
low sweet voice, as she placed her 
marble hand upon my shoulder. In 
beauty of face no maiden ever equalled 
her. It was the radiance of an opium- 
dream—an airy and spirit-lifting vision 
more wildly divine than the phantasies 
which hovered about the slumbering 
souls of the daughters ef Delos. Yet 
her features were not of that regu- 
lar mould which we have been falsely 
taught to. worship in the classical labors 
of the heathen. ‘There is no exquisite 
beauty,” says Bacon, Lord Verulam, 
speaking truly of all the forms and 
genera of beauty, “without some strange- 
ness in the proportion.” Yet, although 
I saw that the features of Ligeia were 











LIGEIA 


not of a classic regularity—although I 
perceived that her loveliness was indeed 
“exquisite,” and felt that there was 
much of “strangeness” pervading it, 
yet I have tried in vain to detect the 
irregularity and to trace home my own 
perception of “the strange.’ I ex- 
amined the contour of the lofty and 
pale forehead—it was faultless—how 
cold indeed that word when applied to 
a majesty so divine!—the skin rivalling 
the purest ivory, the commanding ex- 
tent and repuse, the gentle prominence 
of the regions above the temples; and 
then the raven-black, the glossy, the 
luxuriant, and naturally-curling tresses, 
setting forth the full force of the Ho- 
meric epithet, “hyacinthine!” I looked 
at the delicate outlines of the nose— 
and nowhere but in the graceful medal- 
lions of the Hebrews had I beheld a 
similar perfection. There were the 
same luxurious. smoothness of surface, 
the same scarcely perceptible tendency 
to the aquiline, the same harmoniously 
curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. 
I regarded the sweet mouth. Here was 
indeed the triumph of all things heav- 
enly—the magnificent turn of the short 
upper lip—the soft, voluptuous slumber 
of the under—the dimples which sported, 
and the color which spoke—the teeth 
glancing back, with a brilliancy almost 
startling, every ray of the holy light 
which fell upon them in her serene and 
placid yet most exultingly radiant of 
all smiles. I scrutinized the formation 
of the chin—and, here too, I found 
the gentleness of breadth, the softness 
and the majesty, the fulness and the 
spirituality, of the Greek—the contour 
which the god Apollo revealed but in a 
dream, to Cleomenes, the son of the 


325 


Athenian. And then I peered into the 
large eyes of Ligeia. 

For eyes we have no models in the 
remotely antique. It might have been, 
too, that in these eyes of my beloved 
lay the secret to which Lord Verulam 
alludes. They were, I must believe, 
far larger than the ordinary eyes of 
our own race. They were even fuller 
than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of 
the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad. 
Yet it was only at intervals—in mo- 
ments of intense excitement—that this 
peculiarity became more than slightly 
noticeable in Ligeia. And at such mo- 
ments was her beauty—in my heated 
fancy thus it appeared perhaps—the 
beauty of beings either above or apart 
from the earth—the beauty of the fabu- 
lous Houri of the Turk. The hue of 
the orbs was the most brilliant of 
black, and far over them, hung jetty 
lashes of great length. The brows, 
slightly irregular in outline, had the 
same tint. The “strangeness,” however, 
which I found in the eyes was of a 
nature distinct from the formation, or 
the color, or the brilliancy of the fea- 
tures, and must, after all, be referred 
to the expression. Ah, word of no 
meaning! behind whose vast latitude 
of mere sound we intrench our igno- 
rance of so much of the spiritual. The 
expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How 
for long hours have I pondered upon it! 
How have I, through the whole of a 
midsummer night, struggled to fathom 
it! What was  it—that something 
more profound than the well of De- 
mocritus—which lay far within the 
pupils of my beloved. What was it? 
I was possessed with a passion to dis- 
cover. Those eyes! those large, those 
shining, those divine orbs! they became 


326 


to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them 
devoutest of astrologers. 

There is no point, among the many 
incomprehensible anomalies of the sci- 
ence of mind, more thrillingly exciting 
than the fact—never, I believe, noticed 
in the schools—than in our endeavors 
to recall to memory something long 
forgotten, we often find ourselves upon 
the very verge of remembrance, with- 
out being able, in the end, to remember. 
And thus how frequently, in my in- 
tense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I 
felt approaching the full knowledge of 
their expression—felt it approaching— 
yet not quite be mine—and so at length 
entirely depart! And (strange, oh, 
strangest mystery of all!) I found, in 
the commonest objects of the universe, 
a circle of analogies to that expresion. 
I mean to say that, subsequently to the 
period when Ligeia’s beauty passed into 
my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, 
J derived, from many existences in the 
material world, a sentiment such as I 
felt always around, within me, by her 
large and luminous orbs. Yet not the 
more could I define that sentiment, or 
analyze, or even steadily view it. I 
recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes 
in the survey of a rapidly-growing vine 
—in the contemplation of a moth, a 
butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of run- 
ning water. J have felt it in the ocean 
—in the falling of a meteor. I have 
felt it in the glances of unusually aged 
people. And there are one or two stars 
in heaven (one especially, a star of the 
sixth magnitude, double and changeable, 
to be found near the large star in Lyra) 
in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have 
been made aware of the feeling. I have 
been filled with it by certain sounds 
Irom stringed instruments, and not un- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


frequently by passages from books. 
Among innumerable other instances, I 
well remember something in a volume 
of Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps 
merely from its quaintness—who shall 
say?) never failed to inspire me with 
the sentiment: ‘And the will therein 
lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth 
the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? 
For God is but a great will pervading 
all things by nature of its intentness. 
Man doth not yield him to the angels, 
nor unto death utterly, save only 
through the weakness of his feeble 
will.” 

Length of years and subsequent re- 
flection have enabled me to trace, in- , 
deed, some remote connection between 
this passage in the English moralist 
and a portion of the character of Ligeia. 
An intensity in thought, action, or 
speech was possibly, in her, a result, or 
at least an index, of that gigantic voli- 
tion which, during our long intercourse, 
failed to give other and more imme- 
diate evidence of its existence. Of all 
the women whom I have ever known, 
she, the outwardly calm, the ever- 
placid Ligeia, was the most violently a 
prey to the tumultuous vultures of 
stern passion. And of such passion I 
could form no estimate, save by the 
miraculous expansion of those eyes 
which at once so delighted and appalled 
me—by the almost magical melody, 
modulation, distinctness, and _ placidity 
of her very low voice—and by the fierce 
energy (rendered doubly effective by 
contrast with her manner of utterance) 
of the wild words which she habitually 
uttered. 

I have spoken of the learning of 
Ligeia: it was immense—such as I have 
never known in woman. In the classical 


























LIGEIA 


| tongues was she deeply proficient, and 
| as far as my own acquaintance extended 
in regard to the modern dialects of 
| Europe, I have never known her at 
| fault. Indeed upon any theme of the 
' most admired because simply the most 
' abstruse of the boasted erudition of 
| the Academy, have I ever found Ligeia 
_ at fault? How singularly—how thrill- 
_ ingly, this one point in the nature of 
my wife has forced itself, at this late 
| period only, upon my attention! I 
said her knowledge was such as I have 
_ never known in woman—but where 
breathes the man who has traversed, 
and successfully, all the wide areas of 
moral, physical, and mathematical sci- 
ence? I saw not then what I now 
clearly perceive that the acquisitions 
of Ligeia were gigantic, were astound- 
ing; yet I was sufficiently aware of her 
infinite supremacy to resign myself, 
with a child like confidence, to her guid- 
ance through the chaotic world of meta- 
physical investigation at which I was 
most busily occupied during the earlier 
years of our marriage. With how vast 
a triumph—with how vivid a delight— 
with how much of all that is ethereal 
in hope did I feel, as she bent over me 
in studies but little sought— but less 
known—that delicious vista by slow de- 
grees expanding before me, down whose 
long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, 
IT might at length pass onward to the 
goal of a wisdom too divinely precious 
not to be forbidden. 
How poignant, then, must have been 
the grief with which, after some years, 
I beheld my well-grounded expectations 
take wings to themselves and fly away! 
Without Ligeia I was but as a child 
groping benighted. Her presence, her 
readings alone, rendered vividly lumi- 


527 


nous the many mysteries of the tran- 
scendentalism in which we were im- 
mersed. Wanting the radiant lustre of 
her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, 
grew duller than Saturnian lead. And 
now those eyes shone less and less fre- 
quently upon the pages over which I 
pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes 
blazed with a too—too glorious efful- 
gence; the pale fingers became of the 
transparent waven hue of the grave; 
and the blue veins upon the lofty fore- 
head swelled and sank impetuously 
with the tides of the most gentle emo- 
tion. J saw that she must die—and 
I struggled desperately in spirit with 
the grim Azrael. And the struggles of 
the passionate wife were, to my aston- 
ishment, even more energetic than my 
own. There had been much in her 
stern nature to impress me with the 
belief that, to her, death would have 
come without its terrors; but not so. 
Words are impotent to convey any just 
idea of the fierceness of resistance with 
which she wrestled with the Shadow. 
I groaned in anguish at the pitiable 
spectacle. I would have soothed—I 
would have reasoned; but in the in- 
tensity of her wild desire for life—for 
life—but for life— solace and reason 
were alike the uttermost of folly. Yet 
not until the last instance, amid the 
most convulsive writhings of her fierce 
spirit, was shaken the external placid- 
ity of her demeanor. Her voice grew 
more gentle—grew more low—yet I 
would not wish to dwell upon the wild 
meaning of the quietly uttered words. 
My brain reeled as I hearkened, en- 
tranced to a melody more than mortal— 
to assumptions and aspirations which 
mortality had never before known. 
That she loved me I should not have 


328 


doubted; and I might have been easily 
aware that, in a bosom such as hers, 
love would have reigned no ordinary 
passion. But in death only was I fully 
impressed with the strength of her af- 
fection. For long hours, detaining my 
hand, would she pour out before me 
the overflowing of a heart whose more 
than passionate devotion amounted to 
idolatry. How had I deserved to be 
so blessed by such confessions?—how 
had I deserved to be so cursed with 
the removal of my beloved in the hour 
of my making them? But upon this 
subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let 
me say only, that in Ligeia’s more than 
womanly abandonment to a love, alas! 
all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, 
I at length, recognized the principle of 
her longing, with so wildly earnest a 
desire, for the life which was now flee- 
ing so rapidly away. It is this wild 
longing—it is this eager vehemence of 
desire for life—dbwt for life—that I 
have no power to portray—no utterance 
capable of expressing. 

At high noon of the night in which 
she departed, beckoning me, peremp- 
torily, to her side, she bade me repeat 
certain verses composed by herself not 
many days. before. I obeyed her. 
They were these:— 


Lo! ’tis a gala night 
Within the lonesome latter years! 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 
In veils, and drowned in tears, 
Sit in a theatre, to see 
A play of hopes and fears, 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 
The music of the spheres. 


Mimes, in the form of God on high, 
Mutter and mumble low, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And hither and thither fly; 
Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 
That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their condor wings 
Invisible Woe! 


That motley drama!—oh, be sure 
It shall not be forgot! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore, 
By a crowd that seize it not. 
Through a circle that ever returneth in 
To the self-same spot; 
And much of Madness, and more of 
Sin’ 
And Horror, the soul of the plot! 


But see, amid the mimic rout 
A crawling shape intrude! 

A blood-red thing that writhes from out 
The scenic solitude! 

It writhes!—it writhes!—with morta} 

pangs 

The mimes become its food, 

And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs 
In human gore imbued. 


Out—out are the lights—out all! 
And over each quivering form, 

The curtain, a funeral pall, 
Comes down with the rush of a 

storm— 

And the angels, all pallid and wan, 
Uprising, unveiling, affirm 

That the play is the tragedy, ‘““Man,” 
And its hero, the conqueror Worm, 


“O God!” half shrieked Ligeia, leap- 
ing to her feet and extending her arms 
aloft with a spasmodic movement, as 
I made an end of these lines—‘“‘O God! 
O Divine Father!—shall these things be 
undeviatingly so?—shall this conqueror 
be not once conquered? Are we not 





of death. 
sighs, there came mingled with them 
a low murmur from her lips. 
to them my ear, and distinguished, 
_ again, the concluding words of the pas- 


LIGEIA 


part and parcel in Thee? Who—who 
knoweth the mysteries of the will with 
its vigor? Man doth not yield him to 
the angels, zor unto death utterly, save 
only through the weakness of his feeble 
will.” 

And now, as if exhausted with emo- 


tion, she suffered her white arms to 


fall, and returned solemnly to her bed 
And as she breathed her last 


I bent 


sage in Glanvill: “Man doth not yield 








him to the angels, nor unto death ut- 
terly, save only through the weakness 
of his feeble will.” 

She died: and I, crushed into the 


_ very dust with sorrow, could no longer 
endure the lonely desolation of my 
_ dwelling in the dim and decaying city 
_ by the Rhine. 
the world calls wealth, Ligeia had 
_ brought me far more, very far more, 
than ordinarily falls to the lot of mor- 
tals. 
of weary and aimless wandering, I 
_ purchased and put in some repair, an 
_ abbey, which I shall not name, in one 
_ of the widest and least frequented por- 
tions of fair England. 
and dreary grandeur of the building, 
_ the almost savage aspect of the domain, 
the many melancholy and time-honored 
' memories connected with both, had 
much in unison with the feelings of 
utter abandonment which had driven 
_ me into that remote and unsocial re- 
_ gion of the country. Yet although the 


I had no lack of what 


After a few months, therefore, 


The gloomy 


external abbey, with its verdant decay 


hanging about it, suffered but little 


alteration, I gave way, with a child-like 
perversity, and perchance with a faint 


329 


hope of alleviating my sorrows, to a 
display of more than regal magnificence 
within. For such follies, even in child- 
hood, I had imbibed a taste, and now 
they came back to me as if in the dot- 
age of grief. Alas, I feel how much 
even of incipient madness might have 
been discovered in the gorgeous and 
fantastic draperies, in the solemn carv- 
ings of Egypt, in the wild cornices and 
furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of 
the carpets of tufted gold! I had be- 
come a bounden slave in the trammels 
of opium, and my labors and my orders 
had taken a coloring from my dreams. 
But these absurdities I must not pause 
to detail. Let me speak only of that 
one chamber, ever accursed, whither, 
in a moment of mental alienation, I led 
from the altar as my bride—as the suc- 
cessor of the unforgotten Ligeia—the 
fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Rowena 
Trevanion, of Tremaine. 

There is no individual portion of the 
architecture and decoration of that 
bridal chamber which is not now visibly 
before me. Where were the souls of 
the haughty family of the bride, when, 
through thirst of gold, they permitted 
to pass the threshold of an apartment 


‘so bedecked, a maiden and a daugh- 


ter so beloved? I have said, that I 
minutely remember the details of the 
chamber—yet I am sadly forgetful on 
topics of deep moment; and here there 
was no system, no keeping, in the fan- 
tastic display, to take hold upon the 
memory. The room lay in a high turret 
of the castellated abbey, was pentagonal 
in shape, and of capacious size. Oc- 
cupying the whole southern face of the 
pentagon was the sole window—an im- 
mense sheet of unbroken glass from 
Venice—a single pane, and tinted of a 


330 


leaden hue, so that the days of either 
the sun or moon passing through it, 
fell with a ghastly lustre on the objects 
within. Over the upper portion of this 
huge window, extended the trellis-work 
of an aged vine, which clambered up 
the massy walls of the turret. The 
ceiling of gloomy-looking oak, was ex- 
cessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately 
fretted with the wildest and most 
grotesque specimens of a semi-Gothic, 
semi-Druidical device. From out the 
most central recess of this melancholy 
‘vaulting, depended, by a single chain 
of gold with long links, a huge censer 
of the same metals, Saracenic in pat- 
tern, and with many perforations so 
contrived that there writhed in and out 
of them, as if endued with a serpent 
vitality, a continual succession of parti- 
colored fires. 

Some few ottomans and golden can- 
delabra, of Eastern figure, were in vari- 
ous stations about; and there was the 
couch, too—the bridal couch—of an 
Indian model, and low, and sculptured 
of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy 
above. In each of the angles of the 
chamber stood on end a gigantic sar- 
cophagus of black granite, from the 
tombs of the kings over against Luxor, 
with their aged lids full of immemorial 
sculpture. But in the draping of the 
apartment lay, alas! the chief phantasy 
of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in 
height —even unproportionably so— 
were hung from summit to foot, in vast 
folds, with a heavy and massive-look- 
ing tapestry—tapestry of a material 
which was found alike as a carpet on 
the floor, as a covering. for the otto- 
mans and the ebony bed, as a canopy 
for the bed and as the gorgeous volutes 
of the curtains which partially shaded 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the window. The material was the 
richest cloth of gold. It was spotted 
all over, at irregular intervals, with 
arabesque figures, about a foot in diam- 
eter, and wrought upon the cloth in 
patterns of the most jetty black. But 
these figures partook of the true char- 
acter of the arabesque only when re- 
garded from a single point of view. By 
a contrivance now common, and indeed 
traceable to a very remote period of 
antiquity, they were made changeable 
in aspect. To one entering the room, 
they bore the appearance of simple 
monstrosities; but upon a farther ad« 
vance, this appearance gradually de- 
parted; and, step by step, as the visi- 
tor moved his station in the chamber, 
he saw himself surrounded by an end- 
less succession of the ghastly forms 
which belong to the superstition of the 
Norman, or arise in the guilty slumbers 
of the monk. The phantasmagoric ef- 
fect was vastly heightened by the arti- 
ficial introduction of a strong continual 
current of wind behind the draperies— 
giving a hideous and uneasy animation 
to the whole. 

In halls such as these—in a_ bridal 
chamber such as this—I passed, with 
the Lady of Tremaine, the unhallowed 
hours of the first month of our mar- 
riage—passed them with but little dis- 
quietude. That my wife dreaded the 
fierce moodiness of my temper—that 
she shunned me, and loved me but 
littlek—I could not help perceiving; but 
it gave me rather pleasure than other- 
wise. I loathed her with a hatred be- 
longing more to demon than to man. 
My memory flew back (oh, with what 
intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the be- 
loved, the august, the beautiful, the 
entombed. I revelled in recollections 








LIGEIA 


| of her purity, of her wisdom, of her 
_ lofty—her ethereal nature, of her pas- 
_ sionate, her idolatrous love. Now, then, 
| did my spirit fully and freely burn with 
' more than all the fires of her own. In 
| the excitement of my opium dreams 


(for I was habitually fettered in the 
shackles of the drug), I would call 
aloud upon her name, during the silence 
of the night, or among the sheltered 
recesses of the glens by day, as if, 
through the wild eagerness, the solemn 
passion, the consuming ardor of my 
longing for the departed, I could re- 
store her to the pathways she had 
abandoned—ah, could it be for ever?— 
upon the earth. 

About the commencement of the 
second month of the marriage, the 
Lady Rowena was attacked with sud- 
den illness, from which her recovery 
was slow. The fever which consumed 
her rendered her nights uneasy; and 
in her perturbed state of half-slumber, 
she spoke of sounds, and of motions, 
in and about the chamber of the tur- 
ret, which I concluded had no origin 
save in the distemper of her fancy, or 
perhaps in the phantasmagoric influ- 
ences of the chamber itself. She be- 
came at length convalescent—finally, 
well. Yet but a brief period elapsed, 
ere a second more violent disorder 
again threw her upon a bed of suffer- 
ing; and from this attack her frame, 
at all times feeble, never altogether 
recovered. Her illnesses were, after 
this epoch, of alarming character, and 
of more alarming recurrence, defying 
alike the knowledge and the great exer- 
tions of her physicians. With the in- 
crease of the chronic disease, which had 
thus, apparently, taken too sure hold 
upon her constitution to be eradicated 


331 


by human means, I could not fail to 
observe a similar increase in the nerv- 
ous irritation of her temperament, and 
in her excitability by trivial causes of 
fear. She spoke again, and now more 
frequently and pertinaciously, of the 
sounds—of the slight sounds—and of 
the unusual motions among the tapes- 
tries, to which she had formerly 
alluded. 

One night, near the closing in of 
September, she pressed this distressing 
subject with more than usual emphasis 
upon my attention. She had just awak- 
ened from an unquiet slumber, and I 
had been watching, with feelings half 
of anxiety, half of vague terror, the 
workings of her amaciated countenance. 
I sat by the side of her ebony bed, 
upon one of the ottomans of India. 
She partly arose, and spoke, in an 
earnest low whisper, of sounds which 
she then heard, but which I could not 
hear—of motions which she then saw, 
but which I could not perceive. The 
wind was rushing hurriedly behind the 
tapestries, and I wished to show her 
(what, let me confess it, I could not 
all believe) that those almost inarticu- 
late breathings, and those very gentle 
variations of the figures upon the wall, 
were but the natural effects of that 
customary rushing of the wind. But 
a deadly pallor, over-spreading her face, 
had proved to me that my exertions to 
reassure her would be fruitless. She 
appeared to be fainting, and no attend- 
ants were within call. I remembered 
where was deposited a decanter of light 
wine which had been ordered by her 
physicians, and hastened across the 
chamber to procure it. But, as I 
stepped beneath the light of the censer, 
two circumstances of a startling nature 


332 


attracted my attention. I had felt that 
some palpable although invisible ob- 
ject had passed lightly by my person; 
and I saw that there lay upon the golden 
carpet, in the very middle of the rich 
lustre thrown from the censer, a shadow 
—a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic 
aspect—such as might be fancied for 
the shadow of a shade. But I was wild 
with the excitement of an immoderate 
dose of opium, and heeded these things 
but little, nor spoke of them to Rowena. 
Having found the wine, I recrossed the 
chamber, and poured out a gobletful, 
which I held to the lips of the fainting 
lady. She had now partially recovered, 
however, and took the vessel herself, 
while I sank upon an ottoman near me, 
with my eyes fastened upon her per- 
son. It was then that I became dis- 
tinctly aware of a gentle foot-fall upon 
the carpet, and near the couch; and in 
a second thereafter, as Rowena was in 
the act of raising the wine to her lips, 
I saw, or may have dreamed that I saw, 
fall within the goblet, as if from some 
invisible spring in the atmosphere of 
the room, three or four. large drops 
of a brilliant and ruby colored fluid. If 
this I saw—not so Rowena. She swal- 
lowed the wine unhesitatingly, and I 
forebore to speak to her of a circum- 
stance which must, after all, I consid- 
ered, have been but the suggestion of 
a vivid imagination, rendered morbidly 
active by the terror of the lady, by the 
opium, and by the hour. 

Yet I cannot conceal it from my 
own perception that, immediately sub- 
sequent to. the fall of the ruby-drops, 
a rapid change for the worse took place 
in the disorder of my wife; so that, on 
the third subsequent night, the hands 
of her menials prepared her for the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone, 
with her shrouded body, in that fan- 
tastic chamber which had received her 
as my bride. Wild visions, opium- 
engendered, flitted, shadow-like, before 
me. I gazed with unquiet eye upon the 
sarcophagi in the angles of the room, 
upon the varying figures of the drapery, 
and upon the writhing of the parti- 
colored fires in the censer overhead. 
My eyes then fell, as I called to mind 
the circumstances of a former night, to 
the spot beneath the glare of the censer 
where I had seen the faint traces of the 
shadow. It was there, however, no 
longer; and breathing with greater free- 
dom, I turned my glances to the pallid 
and rigid figure upon the bed. Then 
rushed upon me a thousand memories 
of Ligeia—and then came back upon 
my heart, with the turbulent violence 
of a flood, the whole of that unutter- 
able woe with which I had regarded 
her thus enshrouded. The night 
waned; and still, with a bosom full of 
bitter thoughts of the one only and 
supremely beloved, I remained gazing 
upon the body of Rowena. 

It might have been midnight, or per- 
haps earlier, or later, for I had taken 
no note of time, when a sob, low, gen- 
tle, but very distinct, startled me from 
my revery. I felt that it came from 
the bed of ebony—the bed of death. 
I listened in an agony of superstitious 
terror—but there was no repetition of 
the sound. I strained my vision to 
detect any motion in the corpse—but 
there was not the slightest perceptible. 
Yet I could not have been deceived. I 
had heard the noise, however faint, 
and my soul was awakened within me. 
I resolutely and perseveringly kept my 
attention riveted upon the body. Many 





} 
ll 














LIGEIA 


minutes elapsed before any circum- 


stance occurred tending to throw light 
upon the mystery. At length it be- 
came evident that a slight, a very 
feeble, and barely noticeable tinge of 
color had flushed up within the cheeks, 
and along the sunken small veins of 
the eyelids. Through a species of un- 
utterable horror and awe, for which the 
language of mortality has no sufficiently 
energetic expression, I felt my heart 
cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid 
where I sat. Yet a sense of duty 
finally operated to restore my self-pos- 
session. I could no longer doubt that 
we had been precipitate in our prepa- 
rations—that Rowena still lived. It 
was necessary that some immediate ex- 
ertion be made; yet the turret was al- 
together apart from the portion of the 
abbey tenanted by the servants—there 
were none within call—I had no means 
of summoning them to my aid without 
leaving the room for many minutes— 
and this I could not venture to do. I 
therefore struggled alone in my en- 
deavors to call back the spirit still 
hovering. In a short period it was cer- 
tain, however, that a relapse had taken 
place; the color disappeared from both 
eyelid and cheek, leaving a wanness 
even more than that of marble; the 
lips became doubly shrivelled and 
pinched up in the ghastly expression 
of death; a repulsive clamminess and 
coldness overspread rapidly the surface 
of the body; and all the usual rigorous 
stiffness immediately supervened. I 
fell back with a shudder upon the 
couch from which I had been so star- 
tlingly aroused, and again gave myself 
up to passionate waking visions of 
Ligeia. 

An hour thus elapsed, when (could it 


333 


be possible?) I was a second time 
aware of some vague sound issuing 
from the region of the bed. TI lis- 
tened—in extremity of horror. The 
sound came again—it was a sigh. Rush- 
ing to the corpse, I saw—distinctly saw 
—a tremor upon the lips. In a min- 
ute afterward they relaxed, disclosing 
a bright line of the pearly teeth. 
Amazement now struggled in my bosom 
with the profound awe which had hith- 
erto reigned there alone. I felt that 
my vision grew dim, that my reason 
wandered; and it was only by a violent 
effort that I at length succeeded in nerv- 
ing myself to the task which duty 
thus once more had pointed out. There 
was now a partial glow upon the fore- 
head and upon the cheek and throat; a 
perceptible warmth pervaded the whole 
frame; there was even a slight pulsation 
at the heart. The lady lived; and with 
redoubled ardor I betook myself to the 
task of restoration. I chafed and 
bathed the temples and the hands, and 
used every exertion which experience, 
and no little medical reading, could sug- 
gest. But in vain. Suddenly, the color 
fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips re- 
sumed the expression of the dead, and, 
in an instant afterward, the whole body 
took upon itself the icy chilliness, the 
livid hue, the intense rigidity, the 
sunken outline, and all the loathsome 
peculiarities of that which has been, 
for many days, a tenant of the tomb. 

And again I sunk into visions of 
Ligeia—and again (what marvel that 
I shudder while I write?) again there 
reached my ears a low sob from the 
region of the ebony bed. But why 
shall I minutely detail the unspeakable 
horrors of that night? Why shail I 
pause to relate how, time after time, 


334 


until near the period of the gray dawn, 
this hideous drama of revivification 
was repeated; how each terrific relapse 
was only into a sterner and apparently 
more irredeemable death; how each 
agony wore the aspect of a struggle 
with some invisible foe; and how each 
struggle was succeeded by I know not 
what of wild change in the personal 
appearance of the corpseP Let me 
hurry to a conclusion. 

The greater part of the fearful night 
had worn away, and she who had been 
dead once again stirred—and now more 
vigorously than hitherto, although 
arousing from a dissolution more ap- 
palling in its utter hopelessness than 
any. I had long ceased to struggle or 
to move, and remained sitting rigidly 
upon the ottoman, a helpless prey to a 
whirl of violent emotions, of which ex- 
treme awe was perhaps the least ter- 
rible, the least consuming. The corpse, 
I repeat, stirred, and now more vigor- 
ously than before. The hues of life 
flushed up with unwonted energy into 
the countenance—the limbs relaxed— 
and, save that the eyelids were yet 
pressed heavily together, and that the 
bandages and draperies of the grave 
still imparted their charnel character 
to the figure, I might have dreamed 
that Rowena had indeed shaken off, 
utterly, the fetters of Death. But if 
this idea was not, even then, altogether 
adopted, I could at least doubt no 
longer, when, arising from the bed, tot- 
tering, with feeble steps, with closed 
eyes, and with the manner of one be- 
wildered in a dream, the thing that was 
enshrouded advanced boldly and palp- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ably into the middle of the apartment. 

I trembled not—I stirred not—for a 
crowd of unutterable fancies connected 
with the air, the stature, the demeanor, 
of the figure, rushing hurriedly through 
my brain, had paralyzed—had chilled 
me into stone. I stirred not—but 
gazed upon the apparition. There was 
a mad disorder in my thoughts—a tu- 
mult unappeasable. Could it, indeed, 
be the living Rowena who confronted 
me? Could it, indeed, be Rowena at 
all—the fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady 
Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine? Why, 
why should I doubt it? The bandage 
lay heavily about the mouth—but then 
might it not be the mouth of the breath- 
ing Lady of Tremaine? And the cheeks 
—there were the roses as in her noon 
of life—yes, these might indeed be the 
fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tre- 
maine. And the chin, with its dimples, 
as in health, might it not be hersP— 
but had she then grown taller since her 
malady? What inexpressible madness 
seized me with that thought? One 
bound, and I had reached her feet! 
Shrinking from my touch, she let fall 
from her head, unloosened, the ghastly 
cerements which had confined it, and 
there streamed forth into the rushing 
atmosphere of the chamber huge masses 
of long and dishevelled hair; it was 
blacker than the raven wings of mid- 
night! And now slowly opened the 
eyes of the figure which stood before 
me. “Here then, at least,’ I shrieked 
aloud, “can I never—can I never be 
mistaken—these are the full, and the 
black, and the wild eyes—of my lost 
love—of the Lady—of the Lady Ligeia.” 


Morella 


Auto kath auto meth autou monoeides aiei on.—(Gr.) 


Itself, by itself solely, oNE everlastingly, and single——PLaTto Sympos. 





(This tale was published in the Southern Literary Messenger and contains the 
complete verses of the beautiful poem to the Mother of God, including the 
first four lines which are often omitted. Although this short poem is one of 
the most glorious tributes ever uttered to the Madonna, Rev. Rufus Griswold, 
leading litterateur of Poe’s age, omitted it from his collection of Christian 


Ballads ——Ed.) 


WitH a feeling of deep yet most 
singular affection I regarded my friend 
Morella. Thrown by accident into her 
society many years ago, my soul from 
our first meeting, burned with fires it 
had never before known; but the fires 
were not of Eros, and bitter and tor- 
menting to my spirit was the gradual 
conviction that I could in no manner 
define their unusual meaning or regulate 
their vague intensity. Yet we met; 
and fate bound us together at the altar; 
and I never spoke of passion. nor 
thought of love. She, however, shunned 
society, and, attaching herself to me 
alone rendered me happy. It is a hap- 
piness to wonder; it is a happiness to 
dream. 

Morella’s erudition was profound. As 
I hope to live, her talents were of no 
common order, her powers of mind 
were gigantic. I felt this, and, in 
many matters, became her pupil. I 
soon, however, found that, perhaps on 
account of her Presburg education, she 
placed before me a number of those 


355 


mystical writings which are usually con- 
sidered the mere dzoss of the early 
German literature. These, for what 
reason I could not imagine, were her 
favourite and constant study—and that 
in process of time they became my own, 
should be attributed to the simple but 
effectual influence of habit and example. 

In all this, if I err not, my reason 
had little to do. My convictions, or I 
forget myself, were in no manner acted 
upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture 
of the mysticism which I read to be 
discovered, unless I am greatly mis- 
taken, either in my deeds or in my 
thoughts. Persuaded of this, I aban- 
doned myself implicitly to the guidance 
of my wife, and entered with an un- 
flinching heart ixto the intricacies of - 
her studies. And then—then, when 
poring over forbidden pages, I felt a 
forbidden spirit enkindling within me— 
would Morella place her cold hand upon 
my own, and rake up from the ashes of 
a dead philosophy some low, singular 


336 


words, whose strange meaning burned 
themselves in upon my memory. 


Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes— 
Upon the sinner’s sacrifice, 

Of fervent prayer and humble love, 
From thy holy throne above. 


At morn—at noon—at twilight dim— 
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! 

In joy and wo—in good and ill— 
Mother of God, be with me still! 


When the Hours flew brightly by, 

And not a cloud obscured the sky, 
My soul, lest it should truant be, 

Thy grace did guide to thine and thee; 


Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast 
Darkly my Present and my Past, 
Let my Future radiant shine 

With sweet hopes of thee and thine! 


And then, hour after hour, would I 
linger by her side, and dwell upon the 
music of her voice, until at length its 
melody was tainted with terror, and 
there fell a shadow upon my soul, and 
I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly 
at those too unearthly tones. And 
thus, joy suddenly faded into horror, 
and the most beautiful became the most 
hideous, as Hinnon became GeHenna. 

It is unnecessary to state the exact 
character of those disquisitions which, 
growing out of the volumes I have men- 
tioned, formed, for so long a time, 
almost the sole conversation of Morella 
and myself. By the learned in what 
might be termed theological morality 
they will be readily conceived, and by 
the unlearned they would, at all events, 
he little understood. The wild Pan- 
theism of Fichte: the modified 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Paliggenesia (Gr.) of Pythagoras; and, 
above all, the doctrines of /dentity as 
urged by Schelling, were generally the 
points of discussion presented the most 
of beauty to the imaginative Morella. 
That identity which is termed personal, 
Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to con- 
sist in the saneness of _ rational 
being. And since by person we under- 
stand an intelligent essence having 
reason, and since there is a conscious- 
ness which always accompanies think- 
ing, it is this which makes us all to be 
that which we call ourselves, thereby 
distinguishing us from other beings 
that think, and giving us our personal 
identity. But the principium individua- 
tionis, the notion of that identity which 
at death is or is not lost for ever, was 
to me, at all times, a consideration of 
intense interest; not more from the 
perplexing and exciting nature of its 
consequences, than from the marked 
and agitated manner in which Morella 
mentioned them. | 

But, indeed, the time had now arrived 
when the mystery of my wife’s manner 
oppressed me as a spell. I could no 
longer bear the touch of her wan fin- 
gers, nor the low tone of her musical 
language, nor the lustre of her melan- 
choly eyes. And she knew all this, but 
did not upbraid; she seemed conscious 
of my weakness or my folly, and, smil- 
ing, called it fate. She seemed also 
conscious of a cause, to me unknown, 
for the gradual alienation of my regard; 
but she gave me no hint or token of its 
nature. Yet was she woman, and 
pined away daily. In time the crimson 
spot settled steadily upon the cheek, 
and the blue veins upon the pale fore- 
head became prominent; and one in- 
stant my nature melted into pity, but 





MORELLA 


in the next I met the glance of her 
meaning eyes, and then my soul sick- 
ened and became giddy with the giddi- 
ness of one who gazes downward into 
some dreary and unfathomable abyss. 

Shall I then say that I longed with 
an earnest and consuming desire for 
the moment of Morella’s decease? I 
did; but the fragile spirit clung to its 
tenement of clay for many days, for 
many weeks and irksome months, until 
my tortured nerves obtained the mas- 
tery over my mind, and I grew furious 
through delay, and, with the heart of a 
fiend, cursed the days and the hours 
and the bitter moments, which seemed 
to lengthen and lengthen as her gentle 
life declined, like shadows in the dying 
of the day. | 

But one autumnal evening, when the 
winds lay still in heaven, Morella called 
me to her bedside. There was a dim 
mist over all the earth, and a warm 
glow upon the waters, and amid the 
rich October leaves of the forest, a 
rainbow from the firmament had surely 
fallen. 

“It is a day of days,” she said, as I 
approached; “a day of all days either 
to live or die. It is a fair day for the 
sons of earth and life—ah, more fair 


for the daughters of heaven and death!” ° 


I kissed her forehead, and she con- 
tinued: 

“T am dying, yet shall I live.” 

“Morella!”’ 

“The days have never been when 
thou couldst love me—but her whom 
in life thou didst abhor, in death thou 
shalt adore.” 

“Morella!” 

“T repeat that I am dying. But 
within me is a pledge of that affection 
—ah, how little!—which thou didst 


337 


feel for me, Morella. And when my 
spirit departs shall the child live—thy 
child and mine, Morella’s. But thy 
days shall be days of sorrow—that 
sorrow which is the most lasting of im- 
pressions, as the cypress is the most 
enduring of trees. For the hours of 
thy happiness are over and joy is not 
gathered twice in a life, as the roses 
of Pestum twice in a year. Thou shalt 
no longer, then, play the Teian with 
time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle 
and the vine, thou shalt bear about 
with thee thy shroud on the earth, as 
do the Moslemin at Mecca.” 

““Morella!”” I cried, “Morella! how 
knowest thou this?” but she turned 
away her face upon the pillow and a 
slight tremor coming over her limbs, 
she thus died, and I heard her voice 
no more. 

Yet, as she had foretold, her child, 
to which in dying she had given birth, 
which breathed not until the mother 
breathed no more, her child, a daughter, 
lived. And she grew strangely in stature 
and intellect, and was the perfect re- 
semblance of her who had departed, 
and I loved her with a love more fervent 
than I had believed it possible to feel 
for any denizen of earth. 

But, ere long the heaven of this pure 
affection became darkened, and gloom, 
and horror, and grief swept over it in 
clouds. I said the child grew strangely 
in stature and intelligence. Strange, 
indeed, was her rapid increase in bodily 
size, but terrible, oh! terrible were the 
tumultuous thoughts which crowded 
upon me while watching the develop- 
ment of her mental being. Could it be 
otherwise, when I daily discovered in 
the conceptions of the child the adult 
powers and faculties of the woman? 


338 


when the lessons of experience fell from 
the lips of infancy? and when the wis- 
dom or the passions of maturity I 
found hourly gleaming from its full 
and speculative eye? When, I say, ali 
this became evident to my appalled 
senses, when I could no longer hide it 
from my soul, nor throw it off from 
those perceptions which trembled to 
receive it, is it to be wondered at that 
suspicions, of a nature fearful and ex- 
citing, crept in upon my spirit, or that 


my thoughts fell back aghast upon the’ 


wild tales and thrilling theories of the 
entombed Morellar I snatched from 
the scrutiny of the world a being whom 
destiny compelled me to adore, and in 
the rigorous seclusion of my home, 
watched with an agonizing anxiety over 
all which concerned the beloved. 

And as years rolled away, and I 
gazed day after day upon her holy, and 
mild, and eloquent face, and poured 
over her maturing form, day after day 
did I discover new points of resem- 
blance in the child to her mother, the 
melancholy and the dead. And hourly 
grew darker these shadows of similitude, 
and more full, and more definite, and 
more perplexing, and more _ hideously 
terrible in their aspect. For that her 
smile was like her mother’s I could 
bear; but then I shuddered at its too 
perfect identity, that her eyes were 
like Morella’s I could endure; but then 
they, too, often looked down into the 
depths of my soul with Morella’s own 
intense and bewildering meaning. And 
m the contour of the high forehead, and 
in the ringlets of the silken hair, and 
in the wan fingers which buried them- 
selves therein, and in the sad musical 
tones of her speech, and above all—oh, 
above all, in the phrases and expressions 


memory of the buried dead? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the dead on the lips of the loved 
and the living, I found food for con- 
suming thought and horror, for a worm 
that would not die. 

Thus passed away two lustra of her 
life, and as yet my daughter remained 
nameless upon the earth. ‘My child,” 
and “my love,” were the designations 
usually prompted by a father’s affec- 
tion, and the rigid seclusion of her days 
precluded all other intercourse. Mo- 
rella’s name died with her at her death. 
Of the mother I had never spoken to 
the daughter; it was impossible to 
speak. Indeed, during the brief pe- 
riod of her existence, the latter had 
received no impressions from the out- 
ward world, save such as might have 
been afforded by the narrow limits of 
her privacy. But at length the cere- 
mony of baptism presented to my mind, 
in its unnerved and agitated condition, 
a present deliverance from the terrors 
of my destiny. And at the baptismal 
font I hesitated for a name. And many 
titles of the wise and beautiful, of old 
and modern times, of my own and for- 
eign lands, came thronging to my lips, 
with many, many fair titles of the 
gentle, and the happy, and the good. 
What prompted me then to disturb the 
What 
demon urged me to breathe that sound, 
which in its very recollection was wont 
to make ebb the purple blood in tor- 
rents from the temples to the heart? 
What fiend spoke from the recesses 
of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, 
and in the silence of the night, I 
whispered within the ears of the holy 
man the syllables— Morella? What 
more than fiend convulsed the features 
of my child, and overspread them with 
hues of death, as starting at that 








METZENGERSTEIN 


scarcely audible sound, she turned her 
glassy eyes from the earth to heaven, 
and falling prostrate on the black slabs 
of our ancestral vault, responded—‘“I 
am here!” 

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell 
those few simple sounds within my ear, 
and thence like molten lead rolled hiss- 
ingly into my brain. Years—years may 
pass away, but the memory of that 
epoch never. Nor was I indeed igno- 
rant of the flowers and the vine—but 
the hemlock and the cypress over- 
shadowed me night and day. And I 


339 


kept no reckoning of time or place, and 
the stars of my fate faded from heaven, 
and therefore the earth grew dark, and 
its figures passed by me like flitting 
shadows, and among them all I beheld 
only—Morella. The winds of the 
firmament breathed but one _ sound 
within my ears, and the ripples upon 
the sea murmured evermore—Morella. 
But she died; and with my own hands 
I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed 
with a long and bitter laugh as I found 
no traces of the first in the charnel 
where I laid the second——Morella. 


Metzen ger stein 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, January, 1836.—Ed.) 


Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors 
ero —Martin Luther. 


Horror and fatality have been stalk- 
ing abroad in all ages. Why then give 
a date to this story I have to tell? 
Let it suffice to say, that at the period 
of which I speak, there existed, in the 
interior of Hungary, a settled although 
hidden belief in the doctrines of the 
Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines 
themselves—that is, of their falsity, 
or of their probability—I say nothing. 
T assert, however, that much of our 
incredulity (as La Bruyere says of all 
our unhappiness) “vient de ne pouvoir 
etre seuls.” 

But there were some points in the 
Hungarian superstition which were fast 
verging to absurdity. They—the Hun- 
garians—differed very essentially from 
their Eastern authorities. For example, 
“The soul,’ said the former—I give 


_the words of an acute and. intelligent 


Parisian—“ne demure qu’ un seul fois 
dans un corps sensible: au reste—un 
cheval, un chien, un homme meme, nv’ 
est que la ressemblance peu tangible de 
ces animaux.” 

The families of Berlifitzing and Metz- 
engerstein had been at variance for 
centuries. Never before were two 
houses so illustrious, mutually embit- 
tered by hostility so deadly. The origin 
of this enmity seems to be found in the 
words of an ancient prophecy—“A 
lofty name shall ‘have a fearful fall 
when, as the rider over his horse, the 
mortality of Metzengerstein shall tri- 
umph over the immortality of Berlifitz- 
ing.” 

To be sure the words themselves had 
little or no meaning. But more trivial 
causes have given rise—and that no 
long while ago—to consequences equally 
eventful. Besides, the estates, which 


340 


were contiguous, had long exercised a 
rival influence in the affairs of a busy 
government. .Moreover, near neighbors 
are seldom friends; and the inhabit- 
ants of the Castle Berlifitzing might 
look, from their lofty buttresses, into 
the very windows of the palace Metzen- 
gerstein. Least of all had the more 
than feudal magnificence, thus discov- 
ered, a tendency to allay the irritable 
feelings of the less ancient and less 
wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder 
then, that the words, however silly, of 
that prediction, should have succeeded 
in setting and keeping at variance two 
families already predisposed to quarrel 
by every instigation of hereditary jeal- 
ousy? The prophecy seemed to imply 
—if it implied anything—a final tri- 
umph on the part of the already more 
powerful house; and was of course re- 
membered with the more bitter ani- 
mosity by the weaker and less influential. 

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although 
loftily descended, was, at the epoch of 
this narrative, an infirm and doting old 
man, remarkable for nothing but an 
inordinate and inveterate personal anti- 
pathy to the family of his rival, and 
so passionate a love of horses, and of 
hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, 
great age, nor mental incapacity, pre- 
vented his daily participation in the 
dangers of the chase. 

Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, 
on the other hand, not yet of age. His 
father, the Minister G , died young. 
His mother, the Lady Mary, followed 
him quickly. Frederick was, at that 
time, in his eighteenth year. In a city, 
eighteen years are no long period; but 
in a wilderness—in so magnificent a 
wilderness as that old principality, 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the pendulum vibrates with a deeper 
meaning. 

From some peculiar circumstances 
attending the administration of his 
father, the young Baron, at the decease 
of the former, entered immediately 
upon his vast possessions. Such estates 
were seldom held before by a nobleman 
of Hungary. His castles were without 
number. The chief in point of splendor 
and extent was the “Palace Metzen- 
gerstein.” The boundary line of his 
dominions was never clearly defined; 
but his principal park embraced a cir- 
cuit of fifty miles. 

Upon the succession of a proprietor 
so young, with a character so well 
known, to a fortune so unparalleled, 
little speculation was afloat in regard 
to his probable course of conduct. And, 
indeed, for the space of three days, the 
behavior of the heir out-Heroded Herod, 
and fairly surpassed the expectations 
of his most enthusiastic admirers. 
Shameful debaucheries—flagrant treach- 
eries — unheard-of-atrocities — gave his 
trembling vassals quickly to understand 
that no servile submission on their part 
—no punctilios of conscience on his 
cwn—were thenceforward to prove any 
security against the remorseless fangs 
of a petty Caligula. On the night of 
the fourth day, the stables of the 
Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to 
be on fire; and the unanimous opinion 
of the neighborhood added the crime 
of the incendiary to the already hideous 


list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and 


enormities. 

But during the tumult occasioned by 
this occurrence, the young nobleman 
himself sat apparently buried in medi- 
tation, in a vast and desolate upper 
apartment of the family palace of 





' 
| 


METZENGERSTEIN 


Metzengerstein. The rich although 
faded tapestry hangings which swung 
gloomily upon the walls, represented 
the shadowy and majestic forms of a 
thousand illustrious ancestors. Here, 
rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dig- 
nitaries, familiarly seated with the au- 
tocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on 
the wishes of a temporal king, or re- 
strained with the fiat of papal su- 
premacy the rebellious sceptre of the 
Arch-enemy. There, the dark, tall 
statures of the Princes Metzengerstein 
—their muscular war-coursers plunging 
over the carcasses of fallen foes— 
startled the steadiest nerves with their 
vigorous expression; and here, again, 
the voluptuous and swan-like figures of 
the dames of days gone by, floated 
away in the mazes of an unreal dance 
to the strains of imaginary melody. 

But as the Baron listened, or af- 
fected to listen, to the gradually in- 
creasing uproar in the stables of Ber- 
liftzing—or perhaps pondered upon 
some more novel, some more decided 
act of audacity—his eyes were turned 
unwittingly to the figure of an enor- 
mous, and unnaturally colored horse, 
represented in the tapestry as belonging 
to a Saracen ancestor of the family of 
his rival. The-horse itself, in the fore- 
eround of the design, stood motionless 
and _ statute-like—while, farther back, 
its discomfited rider perished by the 
dagger of a Metzengerstein. 

On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish 
expression, as he became aware of the 
direction which his glance had, without 
his consciousness, assumed. Yet he 
did not remove it. On the contrary, 
he could by no means account for the 
overwhelming anxiety which appeared 
falling like a pall upon his senses. It 


41 


was with difficulty that he reconciled 
his dreamy and incoherent feelings 
with the certainty of being awake. 
The longer he gazed the more absorb- 
ing became the spell—the more im- 
possible did it appear that he could 
ever withdraw his glance from the 
fascination of that tapestry. But the 
tumult without becoming suddenly more 
violent, with a compulsory exertion he 
diverted his attention to the glare of 
ruddy light thrown full by the flaming 
stables upon the windows of the apart- 
ment. ; 
The action, however, was but mo- 
mentary; his gaze returned mechan- 
ically to the wall. To his extreme 
horror and astonishment, the head of 
the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, 
altered its position. The neck of the 
animal, before arched, as if in com- 
passion, over the prostrate body of its 
lord, was now extended, at full length, 
in the direction of the Baron. The 
eyes, before invisible, now wore an 
energetic and human expression, while 


‘they gleamed with a fiery and unusual 


red; and the distended lips of the ap- 
parently enraged horse left in full view 
his sepulchral and disgusting teeth. 

Stupefied with terror, the young 
nobleman tottered to the door. As he 
threw it open, a flash of red light, 
streaming far into the chamber, flung 
his shadow with a clear outline against 
the quivering tapestry; and he shud- 
dered to perceive that shadow—as he 
staggered awhile upon the threshold— 
assuming the exact position, and pre- 
cisely filling up the contour, of the 
relentless and triumphant murderer of 
the Saracen Berlifitzing. 

To lighten the depression of his 
spirits, the Baron hurried into the open 


342 


air. At the principal gate of the palace 
he encountered three equerries. With 
much difficulty, and at the imminent 
peril of their lives, they were restrain- 
ing the convulsive plunges of a gigan- 
tic and fiery-colored horse. 

“Whose horse? Where did you get 
him?” demanded the youth, in a queru- 
lous and husky tone, as he became in- 
stantly aware that the mysterious steed 
in the tapestried chamber was the very 
counterpart of the furious animal be- 
fore his eyes. 

“He is your own property, sire,” 
replied one of the equerries, “at least 
he is claimed by no other owner. We 
caught him flying, all smoking and 
foaming with rage, from the burning 
stables of the Castle Berlifitzing. Sup- 
posing him to have belonged to the old 
Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led 
him back as an estray. But the grooms 
there disclaim any title to the creature; 
which is strange, since he bears evident 
marks of having made a narrow escape 
from the flames.” 

They dettersorW. Vex Bi 
branded very distinctly on his fore- 
head,” interrupted a second equerry; 
“T supposed them, of course, to be the 
initials of William Von Berlifitzing— 
but all at the castle are positive in 
denying any knowledge of the horse.” 

“Extremely singular!” said the young 
Baron, with a musing air, and appar- 
ently unconscious of the meaning of 
his words. “He is, as you say,'a re- 
markable horse—a prodigious horse! 
although, as you very justly observe, 
of a suspicious and untractable char- 
acter; let him be mine, however,” he 
added, after a pause, “perhaps a rider 
like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may 


are also 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tame even the devil from the stables 
of Berlifitzing.” 

“You are mistaken, my lord; the 
horse, as I think we mentioned, is not 
from the stables of the Count. If 
such had been the case, we know our 
duty better than to bring him into the 
presence of a noble of your family.” 

“True!” observed the Baron, dryly; 
and at that instant a page of the bed- 
chamber came from the palace with a 
heightened color, and a precipitate step. 
He whispered into his master’s ear an 
account of the sudden disappearance of 
a small portion of the tapestry, in an 
apartment which he designated; enter- 
ing, at the same time, into particulars 
of a minute and circumstantial char- 
acter; but from the low tone of voice 
in which these latter were communi- 
cated, nothing escaped to gratify the 
excited curiosity of the equerries. 

The young Frederick, during the con- 
ference, seemed agitated by a variety 
of emotions. He soon, however, recov- 
ered his composure, and an expression 
of determined malignancy settled upon 
his countenance, as he gave peremptory 
orders that the apartment in question 
should be immediately locked up, and 
the key piaced in his own possession. 

“Have you heard of the unhappy 
death of the old hunter Berlifitzing?” 
said one of his vassals to the Baron, 
as, after the departure of the page, the 
huge steed which that nobleman had 
adopted as his own, plunged and cur- 
veted, with redoubled fury, down the 
long avenue which extended from the 
palace to the stables of Metzengerstein. 

“No!” said the Baron, turning ab- 
ruptly toward the speaker, “dead! say 
you?” ; 

“It is indeed true, my lord; and, 








METZENGERSTEIN 


to the noble of your name, will be, I 
imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.” 

A rapid smile shot over the counte- 
nance of the listener. ‘How died he?” 

“In his rash exertions to rescue a 
favorite portion of the hunting stud, 
he has himself perished miserably in 
the flames.” 

“ T—_n—d—e—e—d—! ” ejaculated 
the Baron, as if slowly and deliberately 
impressed with the truth of some ex- 
citing idea. 

“Indeed;” repeated the vassal. 

“Shocking!”’ said the youth, calmly, 
and turned quietly into the palace. 

From this date a marked alteration 
took place in the outward demeanor 
of the dissolute young Baron Frederick 
Von Metzengerstein. Indeed, his be- 
havior disappointed every expectation, 
and proved little in accordance with 
the views of many a manceuvering 
mamma; while his habits and manner, 
still less than formerly, offered any 
thing congenial with those of the neigh- 
boring aristocracy. He was never to 
be seen beyond the limits of his own 
domain, and, in his wide and social 
world, was utterly companionless—un- 
less, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous, 
and fiery-colored horse, which he hence- 
forward continually bestrode, had any 
mysterious right to the title of his 
friend. 

Numerous invitations on the part 
of the neighborhood for a long time, 
however, periodically came in. - “Will 
the Baron honor our festivals with his 
presence?” ‘Will the Baron join us 
in a hunting of the boar?”—‘‘Metzen- 
gerstein does not hunt;” ‘“Metzenger- 
stein will not attend,’ were the haughty 
and laconic answers. 

These repeated insults were not to 


343 


be endured by an imperious nobility 
Such invitations became less cordial— 
less frequent—in time they ceased al- 
together. The widow of the unfor- 
tunate Count Berlifitzing was even 
heard to express a hope “that the Baron 
might be at home when he did not wish 
to be at home, since he disdained the 
company of his equals; and ride when 
he did not wish to ride, since he pre- 
ferred the society of a horse.” This 
to be sure was a very silly explosion 
of hereditary pique; and merely proved 
how singularly unmeaning our sayings 
are apt tao become, when we desire to 
be unusually energetic. 

The charitable, nevertheless, attrib- 
uted the alteration in the conduct of 
the young nobleman to the natural sor- 
row of a son for the untimely loss of 
his parents—forgetting, however, his 
atrocious and reckless behavior during 
the short period immediately succeed- 
ing that bereavement. Some there were, 
indeed, who suggested a too haughty 
idea of self-consequence and dignity. 
Others again (among whom may be 
mentioned the family physician) did 
not hesitate in speaking of morbid 
melancholy, and hereditary ill-health; 
while dark hints, of a more equivocal 
nature, were current among the multi- 
tude. 

Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attach- 
ment to his lately-acquired charger— 
an attachment which seemed to attain 
new strength from every fresh example 
of the animal’s ferocious and demon- 
like propensities—at length became, in 
the eyes of all reasonable men, a hide- 
ous and unnatural fervor. In the 
glare of noon—at the dead hour of 
night—in sickness or in health—in 
calm or in tempest—the young Metz- 


344 


engerstein seemed riveted to the saddle 
of that colossal horse, whose intractable 
audacities so well accorded with his own 
spirit. 

There were circumstances, moreover, 
which coupled with late events, gave an 
unearthly and portentous character to 
the mania of the rider, and to the ca- 
pabilities of the steed. The space 
passed over in a single leap had been 
accurately measured, and was found to 
exceed, by an astounding difference, 
the wildest expectations of the most 
imaginative. The Baron, besides, had 
no particular mame for the animal, al- 
though all the rest in his collection 
were distinguished by characteristic ap- 
pellations. His stable, too, was ap- 
pointed at a distance from the rest; 
and with regard to grooming and other 
necessary offices, none but the owner 
in person had ventured to officiate, or 
even to enter the enclosure of that 
horse’s particular stall. It was also to 
be observed, that although the three 
grooms, who had caught the steed as 
he fled from the conflagration at Ber- 
lifitzing, had succeeded in arresting his 
course, by means of a chain-bridle and 
noose—yet not one of the three could 
with any certainty affirm that he had, 
during that dangerous struggle, or at 
any period thereafter, actually placed 
his hand upon the body of the beast. 
Instances of peculiar intelligence in the 
demeanor of a noble and high-spirited 
horse are not to be supposed capable 
of exciting unreasonable attention, but 
there were certain circumstances which 
intruded themselves per force upon the 
most skeptical and phlegmatic; and it 
is said there were times when the ani- 
mal caused the gaping crowd who stood 
around to recoil in horror from the deep 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and impressive meaning of his terrible 
stamp—times when the young Metzen- 
gerstein turned pale and shrunk away 
from the rapid and searching expression 
of his human-looking eye. 

Among all the retinue of the Baron, 
however, none were found to doubt the 
ardor of that extraordinary affection 
which existed on the part of the young 
nobleman for the fiery qualities of his 
horse; at least, none but an insignificant 
and misshapen little page, whose de- 
formities were in everybody’s way, and 
whose opinions were of the least pos- 
sible importance. He (if his ideas are 
worth mentioning at all) had the ef- 
frontery to assert that his master 
never vaulted into the saddle without 
an unaccountable and almost imper- 
ceptible shudder; and that, upon his 
return from every long-continued and 
habitual ride, an expression of tri- 
umphant malignity distorted every 
muscle in his countenance. 

One tempestuous night, Metzenger- 
stein, awaking from a heavy slumber, 
descended like a maniac from his 
chamber, and, mounting in hot haste, 
bounded away into the mazes of the 
forest. An occurrence so common at- 
tracted no particular attention, but his 
return was looked for with intense anx- 
iety on the part of his domestics, when, 
after some hours’ absence, the stupen- 
dous and magnificent battlements of the 
Palace ‘Metzengerstein, were discovered 
crackling and rocking to their very 
foundation, under the influence of a 
dense and livid mass of ungovernable 
fire. 

As the flames, when first seen, had al- 
ready made so terrible a progress that 
all efforts to save any portion of the 
building were evidently futile, the as- 





— trollable. 





HOP-FROG 


tonished neighborhood stood idly around 
in silent if not pathetic wonder. But 
a new and fearful object soon riveted 
the attention of the multitude, and 
proved how much more intense is the 
excitement wrought in the feelings of 
a crowd by the contemplation of human 
agony, than that brought about by the 
most appalling spectacles of inanimate 
matter. 

Up the long avenue of aged oaks 
which led from the forest to the main 
entrance of the Palace Metzengerstein, 
a steed, bearing an unbonneted and dis- 
ordered rider, was seen leaping with 


an impetuosity which outstripped the 


very Demon of the Tempest. 

The career of the horseman was in- 
disputably, on his own part, uncon- 
The agony of his counte- 
nance, the convulsive struggle of his 
frame, gave evidence of superhuman 


345 


exertion: but no sound, save a solitary 
shriek, escaped from his lacerated lips, 
which were bitten through and through 
in the intensity of terror. One instant, 
and the clattering of hoofs resounded 
sharply and shrilly above the roaring 
of the flames and the shrieking of the 
winds—another, and, clearing at a sin- 
gle plunge the gate-way and the moat, 
the steed bounded far up the tottering 
staircases of the palace, and, with its 
rider, disappeared amid the whirlwind 
of chaotic fire. 

The fury of the tempest immediately 
died way, and a dead calm sullenly 
succeeded. A white flame still envel- 
oped the building like a shroud, and, 
streaming far away into the quiet at- 
mosphere, shot forth a glare of praeter- 
natural light; while a cloud of smoke 
settled heavily over the battlements in 
the distinct colossal figure of—a horse. 


FHop-Frog 


(First published in Flag of Our Union, 1849.—Ed.) 


I NEVER knew any one so keenly 
alive to a joke as the king was. He 
seemed to live only for joking. To 
tell a good story of the joke kind, and 
to tell it well, was the surest road to 
his favor. Thus it happened that his 
seven ministers were all noted for their 
accomplishments as jokers. They all 
took after the king, too, in being large, 
corpulent, oily men, as well as inimita- 
ble jokers. Whether people grow fat 
by joking, or whether there is some- 
thing in fat itself which predisposes to 
a joke, I have never been quite able 
to determine; but certain it is that a 
lean joker is a rara avis in terrts. 


About the refinements, or, as he 
called them, the “ghost” of wit, the 
king troubled himself very little. He 
had an especial admiration for breadth 
in a jest, and would often put up with 
length, for the sake of it. Over-niceties 
weared him. He would have preferred 
Rabelais’ “Gargantua” to the “Zadig” 
of Voltaire: and, upon the whole, prac- 
tical jokes suited his taste far better 
than verbal ones. 

At the date of my narrative, profess- 
ing jesters had not altogether gone 
out of fashion at court. Several of the 
great continental “powers” still retain 
their “fools,” who wore motley, with 


346 


caps and bells, and who were expected 
to be always ready with sharp witti- 
cisms, at a moment’s notice, in consid- 
eration of the crumbs that fell from 
the royal table. | 

Our king, as a matter of course, re- 
tained his “fool.” The fact is, he re- 
quired something in the way of folly— 
if only to counterbalance the heavy 
wisdom of the seven wise men who were 
his ministers—not to mention himself. 

His fool, or professional jester, was 
not only a fool, however. His value 
was trebled in the eyes of the king, 
by the fact of his being also a dwarf 
and a cripple. Dwarfs were as com- 
mon at court, in those days, as fools; 
and many monarchs would have found 
it difficult to get through their days 
(days are rather longer at court than 
elsewhere) without both a jester to 
laugh with, and a dwarf to laugh at. 
But, as I have already observed, your 
jesters, in ninety-nine cases out of a 
hundred, are fat, round, and unwieldy 
——so that it was no small source of 
self-gratulation with our king that, in 
Hop-Frog (this was the fool’s name), 
he possessed a triplicate treasure in one 
person. 

I believe the name “Hop-Frog” was 
not that given to the dwarf by his 
sponsors at baptism, but it was con- 
ferred upon him, by general consent 
of the seven ministers, on account of 
his inability to walk as other men do. 
In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along 
by a sort of interjectional gait—some- 
thing between a leap and a wriggle— 
a movement that afforded illimitable 
amusement, and of course consolation, 
to the king, for (notwithstanding the 
protuberance of his stomach and a 
constitutional swelling of the head) 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the king, by his whole court, was ac- 
counted a capital figure. 

But although Hop-Frog, through the 
distortion of his legs, could move only 
with great pain and difficulty along a 
road or floor, the prodigious muscular 
power which nature seemed to have 
bestowed upon his arms, by way of 
compensation for deficiency in the lower 
limbs, enabled him to perform many 
feats of wonderful dexterity, where 
trees or ropes were in question, or any 
thing else to climb. At such exercises 
he certainly much more resembled a 
squirrel, or a small monkey, than a 
frog. 

I am not able to say, with precision, 
from what country Hop-Frog originally 
came. It was from some barbarous 
region, however, that no person ever 
heard of—a vast distance from the 
court of our king. Hop-Frog, and a 
young girl very little less dwarfish than 
himself (although of equisite propor- 
tions, and a marvellous dancer), had 
been forcibly carried off from their 
respective homes in adjoining provinces, 
and sent as presents to the king, by one 
of his ever victorious generals. 

Under these circumstances, it is not 
to be wondered at that a close intimacy 
arose between the two little captives. 
Indeed, they soon became sworn friends, 
Hop-Frog, who, although he made a 
great deal of sport, was by no means 
popular, had it not in his power to 
render Trippetta many services; but 
she, on account of her grace and ex- 
quisite beauty (although a dwarf), was 
universally admired and petted; so she 
possessed much influence; and never 
failed to use it, whenever she could, 
for the benefit of Hop-Frog. 

On some grand state occasion—J 

















HOP-FROG 


forgot what—the king determined to 
have a masquerade, and whenever a 
masquerade or any thing of that kind, 
occurred at our court, then the talents 
both of Hop-Frog and Trippetta were 
sure to be called into play. Hop-Frog, 
in especial, was so inventive in the 
way of getting up pageants, suggesting 


novel characters, and arranging cos- 
tumes, for masked balls, that nothing 


could be done, it seems, without his 
assistance. 

The night appointed for the fete had 
arrived. A gorgeous hall had been 
fitted up, under Trippetta’s eye, with 
every kind of device which could pos- 
sibly give eclat to a masquerade. The 
whole court was in a fever of expecta- 
tion. As for costumes and characters, 
it might well be supposed that every- 
body had come to a decision on such 
points. Many had made up their minds 
(as to what roles they should assume) 
a week, or even a month, in advance; 
and, in fact, there was not a particle 
of indecision anywhere—except in the 
case of the king and his seven ministers. 
Why they hesitated I never could tell, 
unless they did it by way of a joke. 
More probably, they found it difficult, 


on account of being so fat, to make 


up their minds. At all events, time 
flew; and, as a last resort, they sent 
for Trippetta and Hop-Frog. 

When the two little friends obeyed 
the summons of the king, they found 
him sitting at his wine with the seven 
members of his cabinet council; but the 
monarch appeared to be in a very ill 
humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was 
not fond of wine; for it excited the 
poor cripple almost to madness; and 
madness is no comfortable feeling. But 
the king loved his practical jokes, and 


347 


took pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to 
drink and (as the king called it) “to 
be merry.” 

“Come here, Hop-Frog,” said he, as 
the jester and his friend entered the 
room; “swallow this bumper to the 
health of your absent friends, [here 
Hop-Frog sighed,| and then Jet us have 
the benefit of your invention. We want 
characters—characters, man—something 
novel—out of the way. We are wearied 
with this everlasting sameness. Come, 
drink! the wine will brighten your wits.” 

Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to 
get up a jest in reply to these advances 
from the king; but the effort was too 
much. It happened to be the poor 
dwarf’s birthday, and the command to 
drink to his “absent friends” forced the 
tears to his eyes. Many large, bitter 
drops fell into the goblet as he took 
it, humbly, from the hand of the 
tyrant. 

“Ah! ha! ha! ha!” roared the latter, 
as the dwarf reluctantly drained the 
breaker. “See what a glass of good 
wine can do! Why, your eyes are 
shining already!” 

Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, 
rather than shone; for the effect of 
wine on his excitable brain was not 
more powerful than instantaneous. He 
placed the goblet nervously on the 
table, and looked round upon the com- 
pany with a half-insane stare. They 
all seemed highly amused at the suc- 
cess of the king’s “joke.” 

“And now to business,” said the 
prime minister, a very fat man. 

“Ves,” said the king; “Come, Hop- 
Frog, lend us your assistance. Char- 
acters, my fine fellow; we stand in 
need of characters—all of us—ha! ha! 
ha!” and as this was seriously meant 


348 


for a joke, his laugh was chorused by 
the seven. 

Hop-Frog also laughed although 
feebly and somewhat vacantly. 

“Come, come,” said the king, im- 
patiently, “have you nothing to sug- 
gest?” 

“T am endeavoring to think of some- 
thing novel,” replied the dwarf, ab- 


stractedly, for he was quite bewildered ° 


by the wine. 

“Endeavoring!” cried the _ tyrant, 
fiercely; ‘what do you mean by that? 
Ah, I perceive. You are sulky, and want 
more wine. Here, drink this!’’ and he 
poured out another goblet full and of- 
fered it to the cripple, who merely 
gazed at it, gasping for breath. 

“Drink, I say!” shouted the monster, 
“or by the fiends——” 

The dwarf hesitated. The king grew 
purple with rage. The courtiers 
smirked. Trippetta, pale as a corpse, 
advanced to the monarch’s seat, and, 
falling on her knees before him, im- 
plored him to spare her friend. 

The tyrant regarded her, for some 
moments, in evident wonder at her 
audacity. He seemed quite at a loss 
what to do or say—how most becom- 
ingly to express his indignation. At 
last, without uttering a syllable, he 
pushed her violently from him, and 
threw the contents of the brimming 
goblet in her face. 

The poor girl got up the best she 
could, and, not daring even to sigh, 
resumed her position at the foot of the 
table. , 

There was a dead silence for about 
half a minute, during which the falling 
of a leaf, or of a feather, might have 
been heard. It was interrupted by a 
low, but harsh and protracted grating 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sound which seemed to come at once 
from every corner of the room. 

“What—what—what are you making 
that noise for?” demanded the king, 
turning furiously to the dwarf. 

The latter seemed to have recovered, 
in great measure, from his intoxica- 
tion, and looking fixedly but quietly 
into the tyrant’s face, merely ejaculated: 

“I—I? How could it have been 
me?” 

“The sound appeared to come from 
without,” observed one of the courtiers. 
“I fancy it was the parrot at the win- 
dow, whetting his bill upon his cage- 
wires.” 

“True,” replied the monarch, as if 
much relieved by the suggestion; ‘“‘but, 
on the honor of a knight, I could have 
sworn that it was the gritting of this 
vagabond’s teeth.” 

Hereupon the dwarf laughed (the 
king was too confirmed a joker to ob- 
ject to any one’s laughing), and dis- 
played a set of large, powerful, and 
very repulsive teeth. Moreover, he 
avowed his perfect willingness to swal- 
low as much wine as desired. The 
monarch was pacified; and _ having 
drained another bumper with no very 
perceptible ill effect, Hop-Frog entered 
at once, and with spirit, into the plans 
for the masquerade. 

“T cannot tell what was the associa- 
tion of idea,” observed he, very tran- 
quilly, and as if he had never tasted 
wine in his life, “but just after your 
majesty had struck the girl and thrown 
the wine in her face—just after your 
majesty had done this, and while the 
parrot was making that odd noise out- 
side the window, there came into my 
mind a capital diversion—one of my 
own country frolics—often enacted 





“the 


HOP-FROG 


among us, at our masquerades: but 
here it will be new altogether. Un- 
fortunately, however, it requires a 
company of eight persons and a 

“Here we are!” cried the king, laugh- 

ing at his acute discovery of the coin- 
cidence; “eight to a fraction—I and my 
seven ministers. Come! what is the 
diversion?” 
“We call it,” replied the cripple, 
Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs, 
and it really is excellent sport if well 
enacted.” 

“We will enact it,” remarked the 
king, drawing himself up, and lowering 
his eyelids. 

“The beauty of the game,” continued 
Hop-Frog, ‘lies in the fright it occa- 
sions among the woman.” 

“Capital!” roared in chorus the mon- 
arch and his ministry. 

“T will equip you as ourang-outangs,” 
proceeded the dwarf; “leave all that to 
me. The resemblance shall be so strik- 
ing, that the company of masqueraders 
will take you for real beasts—and of 
course, they will be as much terrified 
as astonished.” 

“Oh, this is exquisite!” exclaimed the 
king. “Hop-Frog! I will make a man 
of you.” 

“The chains are for the purpose of 
increasing the confusion by their jan- 
gling. You are supposed to have es- 
caped, e” masse, from your keepers. 
Your majesty cannot conceive the effect 
produced, at a masquerade, by eight 
chained ourang-outangs, imagined to 
be real ones by most of the company; 
and rushing in with savage cries, 
among the crowd of delicately and 
gorgeously habited men and women. 
The contrast is inimitable.” 

“Tt must be,’ said the king: and the 





349 


council arose hurriedly (as it was 
growing late), to put in execution the 
scheme of Hop-Frog. 

His mode of equipping the party as 
ourang-outangs was very simple, but 
effective enough for his purposes. The 
animals in question had, at the epoch 
of my story, very rarely been seen in 
any part of the civilized world; and as 
the imitations made by the dwarf were 
sufficiently beast-like and more than 
sufficiently hideous, their truthfulness 
to nature was thus thought to be se- 
cured. 

The king and his ministers were first 
encased in tight-fitting stockinet shirts 
and drawers. They were then satu- 
rated with tar. At this stage of the 
process, some one of the party sug- 
gested feathers; but the suggestion was 
at once overruled by the dwarf, who 
soon convinced the eight, by ocular 
demonstration, that the hair of such a 
brute as the ourang-outang was much 
more efficiently represented by flax. A 
thick coating of the latter was accord- 
ingly plastered upon the coating of 
tar. A long chain was now procured. 
First, it was passed about the waist of 
the king, and tied; then about another 
of the party, and also tied; then about 
all successively, in the same manner. 
When this chaining arrangement was 
complete, and the party stood as far 
apart from each other as possible, they 
formed a circle; and to make all things 
appear natural, Hop-Frog passed the 
residue of the chain in two diameters, 
at right angles, across the circle, after 
the fashion adopted, at the present day, 
by those who capture chimpanzees, or 
other large apes, in Borneo. 

The grand saloon in which the 
masquerade was to take place, was a 


350 


circular room, very lofty, and receiv- 
ing the light of the sun only through 
a single window at top. At night (the 
season for which the apartment was 
especially designed) it was illuminated 
principally by a large chandelier, de- 
pending by a chain from the centre of 
the sky-light, and lowered, or elevated, 
by means of a _ counter-balance as 
usual; but (in order not to look un- 
sightly) this latter passed outside the 
cupola and over the roof. 

The arrangements of the room had 
been left to Trippetta’s superintend- 
ence; but, in some particulars, it seems, 
she had been guided by the calmer 
judgment of her friend the dwarf. At 
his suggestion it was that, on this occa- 
sion, the chandelier was removed. Its 
waxen drippings (which, in weather so 
warm, it was quite impossible to pre- 
vent) would have been seriously detri- 
mental to the rich dresses of the guests, 
who, on account of the crowded state 
of the saloon, could not all be expected 
to keep from out its centre—that is to 
say, from under the chandelier. Addi- 
tional sconces were set in various parts 
of the hall, out of the way; and a 
flambeau,- emitting sweet odor, was 
placed in the right hand of each of the 
Caryatides that stood against the wall— 
some fifty or sixty altogether. 

The eight ourang-outangs, taking 
Hop-Frog’s advice, waited patiently 
until midnight (when the room was 
thoroughly filled with masqueraders) 
before making their appearance. No 
sooner had the clock ceased striking, 
however, than they rushed, or rather 
rolled in, all together—for the impedi- 
ments of their chains caused most of 
the party to fall, and all to stumble 
as they entered. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The excitement among the masque- 
raders was prodigious, and filled the 
heart of the king with glee. As had 
been anticipated, there were not a few 
of the guests who supposed the fero- 
cious-looking creatures to be beasts of 
some kind in reality, if not precisely 
ourang-outangs. Many of the women 
swooned with affright; and had not the 
king taken the precaution to exclude 
all weapons from the saloon, his party 
might soon have expiated their frolic 
in their blood. As it was, a general 
rush was made for the doors; but the 
king had ordered them to be locked 
immediately upon his entrance; and, at 
the dwarf’s suggestion, the keys had 
been deposited with him. 

While the tumult was at its height, 
and each masquerader attentive only 
to his own safety (for, in fact, there 
was much real danger from the pres- 
sure of the excited crowd), the chain 
by which the chandelier ordinarily 
hung, and which had been drawn up 
on its removal, might have been seen 
very gradually to descend, until its 
hooked extremity came within three 
feet of the floor. 

Soon after this, the king and his 
seven friends having reeled about the 
hall in all directions, found themselves, 
at length, in its centre, and, of course, 
in immediate contact with the chain. 
While they were thus situated, the 
dwarf, who had followed noiselessly at 
their heels, inciting them to keep up 
the commotion, took hold of their own 
chain at the intersection of the two 
portions which crossed the circle dia- 
metrically and at right-angles. Here, 
with the rapidity of thought, he in- 
serted the hook from which the chande- 
lier had been wont to depend; and, in 














HOP-FROG 


an instant, by some unseen agency, the 
chandelier-chain was drawn so far up- 
ward as to take the hook out of reach, 
and, as an inevitable consequence, to 
drag the ourang-outangs together in 
close connection, and face to face. 

The masqueraders, by this time, had 
recovered, in some measure, from their 
alarm; and, beginning to regard the 
whole matter as a well-contrived pleas- 
antry, set up a loud shout of laughter 
at the predicament of the apes. 

‘Leave them to me!” now screamed 
Hop-Frog, his shrill voice making itself 
easily heard through all the din. “Leave 
them to me. I fancy J know them. If 
I can only get a good look at them, J 
can soon tell who they are.” 

Here, scrambling over the heads of 
the crowd, he managed to get to the 
wall; when, seizing a flambeau from 
one of the Caryatides, he returned, as 
he went, to the centre of the room— 
leaped, with the agility of a monkey, 
upon the king’s head—and thence clam- 
bered a few feet up the chain—holding 
down the torch to examine the group 
of ourang-outangs, and still screaming: 
“7 shall soon find out who they are!” 

And now, while the whole assembly 
(the apes included) were convulsed 
with laughter, the jester suddenly ut- 
tered a shrill whistle; when the chain 
flew violently up for about thirty feet 
—dragging with it the dismayed and 
struggling ourang-outangs, and leaving 
+hem suspended in mid-air between the 
sky-light and the floor. Hop-Frog, 
clinging to the chain as it rose, still 
maintained his relative position in re- 
spect to the eight maskers, and still 
(as if nothing were the matter) con- 
tinued to thrust his torch down toward 


351 


them, as though endeavoring to discover 
who they were. 

So thoroughly astonished was the 
whole company at this ascent, that a 
dead silence, of about a minute’s dura- 
tion, ensued. It was broken by just 
such a low, harsh, grating sound, as 
had before attracted the attention of 
the king and his councillors when the 
former threw the wine in the face of 
Trippetta. But, on the present occa- 
sion, there could be no question as to 
whence the sound issued. It came from 
the fang-like teeth of the dwarf, who 
ground them and gnashed them as he 
foamed at the mouth, and glared, with 
an expression of maniacal rage, into the 
upturned countenances of the king and 
his seven companions. 

“Ah, ha!” said at length the infuri- 
ated jester. ‘Ah, ha! I begin to see 
who these people are now!” Here, 
pretending to scrutinize the king more 
closely, he held the flambeau to the 
flaxen coat which enveloped him, and 
which instantly burst into a sheet of 
vivid flame. In less than half a minute 
the whole eight ourang-outangs were 
blazing fiercely, amid the shrieks of the 
multitude who gazed at them from 
below, horror-stricken, and without the 
power to render them the slightest 
assistance. 

At length the flames, suddenly in- 
creasing in virulence, forced the jester 
to climb higher up the chain, to be out 
of their reach; and, as he made this 
movement, the crowd again sank, for 
a brief instant, into silence. The dwarf 
seized his opportunity, and once more 
spoke: 

“T now see distinctly,” he said, 
“what manner of people these maskers 


soz WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


are. They are a great king and his 
seven privy-councillors—a king who 
does not scruple to strike a defenceless 
girl, and his seven councillors who abet 
him in the outrage. As for myself, I 
am simply Hop-Frog, the jester—and 
this is my last jest.” 

Owing to the high combustibility of 
both the flax and the tar to which it 
adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made 
an end of his brief speech before the 
work of vengeance was complete. The 


eight corpses swung in their chains, a 
fetid, blackened, hideous, and indistin- 
guishable mass. The cripple hurled his 
torch at them, clambered leisurely to 
the ceiling, and disappeared through the 
sky-light. 

It is supposed that Trippetta, sta- 
tioned on the roof of the saloon, had 
been the accomplice of her friend in 
his fiery revenge, and that, together, 
they effected their escape to their own 
country; for neither was seen again. 


The Unparalleled Adventures o yf One 
Hans Pfaall 


(This tale was published in the Southern Literary Messenger. 


in the title Hans Pfaall (Fall). 


Observe the pun 


See also Criticism of Richard Adams Locke 


in the Literati of New York. It is known under another title, “A Journey 


to the Moon.”—Ed.) 


With a heart of furious fancies, 
Whereof I am commander, 
With a burning spear and a horse of 
air, 
To the wilderness I wander. 
—Tom o’Bedlam’s Song. 


By late accounts from Rotterdam, 
that city seems to be in a high state 
of philosophical excitement. Indeed, 
phenomena have there occurred of a 
nature so completely unexpected—so 
entirely novel—so utterly at variance 
with preconceived opinions—as to leave 
no doubt on my mind that long ere 
this all Europe is in an uproar, all 
physics in a ferment, all reason and 
astronomy together by the ears. 

It appears that on the 





day 





of , (I am not positive about 
the date), a vast crowd of people, for 
purposes not specifically mentioned, 
were assembled in the great square of 
the Exchange in the well-conditioned 
city of Rotterdam. The day was 
warm—unusually so for the season— 
there was hardly a breath of air stir- 
ring; and the multitude were in no bad 
humor at being now and then besprin- 
kled with friendly showers of momen- 
tary duration, that fell from large 
white masses of cloud profusely dis- 
tributed about the blue vault of the 
firmament. Nevertheless, about noon, 
a slight but remarkable agitation be- 
came apparent in the assembly: the 
clattering of ten thousand tongues suc- 
ceeded; and, in an instant afterward, 











THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


ten thousand faces were upturned to- 
ward the heavens, ten thousand pipes 
descended simultaneously from the cor- 
ners of ten thousand mouths, and a 
shout, which could be compared to 
nothing but the roaring of Niagara, 
resounded jong, loudly, and furiously, 
through all the city and through all 
the environs of Rotterdam. 

The origin of this hubbub soon be- 
came sufficiently evident. From behind 
the huge bulk of one of those sharply 
defined masses of cloud already men- 
tioned, was seen slowly to emerge into 
an open area of blue space, a queer, 
heterogeneous, but apparently solid 
substance, so oddly shaped, so whimsi- 
cally put together, as not to be in any 
manner comprehended, and never to 
be sufficiently admired, by the host 
of sturdy burghers who stood open- 
mouthed below. What could it be? In 
the name of all the devils in Rotter- 
dam, what could it possibly portend? 
No one knew; no one could imagine; 
no one—not even the burgomaster 
Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk— 
had the slightest clew by which to un- 
ravel the mystery; so, as nothing more 
reasonable could be done, every one to 
a man replaced his pipe carefully in 
the corner of his mouth, and maintain- 
ing an eye steadily upon the phenome- 
non, puffed, paused, waddled about, and 
grunted significantly ——then waddled 
back, grunted, paused, and finally— 
puffed again. 


In the meantime, however, lower and 


still lower toward the goodly city, came 
the obiect of so much curiosity, and 
the cause of so much smoke. In a very 
few minutes it arrived near enough to 
be accurately discerned. 1t appeared 
to be—vyes! it was undoubtedly a 


395 


species of balloon; but surely no such 
balloon had ever been seen in Rotter- 
dam before. For who, let me ask, 
ever heard of a balloon manufactured 
entirely of dirty newspapers? No man 
in Holland certainly; yet here, under 
the very noses of the people, or rather 
at some distance above their noses was 
the identical thing in question, and 
composed, I have it on the best author- 
ity, of the precise material which no 
one had ever before known to be used 
for a similar purpose. It was an egre- 
gious insult to the good sense of the 
burghers of Rotterdam. As to the 
shape of the phenomenon, it was even 
still more reprehensible. Being little 
or nothing better than a huge fool’s-cap 
turned upside down. And this simili- 
tude was regarded as by no means 
lessened when, upon nearer inspection, 
the crowd saw a large tassel depending 
from its apex, and, around the upper 
rim or base of the cone, a circle of 
little instruments, resembling sheep- 
bells, which kept up a continual tin- 
kling to the tune of Betty Martin. But 
still worse.—Suspended by blue ribbons 
to the end of this fantastic machine, 
there hung, by way of car, an enor- 
mous drab beaver hat, with a brim 
superlatively broad, and a hemispheri- 
cal crown with a black band and a sil- 
ver buckle. It is, however, somewhat 
remarkable that many citizens of Rot- 
terdam swore to having seen the same 
hat repeatedly before; and indeed the 
whole assembly seemed to regard it 
with eyes of familiarity; while the 
vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon sight of it, 
uttered an exclamation of joyful sur- 
prise, and declared it to be the iden- 
tical hat of her good man _ himself, 
Now this was a circumstance the more, 


354 


to be observed, as Pfaall, with three 
companions, had actually disappeared 
from Rotterdam about five years be- 
fore, in a very sudden and unaccount- 
able manner, and up to the date of this 
narrative all attempts at obtaining in- 
telligence concerning them had failed. 
To be sure, some bones which were 
thought to be human, mixed up with 
a quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had 
been lately discovered in a retired situ- 
ation to the east of the city; and some 
people went so far as to imagine that 
in this spot a foul murder had been 
committed, and that the sufferers were 
in all probability Hans Pfaall and his 
associates. But to return. 

The balloon (for such no doubt it 
was) had now descended to within a 
hundred feet of:the earth, allowing the 
trowd below a sufficiently distinct view 
of the person of its occupant. This 
was in truth a very singular somebody. 
He could not have been more than two 
feet in height; but this altitude, little 
as it was, would have been sufficient to 
destroy his equilibrium, and tilt him 
over the edge of his tiny car, but for 
the intervention of a circular rim 
reaching as high as the breast, and 
rigged on to the cords of the balloon. 
The body of the little man was more 
than proportionately broad, giving to 
his entire figure a rotundity highly ab- 
surd. His feet, of course, could not be 
seen at all. His hands were enormously 
large. 
into a queue behind. His nose was 
prodigiously long, crooked, and inflam- 
matory; his eyes full, brilliant, and 
acute; his chin and cheeks, although 
wrinkled with age, were broad, puffy, 
and double; but of ears of any kind 
there was not a semblance to be discov- 


His hair was gray, and collected 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ered upon any portion of his head. 
This odd little gentleman was dressed 
in a loose surtout of sky-blue satin, 
with tight breeches to match, fastened 
with silver buckles at the knees. His 
vest was of some bright yellow mate- 
rial; a white taffety cap was set jaunt. 
ily on one side of his head; and, to 
complete his equipment, a _ blood-red 
silk handkerchief enveloped his throat, 
and fell down, in a dainty manner, 
upon his bosom, in a fantastic bow- 
knot of super-eminent dimensions. 
Having descended, as I said before, 
to about one hundred feet from the 
surface of the earth, the little old gen- 
tleman was suddenly seized with a fit 
of trepidation, and appeared disinclined 
to make any nearer approach to terra 
firma. ‘Throwing out, therefore, a 
quantity of sand from a canvas bag, 
which he lifted with great difficulty, he 
became stationary in an instant. He 
then proceeded, in a hurried and agi- 
tated manner, to extract from a side. 
pocket in his surtout a large morocco 
pocket-book. This he poised suspi- 
ciously in his hand, then eyed it with 
an air of extreme surprise, and was 
evidently astonished at its weight. He 
at length opened it, and drawing there- 
from a huge letter sealed with red 
sealing-wax and tied carefully with red 
tape, let it fall precisely at the feet 
of the burgomaster, Superbus Von 
Underduk. His Excellency stooped to 
take it up. But the aeronaut, still 
greatly discomposed, and having appar- 
ently no further business to detain him 
in Rotterdam, began at this moment 
to make busy preparations for depart- 
ure; and it being necessary to discharge 
a portion of ballast to enable him to 
reascend, the half dozen bags which he 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


threw out, one after another, without 
taking the trouble to empty their con- 
tents, tumbled, every one of them, 
most unfortunately upon the back of 
the burgomaster, and rolled him over 
and over no less than half a dozen 
times, in the face of every individual 
in Rotterdam. It is not to be sup- 
posed, however, that the great Under- 
duk suffered this impertinence on the 
part of the little old man to pass off 
with impunity. It is said, on the con- 
trary, that during each of his half 
dozen circumvolutions he emitted no 
less than half a dozen distinct and furi- 
ous whiffs from his pipe, to which he 
held fast the whole time with all his 
might, and to which he intends holding 
fast (God willing) until the day of his 
decease. 

In the meantime the balloon arose 
like a lark, and, soaring far away above 
the city. at length drifted quietly be- 
hind a cloud similar to that from which 
it had so oddly emerged, and was thus 
lost forever to the wondering eyes of 
the good citizens of Rotterdam. All 
attention was now directed to the let- 
ter, the descent of which, and the con- 
sequences attending thereupon, had 
proved so fatally subversive of both 
verson and personal dignity to his 
Excellency, Von Underduk. That func- 
tionary, however, had not failed, dur- 
ing his circumgyratory movements, to 
bestow a thought upon the important 
object of securing the epistle, which 
was seen, upon inspection, to have 
fallen into the most proper hands, be- 
ing actually addressed to himself and 
Professor Rubadub, in their official 
capacities of President and Vice-Presi- 
dent of the Rotterdam College of 
Astronomy. It was accordingly opened 


S55 


_-by those dignitaries upon the spot, and 


found to contain the following extraor- 
dinary, and indeed very serious, com- 
munication :— 


“To their Excellencies Von Underduk 
and Rubadub, President and Vice- 
President of the States’ College of 
Astronomers, in the city of Rotter- 
dam. 


“Your Excellencies may perhaps be 
able to remember an humble artizan, 
by name Hans Pfaall, and by occupa- 
tion a mender of bellows, who, with 
three others, disappeared from Rotter- 
dam, about five years ago, in a manner 
which must have been considered unac- 
countable. If, however, it so please 
your Excellencies, I, the writer of this 
communication, am the identical Hans 
Pfaall himself. It is well known to 
most of my fellow-citizens, that for the 
period of forty years I continued to 
occupy the little square brick building, 
at the head of the alley called Sauer- 
kraut, in which I resided at the time 
of my disappearance. My ancestors 
have also resided therein time out of 
mind—they, as well as myself, steadily 
following the respectable and indeed 
lucrative profession of mending of 
bellows; for, to speak the truth, until 
of late years, that the heads of all 
the people have been set agog with 
politics, no better business than my 
own could an honest citizen of Rot- 
terdam either desire or deserve. Credit 
was good, employment was never want- 
ing, and there was no lack of either 
money or good-will. But, as I was 
saying, we soon began to feel the ef- 
fects of liberty and long speeches, and 
radicalism, and all that sert of thing, 


356 


People who were formerly the best 
customers in the world, had now not a 
moment of time to think of us at all. 
They had as much as they could do to 
read about the revolutions, and keep up 
with the march of intellect and the 
spirit of the age. If a fire wanted 
fanning, it could readily be fanned with 
& newspaper; and as the government 
grew weaker, I have no doubt that 
leather and iron acquired durability in 
proportion—for, in a very short time, 
there was not a pair of bellows in all 
Rotterdam that ever stood in need of 
a stitch or required the assistance of 
a hammer. This was a state of things 
not to be endured. I soon grew as 
poor as a rat, and, having a wife and 
children to provide for, my burdens 
at length became intolerable, and I 
spent hour after hour in reflecting 
upon the most convenient method of 
putting an end to my life. Duns, in 
the meantime, left me little leisure for 
contemplation. My house was literally 
besieged from morning till night. There 
were three feilows in particular who 
worried me beyond endurance, keeping 
watch continually about my door, and 
threatening me with the law.. Upon 
these three I vowed the bitterest re- 
venge, if ever I should be so happy as 
to get them within my clutches; and I 
believe nothing in the world but the 
pleaswre of this anticipation prevented 
me from putting my plan of suicide 
futo immediate execution, by blowing 
say brains out with a blunderbuss. I 
thought it best, however, to dissemble 
my wrath, and to treat them with 
promises and fair words, until, by some 
good turn of fate, an opportunity of 
vengeance should be afforded me. 
“One day, having given them the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


slip, and feeling more than usually de« 
jected, I continued for a long time to 
wander about the most obscure streets 
without object, until at length I 
chanced to stumble against the corner 
of a bookseller’s stall. Seeing a chair 
close at hand, for the use of customers, 
I threw myself doggedly into it, and, 
hardly knowing why, opened the pages 
of the first volume which came within 
my reach. It proved to be a small 
pamphlet treatise on Speculative As- 
tronomy, written either by Professor 
Encke of Berlin or by a Frenchman 
of somewhat similar name. I had some 
little tincture of information on mat- 
ters of this nature, and soon became 
more and more absorbed in the con- 
tents of the book—reading it actually 
through twice before I awoke to a 
recollection of what was passing around 
me. By this time it began to grow 
dark, and I directed my steps toward 
home. But the treatise (in conjunc- 
tion with a discovery in pneumatics, 
lately communicated to me as an im- 
portant secret, by a cousin from Nantz) 
had made an indelible impression on 
my mind, and, as I sauntered along 
the dusky streets, I revolved carefully 
over in my memory the wild and some- 
times unintelligible reasonings of the 
writer. There are some particular pas- 
sages which affected my imagination in 
an extraordinary manner. The longer 
I meditated upon these the more in- 
tense grew the interest which had been 
excited within me. The limited nature 
of my education in general, and more 
especially my ignorance on _ subjects 
connected with natural philosophy, so 
far from rendering me diffident of my 
own ability to comprehend what I had 
read, or inducing me to mistrust the 





THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


many vague notions which had arisen 
in consequence, merely served as a 
farther stimulus to imagination; and I 
was vain enough, or perhaps reasonable 
enough, to doubt whether those crude 
ideas which, arising in ill-regulated 
minds, have all the appearance, may 
not often in effect possess all the force, 
the reality, and other inherent proper- 
ties, of instinct or intuition. 

“Tt was late when I reached home, 
and I went immediately to bed. My 
mind, however, was too much occupied 
to sleep, and I lay the whole night 
buried in meditation. Arising early in 
the morning, I repaired eagerly to the 
bookseller’s stall, and laid out what 
little ready money I possessed, in 
the purchase of some volumes of 
Mechanics and Practical Astronomy. 
Having arrived at home safely with 
these, I devoted every spare moment 
to their perusal, and soon made such 
proficiency in studies of this nature as 
I thought sufficient for the execution of 
‘a certain design with which either the 
Devil or my better genius had inspired 
me. In the intervals of this period, I 
made every endeavor to conciliate the 
three creditors who had given me so 
much annoyance. In this I finally suc- 
ceeded—partly by selling enough of 
my household furniture to satisfy a 
moiety of their claim, and partly by a 
promise of paying the balance upon 
completion of a little project which I 
told them I had in view, and for assist- 
ance in which I solicited their services. 
By these means (for they were igno- 
rant men) I found little difficulty in 
gaining them over to my purpose. 

“Matters being thus arranged, I 
contrived, by the aid of my wife and 
with the greatest secrecy and caution, 


357, 


to dispose of what property I had re- 
maining, and to borrow, in small sums, 
under various pretences, and without 
giving any attention (I am ashamed to 
say) to my future means of repayment, 
no inconsiderable quantity of ready 
money. With the means thus accruing 
I proceeded to procure at intervals, 
cambric muslin, very fine, in pieces of 
twelve yards each; twine; a lot of the 
varnish of caoutchouc; a large and 
deep basket of wicker-work, made to 
order; and several other articles neces- 
sary in the construction and equipment 
of a balloon of extraordinary dimen- 
sions. This I directed my wife to 
make up as soon as possible, and gave 
her all requisite information as to the 
particular method of proceeding. In 
the meantime I worked up the twine 
into network of sufficient dimensions; 
rigged it with a hoop and the necessary 
cords; and made purchase of numerous 
instruments and materials for experi- 
ment in the upper regions of the upper 
atmosphere. I then took opportunities 
of conveying by night, to a retired situ- 
ation east of Rotterdam, five iron- 
bound casks, to contain about fifty 
gallons each, and one of a larger size; 
six tin tubes, three inches in diameter, 
properly shaped, and ten feet in length; 
a quantity of a particular metallic sub- 
stance, or semi-metal, which I shall not 
name, and a dozen demijohns of a very 
common acid. The gas to be formed 
from these latter materials is a gas 
never yet generated by any other per- 
son than myself—or at least never ap- 
plied to any similar purpose. I can 
only venture to say here, that it is 
a constituent of azote, so long consid- 
ered irreducible, and that its density is 
about 37.4 times less than that of hy- 


358 


drogen. It is tasteless, but not odor- 
less; burns, when pure, with a greenish 
flame; and is instantaneously fatal to 
animal life. Its full secret I would 
make no difficulty in disclosing, but 
that it of right belongs (as I have 
before hinted) to a citizen of Nantz, 
in France, by whom it was condition- 
ally communicated to myself. The 
same individual submitted to me, with- 
out being at all aware of my intentions, 
a method of constructing balloons from 
the membrane of a certain animal, 
through which substance any escape of 
gas was nearly an impossibility. I 
found it, however, altogether too ex- 
pensive, and was not sure, upon the 
whole, whether cambric muslin with a 
coating of gum caoutchouc, was not 
equally as good. I mention this cir- 
cumstance, because I think it probable 
that thereafter the individual in ques- 
tion may attempt a balloon ascension 
with the novel gas and material I have 
spoken of, and I do not wish to deprive 
him of the honor of a very singular 
invention. 

“On the spot which I intended each 
of the smaller casks to occupy respec- 
tively during the inflation of the bal- 
loon, I privately dug a small hole; the 
holes forming in this manner a circle 
twenty-five feet in diameter. In the 
centre of this circle, being the station 
designed for the large cask, I also dug 
a hole of greater depth. In each of 
the five smaller holes, I deposited a 
canister containing fifty pounds, and in 
the larger one a keg holding one hun- 
dred and fifty pounds, of cannon pow- 
der. These—the keg and canisters—I 
connected in a proper manner with 
covered trains; and having let into one 
of the canisters the end of about four 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


feet of slow-match, I covered up the 
hole, and placed the cask over it, leav- 
ing the other end of the match pro- 
truding about an inch, and barely visi- 
ble beyond the cask. I then filled up 
the remaining holes, and placed the 
barrels over them in their destined 
situation! 

“Besides the articles above enumer- 
ated, I conveyed to the depot, and 
there secreted, one of M. Grimm’s im- 
provements upon the apparatus for con- 
densation of the atmospheric air. I 
found this machine, however, to require 
considerable alteration before it could 
be adapted to the purposes to which I 
intended making it applicable. But, 
with severe labor and unremitting per- 
severance, I at length met with entire 
success in all my preparations. My 
balloon was soon completed. It would 
contain more than forty thousand cubic 
feet of gas; would take me up easily, 
I calculated, with ail my implements, 
and, if I managed rightly, with one 
hundred and seventy-five pounds of - 
ballast into the bargain. It had re- 
ceived three coats of varnish, and I 
found the cambric muslin to answer 
all the purposes of silk itself, being 
quite as strong and a good deal less 
expensive. 

“Everything being now ready, I ex- 
acted from my wife an oath of secrecy 
in relation to all my actions from the 
day of my first visit to the bookseller’s 
stall; and promising, on my part, to 
return as soon as circumstances would 
permit, I gave her what little money 
I had left, and bade her farewell. In- 
deed I had no fear on her account, 
She was what people call a notable 
woman, and could manage matters in 
the world without my assistance. I 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


believe, to tell the truth, she always 
looked upon me as an idle boy—a 
mere make-weight—good for nothing 
but building castles in the air—and was 
rather glad to get rid of me. It was 
a dark night when I bade her good-bye, 
and taking with me, as aides-de-camp, 
the three creditors who had given me 
so much trouble, we carried the balloon, 
with the car and accoutrements, by a 
roundabout way, to the station where 
the other articles were deposited. We 
there found them all unmolested, and I 
proceeded immediately to business. 
“Tt was the first of April. The night, 
as I said before, was dark; there was 
not a star to be seen; and a drizzling 
rain, falling at intervals, rendered us 
very uncomfortable. But my chief 
anxiety was concerning the balloon, 
which, in spite of the varnish with 
which it was defended, began to grow 
rather heavy with the moisture; the 
powder also was liable to damage. I 
therefore kept my three duns working 
with great diligence, pounding down ice 
around the central cask, and stirring 
the acid in the others. They did not 
cease, however, importuning me with 
questions as to what I intended to do 
with all this apparatus, and expressed 
much dissatisfaction at the terrible 
labor I made them undergo. They 
could not perceive (so they said) what 
good was likely to result from their 
getting wet to the skin, merely to take 
a part in such horrible incantations. I 
began to get uneasy, and worked away 
with all my might, for I verily believe 
the idiots supposed that I had entered 
into a compact with the Devil, and 
that, in short, what I was now doing 
was nothing better than it should be. 
I was. therefore, in great fear of their 


359 


leaving me altogether. I contrived, 
however, to pacify them by promises 
of payment of all scores in full, as 
soon as I could bring the present busi- 
ness to a termination. To these 
speeches they gave, of course, their 
own interpretation; fancying, no doubt, 
that at all events I should come into 
possession of vast quantities of ready 
money; and provided I paid them all 
I owed, and a trifle more, in considera- 
tion of their services, I dare say they 
cared very little what became of either 
my soul or my carcass. 

“Tn about four hours and a half I 
found the balloon sufficiently inflated. 
I attached the car, therefore, and put 
all my implements in it: a telescope, 
a barometer, with some important 
modifications; a thermometer; an elec- 
trometer; a compass; a magnetic 
needle; a seconds watch; a bell; a 
speaking-trumpet, etc., etc., etc.; also 
a globe of glass, exhausted of air and 
carefully closed with a stopper,—not 
forgetting the condensing apparatus, 
some unslacked lime, a stick of sealing- 
wax, a copious supply of water, and a 
large quantity of provisions, such as 
pemmican, in which much nutriment is 
contained in comparatively little bulk. 
I also secured in the car a pair of 
pigeons and a cat. 

“Tt was now nearly daybreak, and I 
thought it high time to take my de- 
parture. Dropping a lighted cigar on 
the ground, as if by accident, I took 
the opportunity, in stooping to pick it 
up, of igniting privately the piece of 
slow-match, the end of which, as I said 
before, protruded a little beyond the 
lower rim of one of the smaller casks. 
This manceuvre was totally unperceived 
on the part of the three duns; and, 


360 


jumping into the car, I immediately 
cut the single cord which held me to 
the earth, and was pleased to find that 
I shot upward with inconceivable rapid- 
ity, carrying with all ease one hundred 
and seventy-five pounds of leaden bal- 
last, and able to have carried up as 
many more. As I left the earth, the 
barometer stood at thirty inches, and 
the centigrade thermometer at nineteen 
degrees. 

“Scarcely, however, had I attained 
the height of fifty yards, when, roaring 
and rumbling up after me in the most 
tumultuous and terrible manner, came 
so dense a hurricane of fire, and gravel, 
and burning wood, and blazing metal, 
and mangled limbs, that my very heart 
sunk within me, and I fell down in the 
bottom of the car, trembling with ter- 
ror. Indeed, I now perceived that I 
had entirely overdone the business, and 
that the main consequences of the 
shock were yet to be experienced. Ac- 
cordingly, in less than a second, I felt 
all the blood in my body rushing to 
my temples, and immediately there- 
upon, a concussion, which I shall never 
forget, burst abruptly through the 
night, and seemed to rip the very 
firmament asunder. When I afterward 
had time for reflection, I did not fail 
to attribute the extreme violence of 
the explosion, as regarded myself, to 
its proper cause—my situation directly 
above it, and in the line of its greatest 
power. But at the time, I thought only 
of preserving my life. The balloon at 
first collapsed, then furiously expanded, 
then whirled round and round with 
sickening velocity, and finally, reeling 
and staggering like a drunken man, 
hurled me over the rim of the car, and 
left me dangling» at a terrific height, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with my head downward, and my face 
outward, by a piece of slender cord 
about three feet in length, which hung 
accidentally through a crevice near the 
bottom of the wicker-work, and in 
which, as I fell, my left foot became 
most providentially entangled. It is im- 
possible—utterly impossible—to form 
any adequate idea of the horror of my 
situation. I gasped convulsively for 
breath—a shudder resembling a fit of 
the ague agitated every nerve and 
muscle in my frame—I felt my eyes 
starting from their sockets—a horrible 
nausea overwhelmed me—and at length 
I lost all consciousness in a swoon. 
“How long I remained in this state 
it is impossible to say. It must, how- 
ever, have been no inconsiderable time, 
for when I partially recovered the sense 
of existence, I found the day breaking, 
the balloon at a prodigious height over 
a wilderness of ocean, and not a trace 
of land to be discovered far and wide 
within the limits of the vast horizon. 
My sensations, however, upon thus re- 
covering, were by no means so replete 
with agony as might have been antici- 
pated. Indeed, there was much of 
madness in the calm survey which I 
began to take of my situation. I drew 
up to my eyes each of my hands, one 
after the other, and wondered what 
occurrence could have given rise to the 
swelling of the veins, and the horrible 
blackness of the finger-nails. JI after- 
ward carefully examined my head, 
shaking it repeatedly, and feeling it 
with minute attention, until I succeeded 
in satisfying myself that it was not, as 
I had more than half suspected, larger 
than my balloon. Then, in a knowing 
manner, I felt in both my breeches 
pockets, and, missing therefrom a set 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


of tablets and a toothpick case, endeav- 
ored to account for their disappearance, 
and not being able to do so, felt inex- 
pressibly chagrined. It now occurred 
to me that I suffered great uneasiness 
in the joint of my left ankle, and a 
dim consciousness of my situation be- 
gan to glimmer through my mind. But, 
strange to say! I was neither astonished 
nor horror-stricken. If I felt any emo- 
tion at all, it was a kind of chuckling 
satisfaction at the cleverness I was 
about to display in extricating myself 
from this dilemma; and never, for a 
moment, did I look upon my ultimate 
safety as a question susceptible of 
doubt. For a few minutes I remained 
wrapped in the profoundest meditation. 
I have a distinct recollection of fre- 
quently compressing my lips, putting 
my fore-finger to the side of my nose, 
and making use of other gesticulations 
and grimaces common to men who, at 
ease in their arm-chairs, meditate upon 
matters of ‘intricacy or importance. 
Having, as I thought, sufficiently col- 
lected my ideas, I now, with great cau- 
tion and deliberation, put my hands 
behind my back, and unfastened the 
large iron buckle which belonged to the 
waistband of my pantaloons. This 
buckle had three teeth, which, being 
somewhat rusty, turned with great diffi- 
culty on their axis. I brought them, 
however, after some trouble, at right 
angles to the body of the buckle, and 
was glad to find them remain firm in 
that position. Holding within my teeth 
the instrument thus obtained, I now 
proceeded to untie the knot of my 
cravat. I had to rest several times 
before I could accomplish this manceu- 
vre; but it was at length accomplished. 
To one end of the cravat I then made 


361 


fast the buckle, and the other end ] 
tied, for greater security, tightly around 
my wrist. Drawing now my body up- 
ward, with a prodigious exertion of 
muscular force, I succeeded, at the 
very first trial, in throwing the buckle 
over the car, and entangling it, as I 
had anticipated, in the circular rim of 
the wicker-work. 

“My body was now inclined toward 
the side of the car, at an angle of about 
forty-five degrees; but it must not be 
understood that I was therefore only 
forty-five degrees below the perpen- 
dicular. So far from it, I still lay 
nearly level with the plane of the hori- 
zon; for the change of situation which 
I had acquired, had forced the bottom 
of the car considerably outward from 
my position, which was accordingly one 
of the most imminent peril. It should 
be remembered, however, that when I 
fell, in the first instance, from the car, 
if I had fallen with my face turned 
toward the balloon, instead of turned 
outwardly from it, as it actually was; 
or if, in the second place, the cord by 
which I was suspended had chanced to 
hang over the upper edge, instead of 
through a crevice near the bottom of 
the car,—I say it may readily be con- 
ceived that, in either of these supposed 
cases, I should have been unable to 
accomplish even as much as I had now 
accomplished, and the disclosures now 
made would have been utterly lost to 
posterity. I had therefore every rea- 
son to be grateful; although, in point 
of fact, I was still too stupid to be 
anything at all, and hung for, perhaps, 
a quarter of an hour in that ex- 
traordinary manner, without making 
the slightest farther exertion, and in a 
singularly tranquil state of idiotic en- 


362 


joyment. But this feeling did not fail 
to die rapidly away, and thereunto suc- 
ceeded horror, and dismay, and a sense 
of utter helplessness and ruin. In fact, 
the blood so long accumulating in the 
vessels of my head and throat, and 
which had hitherto buoyed up my 
spirits with delirium, had now begun to 
retire within their proper channels, and 
the distinctness which was thus added 
to my perception of the danger, merely 
served to deprive me of the self-posses- 
sion and courage to encounter it. But 
this weakness was, luckily for me, of 
no very long duration. In good time 
came to my rescue the spirit of despair, 
and, with frantic cries and struggles, I 
jerked my way bodily upward, till at 
length, clutching with a vise-like grip 
the long-desired rim, I writhed my per- 
son over it, and fell headlong and shud- 
dering within the car. 

“It was not until sorme time after- 
ward that I recovered myself  suffi- 
ciently to attend to the ordinary cares 
of the balloon. I then, however, exam- 
ined it with attention, and found it, to 
my great relief, uninjured. My imple- 
ments were all safe, and, fortunately, 
I had lost neither ballast nor provi- 
sions. Indeed, I had so well secured 
them in their places, that such an acci- 
cent was entirely out of the question. 
Looking at my watch, I found it six 
o’clock. I was still rapidly ascending, 
and the barometer gave a present alti- 
tude of three and three-quarter miles. 
Immediately beneath me in the ocean, 
lay a small black object, slightly oblong 
in shape, seemingly about the size of a 
domino, and in every respect bearing a 
great resemblance to one of those toys. 
Bringing my telescope to bear upon it, 
I plainly discerned it to be a British 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ninety-four-gun ship, close-hauled, and 
pitching heavily in the sea with her 
head to the W. S. W.. Besides this 
ship, I saw nothing but the ocean and 
the sky, and the sun, which had long 
arisen. 

“Tt is now high time that I should 
explain to your Excellencies the object 
of my voyage. Your Excellencies will 
bear in mind that distressed circum- 
stances in Rotterdam had at length 
driven me to the resolution of commit- 
ting suicide. It was not, however, that 
to life itself I had any positive disgust, 
but that I was harassed beyond endur- 
ance by the adventitious miseries at- 
tending my situation. In this state of 
mind, wishing to live, yet wearied with 
life, the treatise at the stall of the 
bookseller, backed by the opportune 
discovery of my cousin of Nantz, 
opened a resource to my imagination. 
I then finally made up my mind. I 
determined to depart, yet live—to leave 
the world, yet continue to exist—in 
short, to drop enigmas, I resolved, let 
what would ensue, to force a passage, 
if I could, to the moon. Now, lest I 
should be supposed more of a madman 
than I actually am, I will detail, as well 
as I am able, the considerations which 
led me to believe that an achievement 
of this nature, although without doubt 
difficult, and full of danger, was not 
absolutely, to a bold spirit, beyond the 
confines of the possible. 

“The moon’s actual distance from 
the earth was the first thing to be at- 
tended to. Now, the mean or average 
interval between the centres of the two 
planets is 59.9643 of the earth’s equa- 
torial radi, or only about 237,000 
miles. I say the mean or average in- 
terval, but it must be borne in mind 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


that the form of the moon’s orbit being 
an ellipse of eccentricity amounting to 
no less than 0.05484 of the major semi- 
axis of the ellipse itself, and the earth’s 
centre being situated in its focus, if I 
could, in any manner, contrive to meet 
the moon in its perigee, the above men- 
tioned distance would be materially 
diminished. But, to say nothing at 
present of this possibility, it was very 
certain that, at all events, from the 
237,000 miles I would have to deduct 
the radius of the earth, say 4,000, and 
the radius of the moon, say 1,080, in 
all 5,080, leaving an actual interval to 
be traversed, under average circum- 
stances, of 231,920 miles. Now this, I 
reflected, was no very extraordinary 
distance. Travelling on the land has 
been repeatedly accomplished at the 
rate of sixty miles per hour; and in- 
deed a much greater speed may be an- 
ticipated. But even at this velocity, it 
would take me no more than 161 days 
to reach the surface of the moon. 
There were, however, many particulars 
inducing me to believe that my average 
rate of travelling might possibly very 
much exceed that of sixty miles per 
hour, and, as these considerations did 
not fail to make a deep impression 
upon my mind, I will mention them 
more fully hereafter. 

“The next point to be regarded was 
one of far greater importance. From 
indications afforded by the barometer, 
we find that, in ascensions from the 
surface of the earth we have, at the 
height of 1,000 feet, left below us 
about one-thirtieth of the entire mass 
of atmospheric air; that at 10,600 we 
have ascended through nearly one- 
third; and that at 18,000, which is not 
far from the elevation of Cotopaxi, we 


363 


have surmounted one-half the mate- 
rial, or, at all events, one-half the 
ponderable, body of air incumbent upon 
our globe. It is also calculated that at 
an altitude not exceeding the hundredth 
part of the earth’s diameter—that is, 
not exceeding eighty miles—the rare- 
faction would be so excessive that 
animal life could in no manner be sus- 
tained, and, moreover, that the most 
delicate means we possess of ascertain- 
ing the presence of the atmosphere 
would be inadequate to assure us of its 
existence. But I did not fail to per- 
ceive that these latter calculations are 
founded altogether on our experimental 
knowledge of the properties of air, and 
the mechanical laws regulating its dila- 
tion and compression, in what may be 
called, comparatively speaking, the im- 
mediate vicinity of the earth itself; 
and, at the same time, it is taken for 
granted that animal life is and must be 
essentially incapable of modification at 
any given unattainable distance from 
the surface. Now, all such reasoning 
and from such data must, of course, be 
simply analogical. The greatest height 
ever reached by man was that of 25,000 
feet, attained in the aeronautic expe- 
dition of Messieurs Gay-Lussac and 
Biot. This is a moderate altitude, even. 
when compared with the eighty miles 
in question; and I could not help think- 
ing that the subject admitted room for 
doubt and great latitude for specula- 
tion. 

“But, in point of fact, an ascension 
being made to any given altitude, the 
ponderable quantity of air surmounted 
in any farther ascension is by no means 
in proportion to the additional height 
ascended (as may be plainly seen from 
what has been stated before), but in a 


364 


ratio constantly decreasing. It is there- 
fore evident that, ascend as high as we 
may, we cannot, literally speaking, ar- 
rive at a limit beyond which no at- 
mosphere is to be found. It must exist, 
I argued; although it may exist in a 
state of infinite rarefaction. 

“On the other hand, I was aware that 
arguments have not been wanting to 
prove the existence of a real and defi- 
nite limit to the atmosphere, beyond 
which there is absolutely no air what- 
soever. But a circumstance which has 
been left out of view by those who 
contend for such a limit, seemed to me, 
although no positive refutation of their 
creed, still a point worthy very serious 
investigation. On comparing the inter- 
vals between the successive arrivals of 
Encke’s comet at its perihelion, after 
giving credit, in the most exact manner, 
for all the disturbances due to the at- 
tractions of the planets, it appears that 
the periods are gradually diminishing; 
that is to say, the major axis of the 
comet’s ellipse is growing shorter, in a 
slow but perfectly regular decrease. 
Now, this is precisely what ought to be 
the case, if we suppose a resistance 
experienced from the comet from an 
extremely rare ethereal medium per- 
vading the regions of its orbit. For it 
is evident that such a medium must, in 
retarding the comet’s velocity, increase 
its centripetal, by weakening its cen- 
trifugal, forces’ In other words, the 
sun’s attraction would be constantly 
attaining greater power, and the comet 
would be drawn nearer at every revo- 
lution. Indeed, there is no other way 
of accounting for the variation in 
question. But again:—The real diame- 
ter of the same comet’s nebulosity is 
observed to contract rapidly as it ap- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


proaches the sun, and dilate with equal 
rapidity in its departure towards its — 
aphelion. Was I not justifiable in sup- 
posing, with M. Valz, that this appar- 
ent condensation of volume has its 
origin in the compression of the same 
ethereal medium I have spoken of be- 
fore, and which is dense in proportion 
to its vicinity to the sun? The lenticu- 
lar-shaped phenomenon, also called the 
zodiacal light, was a matter worthy of 
attention. This radiance, so apparent 
in the tropics, and which cannot be 
mistaken for any meteoric lustre, ex- 
tends from the horizon obliquely up- 
ward, and follows generally the direc- 
tion of the sun’s equator. It appeared 
to me evidently in the nature of a rare 
atmosphere extending from the sun 
outward, beyond the orbit of Venus at 
least, and I believed indefinitely far- 
ther.* Indeed, this medium I could 
not suppose confined to the path of the 
comet’s ellipse, or to the immediate 
neighborhood of the sun. It was easy, 
on the contrary, to imagine it pervad- 
ing the entire regions of our planetary 
system, condensed into what we call 
atmosphere at the planets themselves, 
and perhaps at some of them modified 
by considerations purely geological; 
that is to say, modified, or varied in its 
proportions (or absolute nature) by 
matters volatilized from the respective 
orbs. ; 

“Having adopted this view of the 
subject, I had little farther hesitation. 
Granting that on my passage I should 
meet with atmosphere essentially the 





*The zodiacal light is probably what 
the ancients called Trabes. Emicant 
Trabes quos docos vocant.—Pliny, lib. 
25h D:b2Oy 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


same as at the surface of the earth, 
I conceived that, by means of the very 
ingenious apparatus of M. Grimm, I 
should readily be enabled to condense 
it in sufficient quantity for the purposes 
of respiration. This would remove the 
chief obstacle in a journey to the 
moon. I had indeed spent some money 
and great labor in adapting the appa- 
ratus to the object intended, and confi- 
dently looked forward to its successful 
application, if I could manage to com- 
plete the voyage within any reasonable 
period. ‘This brings me back to the 
rate at which it would be possible to 
travel. 

“Tt is true that balloons, in the first 
stage of their ascensions from the 
earth, are known to rise with a velocity 
comparatively moderate. Now, the 
power of elevation lies altogether in 
the superior gravity of the atmospheric 
air compared with the gas in the bal- 
loon; and, at first sight, it does not 
appear probable that, as the balloon 
acquires altitude, and consequently ar- 
rives successively in atmospheric strata 
of densities rapidly diminishing—TI say, 
it does not appear at all reasonable 
that, in this its progress upward, the 
original velocity should be accelerated. 
On the other hand, I was not aware 
that, in any recorded ascension, a 
diminution had been proved to be ap- 
parent in the absolute rate of ascent; 
although such should have been the 
case, if on account of nothing else, on 
account of the escape of gas through 
balloons ill-constructed, and varnished 
with no better material than the ordi- 
nary varnish. It seemed, therefore, that 
the effect of such escape was only suffi- 
cient to counterbalance the effect of 
the acceleration attained in the dimin- 


365 


ishing of the balloon’s distance from 
the gravitating centre. I now consid- 
ered that, provided in my passage I 
found the medium I had imagined, and 
provided that it should prove to be 
essentially what we denominate atmos- 
pheric air, it could make comparatively 
little difference at what extreme state 
cf rarefaction I should discover it— 
that is to say, in regard to my power 
of ascending—for the gas in the balloon 
would not only be itself subject to 
similar rarefaction (in proportion to 
the occurrence of which, I could suffer 
an escape of so much as would be 
requisite to prevent explosion), but, 
being what it was, would, at all events, 
continue specifically lighter than any 
compound whatever of mere nitrogen 
and oxygen. Thus there was a chance 
—in fact there was a strong proba- 
bility—that, at no epoch of my ascent, 
I should reach a point where the united 
weights of my immense balloon, the 
inconceivably rare gas within it, the 
car, and its contents, should equal the 
weight of the mass of the surrounding 
atmosphere displaced; and this will be 
readily understood as the sole condition 
upon which my upward flight would be 
arrested. But, if this point were even 
attained, I could dispense with ballast 
and other weight to the amount of 
nearly three hundred pounds. In the 
meantime, the force of gravitation 
would be constaritly diminishing, in 
proportion to the squares of the dis- 
tances, and so, with a velocity pro- 
digiously accelerating, I should at 
length arrive in those distant regions 
where the force of the earth’s attrac- 
tion would be superseded by that of the 
moon. 

“There was another difficulty, how- 


366 


ever, which occasioned me some little 
disquietude. It has been observed, 
that, in balloon ascensions to any con- 
siderable height, besides the pain at- 
tending respiration, great uneasiness 
is experienced about the head and body, 
often accompanied with bleeding at the 
nose, and other symptoms of an 
alarming kind, and growing more and 
more inconvenient in proportion to the 
altitude attained.* This was a reflec- 
tion of a nature somewhat startling. 
Was it not probable that these symp- 
toms would increase until terminated 
by death itself? I finally thought not. 
Their origin was to be looked for in 
the progressive removal of the cus- 
tomary atmospheric pressure upon the 
surface of the body, and consequent 
distention of the superficial blood-ves- 
sels—not in any positive disorganiza- 
tion of the animal system, as in the 
case of difficulty in breathing, where 
the atmospheric density is chemically 
insufficient for the due renovation of 
blood in a ventricle of the heart. Un- 
less for default of this renovation, I 
could see no reason, therefore, why life 
could not be sustained even in a 
vacuum; for the expansion and com- 
pression of chest, commonly called 
breathing, is action purely muscular, 
and the cause, not the effect, of respi- 
ration. In a word, I conceived that, as 
the body should become habituated to 


*Since the original publication of 
Hans Pfaall, I find that Mr. Green, of 
Nassau-balloon notoriety, and other 
late aeronauts, deny the assertions of 
Humboldt, in this respect, and speak 
of a decreasing inconvenience,—pre- 
cisely in accordance with the theory 
here urged.—E. A. P. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the want of atmospheric pressure, the 
sensations of pain would gradually di- 
minish—and to endure them while they 
continued, I relied with confidence 
upon the iron hardihood of my consti- 
tution. 

“Thus, may it please your Excellen- 
cies, I have detailed some, though by 
no means all, the considerations which 
led me to form the project of a lunar 
voyage. I shall now proceed to lay 
before you the result of an attempt so 
apparently audacious in conception, 
and, at all events, so utterly unparal- 
leled in the annals of mankind. 

“Having attained the altitude before 
mentioned—that is to say three miles 
and three-quarters—I threw out from 
the car a quantity of feathers, and 
found that I still ascended with suffi- 
cient rapidity; there was, therefore, no 
necessity for discharging any ballast. I 
was glad of this, for I wished to retain 
with me as much weight as I could 
carry, for the obvious reason that I 
could not be positive either about the 
gravitation or the atmospheric density 
of the moon. I as yet suffered no 
bodily inconvenience, breathing with 
great freedom, and feeling no pain 
whatever in the head. The cat was 
lying very demurely upon my coat, 
which I had taken off, and eyeing the 
pigeons with an air of mnonchalance. 
These latter being tied by the leg, to 
prevent their escape, were busily em- 
ployed in picking up some grains of 
rice scattered for them in the bottom 
of the car. 

“At twenty minutes past six o’clock, 
the barometer showed an elevation of 
26,400 feet, or five miles to a fraction. 
The prospect seemed unbounded. In- 
deed, it is very easily calculated by 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


means of spherical geometry, how great 
an extent of the earth’s area I beheld. 
The convex surface of any segment of 
a sphere is, to the entire surface of the 
sphere itself, as the versed sine of the 
segment to the diameter of the sphere. 
Now, in my case, the versed sine— 
that is to say,ethe thickness of the seg- 
ment beneath me—was about equal to 
my elevation, or the elevation of the 
point of sight above the surface. ‘As 
five miles, then, to eight thousand,’ 
would express the proportion of the 
earth’s area seen by me. In other 
words, I beheld as much as a sixteen- 
hundredth part of the whole surface 
of the globe. The sea appeared un- 
ruffled as a mirror, although, by means 
of the telescope, I could perceive it to 
be in a state of violent agitation. The 
ship was no longer visible, having 
drifted away, apparently to the east- 
ward. I now began to experience, at 
intervals, severe pain in the head, espe- 
cially about the ears—still, however, 
breathing with tolerable freedom. The 
cat and pigeons seemed to suffer no 
inconvenience whatsoever. 

“At twenty minutes before seven, 
the balloon entered a long series of 
dense cloud, which put me to great 
trouble, by damaging my condensing 
apparatus and wetting me to the skin; 
this was, to be sure, a singular recontre, 
for I had not believed it possible that a 
cloud of this nature could be sustained 
at so great an elevation. I thought it 
best, however, to throw out two five- 
pound pieces of ballast, reserving. still 
a weight of one hundred and sixty-five 
pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose 
above the difficulty, and perceived im- 
mediately, that I had obtained a great 
increase in my rate of ascent. In a 


367 


few seconds after my leaving the cloud, 
a flash of vivid lightning shot from one 
end of it to the other, and caused it 
to kindle up, throughout its vast ex- 
tent, like a mass of ignited charcoal. 
This, it must be remembered, was in 
the broad light of day. No fancy may 
picture the sublimity which might have 
been exhibited by a similar phenome- 
non taking place amid the darkness of 
the night. Hell itself might have been 
found a fitting image. Even as it was, 
my hair stood on end, while I gazed 
afar down within the yawning abysses, 
letting imagination descend, and stalk 
about in the strange vaulted halls, and 
ruddy gulfs, and red ghastly chasms of 
the hideous and unfathomable fire. I 
had indeed made a narrow escape. Had 
the balloon remained a very short while 
longer within the cloud—that is to say, 
had not the inconvenience of getting 
wet, determined me to discharge the 
ballast—my destruction might, and 
probably would, have been the conse- 
quence. Such perils, although little 
considered, are perhaps the greatest 
which must be encountered in balloons. 
I had by this time, however, attained 
too great an elevation to be any longer 
uneasy on this head. 

“I was now rising rapidly, and by 
seven o'clock the barometer indicated 
an altitude of no less than nine miles 
and a half. I began to find great diffi- 
culty in drawing my breath. My head, 
too, was excessively painful; and, hav- 
ing felt for some time a moisture about 
my cheeks, I at length discovered it to 
be blood, which was oozing quite fast 
from the drums of*my ears. My eyes, 
also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon 
passing the hand over them _ they 
seemed to have protruded from their 


368 


sockets in no inconsiderable degree; 
and all objects in the car, and even the 
balloon itself, appeared distorted to my 
vision. These symptoms were more 
than I had expected, and occasioned 
me some alarm. At this juncture, very 
imprudently, and without consideration, 
I threw out from the car three five- 
pound pieces of ballast. The accele- 
rated rate of ascent thus obtained, car- 
ried me too rapidly, and without suffi- 
cient gradation, into a highly rarefied 
stratum of the atmosphere, and the 
result had nearly proved fatal to my 
expedition and to myself. I was sud- 
denly seized with a spasm which lasted 
for more than five minutes, and even 
when this, in a measure, ceased, I 
could catch my breath only at long 
intervals, and in a gasping manner— 
bleeding all the while copiously at the 
nose and ears, and even slightly at the 
eyes. The pigeons appeared distressed 
in the extreme, and struggled to escape; 
while the cat mewed piteously, and, 
with her tongue hanging out of her 
mouth, staggered to and fro in the car 
as if under the influence of poison. I 
now too late discovered the great rash- 
ness of which I had been guilty in dis- 
charging the ballast, and my agitation 
was excessive. I anticipated nothing 
less than death, and death in a few min- 
utes. The physical suffering I under- 
went contributed also to render me 
nearly incapable of making any exer- 
tion for the preservation of my life. I 
had, indeed, little power of reflection 
left, and the violence of the pain in 
my head seemed to be greatly on the 
increase. Thus I found that my senses 
would shortly give way altogether, and 
I had already clutched one of the valve 
ropes with the view of attempting a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


descent, when the recollection of the 
trick I had played the three creditors, 
and the possible consequences to myself, 
should I return, operated to deter me 
for the moment. I lay down in the 
bottom of the car, and endeavoured to_ 
collect my faculties. In this I so far 
succeeded as to determine upon the 
experiment of losing blood. Having no 
lancet, however, I was constrained to 
perform the operation in the best man- 
ner I was able, and finally succeeded in 
opening a vein in my left arm, with 
the blade of my penknife. The blood 
had hardly commenced flowing when I 
experienced a sensible relief, and by 
the time I had lost about half a mod- 
erate basinful, most of the worst symp- 
toms had abandoned me entirely. I 
nevertheless did not think it expedient 
to attempt getting on my feet imme- 
diately; but, having tied up my arm 
as well as I could, I lay still for about 
a quarter of an hour. At the end of 
this time I arose, and found myself 
freer from absolute pain of any kind 
than I had been during the last hour 
and a quarter of my ascension. The 
difficulty of breathing, however, was 
diminished in a very slight degree, and 
I found that it would soon be positively 
necessary to make use of my condenser. 
In the. meantime, looking toward the 
cat, who was again snugly stowed away 
upon my coat, I discovered to my in- 
finite surprise, that she had taken the 
opportunity of my indisposition to bring 
into light a litter of three little kittens. 
This. was an addition to the number 
of passengers on my _ part altogether 
unexpected; but I was pleased at the 
occurrence, It would afford me a chance 
of bringing to a kind of test the truth 
of a surmise, which, more than any- 


thing else, had influenced me in at- 
tempting this ascension. I had imag- 
ined that the habitual endurance of the 
atmospheric pressure at the surface of 
the earth was the cause, or nearly so, 
of the pain attending animal existence 
at a distance above the surface. Should 
the kittens be found to suffer uneasiness 
in an equal degree with their mother, 
I must consider my theory in fault, but 
a failure to do so I should look upon 
as a strong confirmation of my idea. 

“By eight o’clock I had actually at- 
tained an elevation of seventeen miles 
above the surface of the earth. Thus 
it seemed to me evident that my rate of 
ascent was not only on the increase, but 
that the progression would have been 
apparent in a slight degree even had I 
not discharged the ballast which I did. 
The pains in my head and ears returned, 
at intervals, with violence, and I still 
continued to bleed occasionally at the 
nose; but, upon the whole, I suffered 
much less than might have been ex- 
pected. I breathed, however, at every 
moment, with more and more difficulty, 
and each inhalation was attended with 
a troublesome spasmodic action of the 
chest. I now unpacked the condensing 
apparatus, and got it ready for imme- 
diate use. 

“The view of the earth, at this period 
of my ascension, was beautiful indeed. 
To the westward, the northward, and 
the southward, as far as I could see, 
lay a boundless sheet of apparently 
unruffled ocean, which every moment 
gained a deeper nd deeper tint of blue. 
At a vast distance to the eastward, al- 
though perfectly discernible, extended 
the islands of Great Britain, the entire 
Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, 
with a small portion of the northern 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


369 


part of the continent of Africa. Of 
individual edifices not a trace could 
be discovered, and the proudest cities 
of mankind had utterly faded away 
from the face of the earth. 

‘What mainly astonished me, in the 
appearance of things below, was the 
seeming concavity of the surface of the 
globe. I had, thoughtlessly enough, ex- 
pected to see its real convexity become 
evident as I ascended; but a very little 
reflection sufficed to explain the dis- 
crepancy. A line dropped from my po- 
sition perpendicularly to the earth, 
would have formed the perpendicular 
of a right-angled triangle, of which the 
base would have extended from the 
right-angle to the horizon, and the 
hypothenuse from the horizon to my 
position. But my height was little or 
nothing in comparison with my pros- 
pect. In other words, the base and 
hypothenuse of the supposed triangle 
would, in my case, have been so long, 
when compared to the perpendicular, 
that the two former might have been 
regarded as nearly parallel. In this 
manner the horizon of the aeronaut 
appears always to be upon a level with 
the car. But as the point immediately 
beneath him seems, and is, at a great 
distance below him, it seems, of course, 
also at a great distance below the hori- 
zon. Hence the impression of concav- 
ity; and this impression must remain, 
until the elevation shall bear so great 
a proportion to the prospect, that the 
apparent parallelism of the base and 
hypothenuse disappears. 

“The pigeons about this time seeming 
to undergo much suffering, I determined 
upon giving them their liberty. I first 
untied one of them, a beautiful gray- 
mottled pigeon, and placed him upon 


370 


the rim of the wicker-work. He ap- 
peared extremely uneasy, looking anx- 
iously around him, fluttering his wings, 
and making a loud cooing noise, but 
could not be persuaded to trust him- 
self from the car. JI took him up at 
last, and threw him to about half a 
dozen yards from the balloon. He made, 
however, no attempt to descend as I 
had expected, but struggled with great 
vehemence to get back, uttering at 
the same time very shrill and piercing 
cries. He at length succeeded in re- 
gaining his former station on the rim, 
but had hardly done so when his head 
dropped upon his breast, and he fell 
dead within the car. The other one 
did not prove so unfortunate. To pre- 
vent his following the example of his 
companion, and accomplishing a return, 
I threw him downward with all my 
force, and was pleased to find him con- 
tinue his descent, with great velocity, 
making use of his wings with ease, and 
in a perfectly natural manner. In a 
very short time he was out of sight, 
and I have no doubt he reached home 
in safety. Puss, who seemed in a great 
measure recovered from her illness, now 
made a hearty meal of the dead bird, 
and then went to sleep with much ap- 
parent satisfaction. Her kittens were 
quite lively, and so far evinced not the 
slightest sign of any uneasiness. 

“At a quarter past eight, being no 
longer able to draw breath without the 
most intolerable pain, I proceeded 
forthwith to adjust around the car the 
apparatus belonging to the condenser. 
This apparatus will require some little 
explanation, and your Excellencies will 
please to bear in mind that my object, 
in the first place, was to surround my- 
self and car entirely with a barricade 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


against the highly rarefied atmosphere 
in which I was existing, with the in- 
tention of introducing within this bar- 
ricade, by means of my condenser, a 
quantity of this same atmosphere suffi- 
ciently condensed for the purposes of 
respiration. With this object in view 
I had prepred a very strong, perfectly 
air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic bag. 
In this bag, which was of sufficient di- 
mensions, the entire car was in a man- 
ner placed. That is to say, it (the 
bag) was drawn over the whole bottom 
of the car, up its sides, and so on, along 
the outside of the ropes, to the upper 
rim or hoop where the net-work is 
attached. Having pulled the bag up 
in this way, and formed a complete en- 
closure on all sides, and at bottom, it 
was now necessary to fasten up its top 
or mouth, by passing its material over 
the hoop of the net-work—in other 
words, between the net-work and the 
hoop.. But if the net-work were sepa- 
rated from the hoop to admit this pas- 
sage, what was to sustain the car in 
the meantime? Now the net-work was 
not permanently fastened to the hoop, 
but attached by a series of running 
loops or nooses. I therefore undid only 
a few of these loops at one time, leav- 
ing the car suspended by the remainder. 
Having thus inserted a portion of the 
cloth forming the upper part of the bag, 
I refastened the loops—not to the hoop, 
for that would have been impossible, 
since the cloth now intervened—but 
to a series of large buttons, affixed to 
the cloth itself, about three feet be- 
low the mouth of the bag; the intervals 
between the buttons having been made 
to correspond to the intervals between 
the loops. This done, a few more of 
the lops were unfastened from the rim, 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


a farther portion of the cloth intro- 
duced, and the disengaged loops then 
connected with their proper buttons. 
In this way it was possible to insert 
the whole upper part of the bag between 
the net-work and the hoop. It is evi- 
dent that the hoop would now drop 
down within the car. while the whole 
weight of the car itself, with all its 
contents, would be held up merely by 
the strength of the buttons. This, at 
first sight, would seem an inadequte de- 
pendence; but it was by no means so, 
for the buttons were not only very 
strong in themselves, but so close to- 
gether that a very slight portion of the 
whole weight was supported by any 
one of them. Indeed, had the car and 
contents been three times heavier than 
they were, I should not have been at 
all uneasy. I now raised up the hoop 
again within the covering of gum-elastic, 
and propped it at nearly its former height 
by means of three light poles prepared 
for the occasion. This was done, of 
course, to keep the bag distended at 
the top, and to preserve the lower part 
of the net-work in its proper situation. 
All that now remained was to fasten up 
the mouth of the enclosure; and this 
was readily accomplished by gathering 
the folds of the material together, and 
twisting them up very tightly on the 
inside by means of a kind of stationary 
tourniquet. 

“In the sides of the covering thus 
adjusted round the car, had been in- 
serted three circular panes of thick but 
clear glass, through which I could see 
without difficulty around me in every 
horizontal direction. In that portion of 
the cloth forming the bottom, was like- 
wise, a fourth window, of the same kind, 
and corresponding with a small aperture 


Sv12 


in the floor of the car itself. This en- 
abled me to see perpendicularly down, 
but having found it impossible to place 
any similar contrivance overhead, on ac- 
count of the peculiar manner of closing 
up the opening there, and the conse- 
quent wrinkles in the cloth, I could 
expect to see no objects situated di- 
rectly in my zenith. This, of course, 
was a matter of little consequence; 
for had I even been able to place a 
window at top, the balloon itself would 
have prevented my making any use 
of it. 

“About a foot below one of the side 
windows was a circular opening, three 
inches in diameter, and fitted with a 
brass rim adapted in its inner edge to 
the windings of a screw. In this rim 
was screwed the large tube of the con- 
denser, the body of the machine being, 
of course, within the chamber of gum- 
elastic. Through this tube a quantity 
of the rare atmosphere circumjacent 
being drawn by means of a vacuum 
created in the body of the machine, 
was thence discharged, in a state of 
condensation, to mingle with the thin 
air already in the chamber. This op- 
eration being repeated several times, 
at length filled the chamber with atmos- 
phere proper for all the purposes of 
respiration; but in so confined a space 
it would, in a short time, necessarily be- 
come foul, and unfit for use from fre- 
quent contact with the lungs. It was 
then ejected by a small valve at the 
bottom of the car—the dense air readily 
sinking into the thinner atmosphere be- 
low. To avoid the inconvenience of 
making a total vacuum at any moment 
within the chamber, this purification 
was never accomplished all at once, 
but in a gradual manner—the valve 


32 


being opened only for a few seconds, 
then closed again, until one or two 
strokes from the pump of the condenser 
had supplied the place of the atmos- 
phere ejected. For the sake of experi- 
ment I had put the cat and kittens in 
a small basket, and suspended it outside 
the car to a button at the bottom, close 
by the valve, through which I could 
feed them at any moment when neces- 
sary. I did this at some little risk, 
and before closing the mouth of the 
chamber, by reaching under the car 
with one of the poles before mentioned 
to which a hook had been attached. 
As.soon as dense air was admitted in 
the chamber, the hoop and poles be- 
came unnecessary; the expansion of the 
enclosed atmosphere powerfully distend- 
ing the gum-elastic. 

“By the time I had fully completed 
these arrangements and filled the cham- 
ber as explained, it wanted only ten 
minutes of nine o’clock. During the 
whole period of my being thus em- 
ployed, I endured the most terrible dis- 
tress from difficulty of respiration, and 
bitterly did I repent the negligence or 
rather fool-hardiness, of which I had 
been guilty, of putting off to the last 
moment a matter of so much impor- 
tance. But having at length accom- 
plished it, I soon began to reap the 
benefit of my invention. Once again 
I breathed with perfect freedom and 
ease—and indeed why should I not? I 
was also agreeably surprised to find 
myself, in a great measure, relieved 
from the violent pains which had hither- 
to tormented me. A slight headache, 
accompanied with a sensation of ful- 
ness or distention about the wrists, the 
ankles, and the throat, was nearly all 
of which I had now to complain. Thus 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


it seemed evident that a greater part of 
the uneasiness attending the removal of 
atmospheric pressure had actually worn 
off, as I had expected, and that much of 
the pain endured for the last two hours 
should have been attributed altogether 
to the effects of a deficient respiration. 

“At twenty minutes before nine 
o’clock—that is to say, a short time 
prior to my closing up the mouth of the 
chamber, the mercury attained its 
limit, or ran down, in the barometer, 
which, as I mentioned before, was one 
of an extended construction. It then 
indicated an altitude on my part of 
132,000 feet, or five-and-twenty miles, 
and I consequently surveyed at that 
time an extent of the earth’s area 
amounting to no less than the three- 
hundred-and-twentieth part of its en- 
tire superficies. At nine o’clock I had 
again lost sight of land to the eastward, 
but not before I became aware that 
the balloon was drifting rapidly to the 
N. N. W. The ocean beneath me still 
retained its apparent concavity, al- 
though my view was often interrupted 
by the masses of cloud which floated 
to and fro. 

“At half past nine I tried the ex- 
periment of throwing out a handful of 
feathers through the valve. They did 
not float as I had expected; but dropped 
down perpendicularly, like a bullet, ez 
masse, and with the greatest velocity— 
being out of sight in a very few seconds. 
I did not at first know what to make 
of this extraordinary phenomenon; not 
being able to believe that my rate of 
ascent had, of a sudden, met with so 
prodigious an acceleration. But it 
soon occurred to me that the atmos- 
phere was now far too rare to sustain 
even the feathers; that they actually 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


fell, as they appear to do, with great 
rapidity; and that I had been surprised 
by the united velocities of their descent 
and my own elevation. 

“By ten o’clock I found that I had 
very little to occupy my immediate 
attention. Affairs went swimmingly, 
and I believed the balloon to be going 
upward with a speed increasing mo- 
mently although I had no longer any 
means of ascertaining the progression 
of the increase. I suffered no pain or 
uneasiness of any kind, and enjoyed 
better spirits than I had at any period 
since my departure from Rotterdam! 
busying myself now in examining the 
state of my various apparatus, and now 
in regenerating the atmosphere within 
the chamber. This latter point I de- 
termined to attend to at regular in- 
tervals of forty minutes, more on ac- 
count of the preservation of my health, 
than from so frequent a renovation 
being absolutely necessary. In the 
meanwhile I could not help making 
anticipations. Fancy revelled in the 
wild and dreamy regions of the moon. 
Imagination, feeling herself for once 
unshackled, roamed at will among the 
ever-changing wonders of a shadowy 
and unstable land. Now there were 
hoary and time-honored forests, and 
craggy precipices, and waterfalls tum- 
bling with a loud noise into abysses 
without a bottom. Then I came sud- 
denly into still noonday  solitudes, 
where no wind of heaven ever intruded, 
and where vast meadows of poppies, 
and slender, lily-looking flowers spread 
themselves out a weary distance, all 
silent and motionless for ever. Then 
again I journeyed far down away into 
another country where it was all one 
Jim and vague lake, with a boundary 


373 


line of clouds. But fancies such as 
these were not the sole possessors of 
my brain. Horrors of a nature most 
stern and most appalling would too fre- 
quently obtrude themselves upon my 
mind, and shake the innermost depths 
of my soul with the bare supposition of 
their possibility. Yet I would not suf- 
fer my thoughts for any length of time 
to dwell upon these latter speculations, 
rightly judging the real and palpable 
dangers of the voyage sufficient for my 
undivided attention. 

“At five o’clock, p. m., being engaged 
in regenerating the atmosphere within 
the chamber, I took that opportunity 
of observing the cat and kittens through 
the valve. The cat herself appeared 
to suffer again very much, and I had 
no hesitation in attributing her uneasi- 
ness chiefly to a difficulty in breathing; 
but my experiment with the kittens had 
resulted very strangely. I had expected, 
of course, to see them betray a sense 
of pain, although in a less degree than 
their mother; and this would have been 
sufficient to confirm my opinion con- 
cerning the habitual endurance of at- 
mospheric pressure. But I was not 
prepared to find them, upon close ex- 
amination, evidently enjoying a high 
degree of health, breathing with the 
greatest ease and perfect regularity, and 
evincing not the slightest sign of any 
uneasiness. I could only account for 
all this by extending my theory, and 
supposing that the highly rarefied at- 
mosphere around might perhaps not be, 
as I had taken for granted, chemically 
insufficient for the purposes of life, 
and that a person born in sucha medium 
might, possibly, be unaware of any 
inconvenience attending its inhalation, 
while, upon removal to the denser 


374 


strata near the earth, he might endure 
tortures of a similar nature to those I 
had so lately experienced. it has since 
been to me a matter of deep regret that 
an awkward accident, at this time, oc- 
casioned me the loss of my little family 
of cats, and deprived me of the insight 
into this matter which a continued ex- 
periment might have afforded. In pass- 
ing my hand through the valve, with a 
cup of water for the old puss, the 
sleeves of my shirt became entangled in 
the loop which sustained the basket, 
and thus, in a moment, loosened it from 
the bottom. Had the whole actually 
vanished into air, it could not have shot 
from my sight in a more abrupt and 
instantaneous manner. Positively, there 
could not have intervened the tenth 
part of a second between the disengage- 
ment of the basket and its absolute dis- 
appearance with all that it contained. 
My good wishes followed it to the 
earth, but of course, I had no hope that 
either cat or kittens would ever live to 
tell the tale of their misfortune. 

“At six o’clock, I perceived a great 
portion of the earth’s visible area to 
the eastward involved in thick shadow, 
which continued to advance with great 
rapidity, until, at five minutes before 
seven, the whole surface in view was 
enveloped in the darkness of night. It 
was not, however, until long after this 
time that the rays of the setting sun 
ceased to illumine the balloon; and 
this circumstance, although of course 
fully anticipated, did not fail to give 
me an infinite deal of pleasure. It was 
evident that, in the morning, I should 
behold the rising luminary many hours 
at least before the citizens of Rotter- 
dam, in spite of their situation so much 
farther to the eastward, and thus, day 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


after day, in proportion to the height 
ascended, would I enjoy the light of the 
sun for a longer and a longer period. 
I now determined to keep a journal of 
my passage, reckoning the days from 
one to twenty-four hours continuously, 
without taking into consideration the 
intervals of darkness. 

“At ten o’clock, feeling sleepy, I 
determined to lie down for the rest of 
the night; but here a difficulty presented 
itself, which, obvious as it may appear, 
had escaped my attention up to the 
very moment of which I am now speak- 
ing. If I went to sleep as I proposed, 
how could the atmosphere in the cham- 
ber be regenerated in the interim? To 
breathe it for more than an hour, at 
the farthest, would be a matter of im- 
possibility; or, if even this term could 
be extended to an hour and a quarter, 
the most ruinous consequences might 
ensue. The consideration of this di- 
lemma gave me no little disquietude; 
and it will hardly be believed, that, 
after the dangers I had undergone, I 
should look upon this business in so 
serious a light, as to give up all hope 
of accomplishing my ultimate design, 
and finally make up my mind to the 
necessity of a descent. But this hesi- 
tation was only momentary. I reflected 
that man is the veriest slave of custom, 
and that many points in the routine of 
his existence are deemed essentially im- 
portant, which are only so aé all by his 
having rendered them habitual. It was 
very certain that I could not do with- 
out sleep; but I might easily bring my- 
self to feel no inconvenience from being 
awakened at intervals of an hour dur- 
ing the whole period of my repose. It 
would require but five minutes at most 
to regenerate the atmosphere in the 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


fullest manner—and the only real diffi- 
culty was to contrive a method of 
arousing myself at the proper moment 
for so doing. But this was a question 
which, I am willing to confess, occa- 
sioned me no little trouble in its solu- 
tion. To be sure, I had heard of the 
student who, to prevent his falling 
asleep over his books, held in one hand 
a ball of copper, the din of whose 
descent into a basin of the same metal 
on the floor beside his chair, served 
effectually to startle him up, if, at any 
moment, he should be overcome with 
drowsiness. My own case, however, 
was very different indeed, and left me 
no room for any similar idea; for I 
did not wish to keep awake, but to be 
aroused from slumber at regular inter- 
vals of time. I at length hit upon the 
following expedient, which, simple as 
it may seem, was hailed by me, at the 
moment of discovery, as an invention 
fully equal to that of the telescope, the 
steam-engine, or the art of printing 
itself. 

“Tt is necessary to premise, that the 
balloon, at the elevation now attained, 
continued its course upward with an 
even and undeviating ascent, and the 
car consequently followed with a steadi- 
ness so perfect that it would have been 
impossible to detect in it the slightest 
vacillation. This circumstance favored 
me greatly in the project I now de- 
termined to adopt. My supply of 
water had been put on board in kegs 
containing five gallons each, and ranged 
very securely around the interior of the 
car. I unfastened one of these, and 
taking two ropes tied them tightly 
across the rim of the wicker-work from 
one side to the other; placing them 
about a foot apart and parallel, so as 


375 


to form a kind of shelf, upon which I 
placed the keg, and steadied it in a hori- 
zontal position. About eight inches im- 
mediately below these ropes, and four 
feet from the bottom of the car I 
fastened another shelf—but made of 
thin plank, being the only similar piece 
of wood I had. Upon this latter shelf, 
and exactly beneath one of the rims of 
the keg, a small earthen pitcher was 
deposited. I now bored a hole in the 
end of the keg over the pitcher, and 
fitted in a plug of soft wood, cut in 
a tapering or conical shape. This plug 
I pushed in or pulled out, as might 
happen, until, after a few experiments, 
it arrived at that exact degree of tight- 
ness, at which the water, oozing from 
the hole, and falling into the pitcher 
below, would fill the latter to the brim 
in the period of sixty minutes. This, 
of course, was a matter briefly and 
easily ascertained, by noticing the pro- 
portion of the pitcher filled in any given 
time. Having arranged all this, the 
rest of the plan is obvious. My bed 
was so contrived upon the floor of the 
car, as to bring my head, in lying down, 
immediately below the mouth of the 
pitcher. It was evident, that, at the 
expiration of an hour, the pitcher, get- 
ting full, would be forced to run over, 
and to run over at the mouth, which 
was somewhat lower than the rim. It 
was also evident, that the water thus 
falling from a height of more than four 
feet, could not do otherwise than fall 
upon my face, and that the sure con- 
sequences would be, to waken me up 
instantaneously, even from the soundest 
slumber in the world. 

“Tt was fully eleven by the time, I 
had completed these arrangements, and 
I immediately betook myself to bed, 


376 


with full confidence in the efficiency of 
my invention. Nor in this matter was 
I disappointed. Punctually every sixty 
minutes was I aroused by my trusty 
chronometer, when, having emptied the 
pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg, 
and performed the duties of the con- 
denser, I retired again to bed. ‘These 
regular interruptions to my slumber 
caused me even less discomfort than 
I had anticipated; and when I finally 
arose for the day, it was seven o’clock, 
and the sun had attained many degrees 
above the line of my horizon. 

“April 3d. I found the balloon at an 
immense height indeed, and the earth’s 
convexity had now become strikingly 
manifest. Below me in the ocean lay 
a cluster of black specks, which un- 
doubtedly were islands. Overhead the 
sky was of a jetty black, and the stars 
were brilliantly visible; indeed they 
had been so constantly since the first 
day of ascent. Far away to the north- 
ward I perceived a thin, white, and 
exceedingly brilliant line, or streak, on 
the edge of the horizon, and I had no 
hesitation in supposing it to be the 
southern disc of the ices of the Polar 
Sea. My curiosity was greatly excited, 
for I had hopes of passing on much 
farther to the north, and might pos- 
sibly, at some period, find myself placed 
directly above the Pole itself. I now 
lamented that my great elevation would, 
in this case, prevent my taking as ac- 
curate a survey as I could wish. Much, 
however, might be ascertained. 

“Nothing else of an extraordinary 
nature occurred during the day. My 
apparatus all continued in good order, 
and the balloon still ascended without 
any perceptible vacillation. The cold 
was intense, and obliged me to wrap 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


up closely in an overcoat. When dark- 
ness came over the earth, I betook my: 
self to bed, although it was for many 
hours afterward broad daylight all 
around my immediate situation. The 
water-clock was punctual in its duty, 
and I slept until next morning soundly, 
with the exception of the periodical 
interruption. 

“April 4th. Arose in good health and 
spirits, and was astonished at the singu- 
Jar change which had taken place in the 
appearance of the sea. It had lost, in 
a great measure, the deep tint of blue 
it had hitherto worn, being now of a 
grayish-white, and of a lustre dazzling 
to the eye. The convexity of the ocean 
had become so evident, that the entire 
mass of the distant water seemed to be 
tumbling headlong over the abyss of 
the horizon, and I found myself lis- 
tening on tiptoe for the echoes of the 
mighty cataract. The islands were no 
longer visible; whether they had passed 
down the horizon to the southeast, or 
whether my increasing elevation had 
left them out of sight, it is impossible 
to say. I was inclined, however, to the 
latter opinion. The rim of ice to the 
northward was growing more and more 
apparent. Cold by no means so intense. 
Nothing of importance occurred, and I 
passed the day in reading, having taken 
care to supply myself with books. 

“April 5th. Beheld the singular phe- 
nomenon of the sun rising while nearly 
the whole visible surface of the earth 
continued to be involved in darkness. 
In time, however, the light spread itself 
over all, and I again saw the line of ice 
to the northward. It was now very 
distinct, and appeared of a much darker 
hue than the waters of the ocean. I 
was evidently approaching it, and with 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


great rapidity. Fancied I could again 
distinguish a strip of land to the east- 
ward, and one also to the westward, 
but could not be certain. Weather 
moderate. Nothing of any consequence 
happened during the day. Went early 
to bed. 

“April 6th. Was surprised at finding 
the rim of ice at a very moderate dis- 
tance, and an immense field of the same 
material stretching away off to the hori- 
zon in the north. It was evident that 
if the balloon held its present course, it 
would soon arrive above the Frozen 
Ocean, and I had now little doubt of 
ultimately seeing the Pole. During the 
whole of the day I continued to near 
the ice. Toward night the limits of 
my horizon very suddenly and mate- 
rially increased, owing undoubtedly to 
the earth’s form being that of an oblate 
spheroid, and my arriving above the 
flattened regions in the vicinity of the 
Arctic circle. When darkness at length 
overtook me, I went to bed in great 
anxiety, fearing to pass over the object 
of so much curiosity when I should 
have no opportunity of observing it. 

“April 7th. Arose early, and, to my 
great joy, at length beheld what there 
could be no hesitation in supposing the 
northern Pole itself. It was there, be- 

yond a doubt, and immediately beneath 
my feet; but, alas! I had now ascended 
to so vast a distance, that nothing 
could with accuracy be discerned. In- 
deed, to judge from the progression of 
the numbers indicating my various alti- 
tudes, respectively, at different periods, 
between six a. m. on the second of 
April, and twenty minutes before nine 
a. m. of the same day (at which time 
the barometer ran down), it might be 
fairly inferred that the balloon had now, 


377, 


at four o’clock in the morning of April 
the seventh, reached a height of not 
less, certainly, than 7,254 miles above 
the surface of the sea. This elevation 
may appear immense, but the estimate 
upon which it is calculated gave a 
result in all probability far inferior to 
the truth. At all events I undoubtedly 
beheld the whole of the earth’s major 
diameter; the entire northern hemi- 
sphere lay beneath me like a chart 
orthographically projected: and the 
great circle of the equator itself formed 
the boundary line of my horizon. Your 
Excellencies, may, however, readily 
imagine that the confined regions hith- 
erto unexplored within the limits of the 
Arctic circle, although situated directly 
beneath me, and therefore seen with- 
out any appearance of being foreshort- 
ened, were still, in themselves, com- 
paratively too diminutive, and at too 
great a distance from the point of sight, 
to admit of any very accurate examina- 
tion. Nevertheless, what could be seen 
was of a nature singular and exciting. 
Northwardly from that huge rim before 
mentioned, and which, with slight quali- 
fication, may be called the limit of 
human discovery in these regions, one 
unbroken, or nearly unbroken, sheet of 
ice continues to extend. In the first 
few degrees of this its progress, its sur- 
face is very sensibly flattened, farther 
on depressed into a plane, and finally, 
becoming not a little concave, it ter- 
minates, at the Pole itself, in a circular 
centre, sharply defined, whose apparent 
diameter subtended at the balloon an 
angle of about sixty-five seconds, and 
whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, 
was, at all times, darker than any other 
spot upon the visible hemisphere, and 
occasionally deepened into the most ab- 


378 


solute blackness. Farther than this, 
little could be ascertained. By twelve 
o’clock the circular centre had mate- 
rially decreased in circumference, and 
by seven p. m. I lost sight of it en- 
tirely; the balloon passing over the 
western limb of the ice, and floating 
away rapidly in the direction of the 
equator. 

“April 8th. Found a sensible diminu- 
tion in the earth’s apparent diameter, 
besides a material alteration in its gen- 
eral color and appearance. The whole 
visible area partook in different degrees 
of a tint of pale yellow, and in some 
portions had acquired a brilliancy even 
painful to the eye. My view downward 
was also considerably impeded by the 
dense atmosphere in the vicinity of the 
surface being loaded with clouds, be- 
tween whose masses I could only now 
and then obtain a glimpse of the earth 
itself. This difficulty of direct vision 
had troubled me more or less for the 
last forty-eight hours; but my present 
enormous elevation brought closer to- 
gether, as it were, the floating bodies of 
vapor, and the inconvenience became, 
of course, more and more palpable in 
proportion to my ascent. Nevertheless, 
I could easily perceive that the balloon 
now hovered above the range of great 
lakes in the continent of North Amer- 
ica, and was holding a course, due south, 
which would soon bring me to the 
tropics. This circumstance did not fail 
to give me the most heartful satisfac- 
tion, and [ hailed it as a happy omen 
of ultimate success. Indeed, the direc- 
tion I had hitherto taken, had filled me 
with uneasiness; for it was evident 
that, had I continued it much longer, 
there would have been no possibility 
of my arriving at the moon at all, whose 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at only 
the small angle of 5° 8’ 48”. Strange 
as it may seem, it was only at this late 
period that I began to understand the 
great error I had committed, in not 
taking my departure from earth at 
some point im the plane of the lunar 
ellipse. 

April 9th. To-day the earth’s diam- 
eter was greatly diminished, and the 
color of the surface assumed hourly a 
deeper tint of yellow. The balloon 
kept steadily on her course to the south- 
ward, and arrived, at nine p. m., over 
the northern edge of the Mexican Gulf. 

“April 10th. 1 was suddenly aroused 
from slumber, about five o’clock this 
morning, by a loud, crackling, and ter- 
rific sound, for which I could in no 
manner account. It was of very brief 
duration, but, while it lasted, resembled 
nothing in the world of which I had any 
previous experience. It is needless to 
say that I became excessively alarmed, 
having, in the first instance, attributed 
the noise to the bursting of the balloon. 
IT examined all my apparatus, however, 
with great attention, and could discover 
nothing out of order. Spent a great 
part of the day in meditating upon an 
occurrence so extraordinary, but could 
find no means whatever of accounting 
for it. Went to bed dissatisfied, and in 
a state of great anxiety and agitation. 

“April 11th. Found a startling dimi- 
nution in the apparent diameter of the 
earth, and a considerable increase, now 
observable for the first time, in that 
of the moon itself, which wanted only 
a few days of being full. It now re- 
quired long and excessive labor to con- 
dense within the chamber sufficient at- 
mospheric air for the sustenance of 
life. 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


“April 12th. A singular alteration 
took place in regard to the direction 
of the balloon, and although fully an- 
ticipated, afforded me the most un- 
equivocal delight. Having reached, in 
its former course, about the twentieth 
parallel of southern latitude, it turned 
off suddenly, at an acute angle, to the 
eastward, and thus proceeded through- 
out the day, keeping nearly, if not alto- 
gether, zm the exact plane of the lunar 
ellipse. What was worthy of remark, 
a very perceptible vacillation in the 
car was a consequence of this change 
of route—a vacillation which prevailed, 
in a more or less degree, for a period of 
many hours. 

“April 13th. Was again very much 
alarmed by a repetition of the loud, 
crackling noise which terrified me on 
the tenth. Thought Jong upon the sub- 
ject, but was unable to form any satis- 
factory conclusion. Great decrease in 
the earth’s apparent diameter, which 
now subtended from the balloon an 
angle of very little more than twenty-five 
degrees. The moon could not be seen 
at all, being nearly in my zenith. I still 
continued in the plane of the ellipse, but 
made little progress to the eastward. 

“April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease 
in the diameter of the earth. To-day 
I became strongly impressed with the 
idea, that the balloon was now actually 
running up the line of apsides to the 
point of perigee—in other words, hold- 
ing the direct course which would bring 
it immediately to the moon in that part 
of its orbit the nearest to the earth. 
The moon itself was directly overhead, 
and consequently hidden from my view. 
Great and long-continued labor neces- 
sary for the condensation of the at- 
mosphere. 


379 


“April 15th. Not even the outlines 
of continents and seas could now be 
traced upon the earth with distinctness. 
About twelve o’clock I became aware, 
for the third time, of that appalling 
sound which had so astonished me be- 
fore. It now, however, continued for 
some moments, and gathered intensity 
as it continued. At length, while, stupe- 
fied and terror-stricken, I stood in ex- 
pectation of I knew not what hideous 
destruction, the car vibrated with ex- 
cessive violence, and a gigantic and 
flaming mass of some material which 
I could not distinguish, came with a 
voice of a thousand thunders, roaring 
and booming by the balloon. When 
my fears and astonishment had in some 
degree subsided, I had little difficulty 
in supposing it to be some mighty vol- 
canic fragment ejected from that world 
to which I was so rapidly approaching, 
and, in all probability, one of that 
singular class of substances occasionally 
picked up on the earth, and termed 
meteoric stones for want of a better 
appellation. 

“April 16th. To-day, looking upward 
as well as I could, through each of the 
side windows alternately, I beheld, to 
my great delight, a very small portion 
of the moon’s disk protruding, as it 
were, on all sides beyond the huge cir- 
cumference of the balloon. My agita- 
tion was extreme; for I had now little 
doubt of soon reaching the end of my 
perilous voyage. Indeed, the labor now 
required by the condenser, had increased 
to a most oppressive degree, and al- 
lowed me scarcely any respite from 
exertion. Sleep was a matter nearly 
out of the question. I became quite 
ill, and my frame trembled with ex- 
haustion. It was impossible that hu. 


380 


man nature could endure this state of 
intense suffering much longer. During 
the now brief interval of darkness 
a meteoric stone again passed in my 
vicinity, and the frequency of these 
phenomena began to occasion me much 
apprehension. 

“April 17th. This morning proved an 
epoch in my voyage. It will be remem- 
bered that, on the thirteenth, the earth 
subtended an angular breadth of twenty- 
five degrees. On the fourteenth this 
had greatly diminished; on the fifteenth 
a still more remarkable decrease was 
observable; and, on retiring on the 
night of the sixteenth, I had noticed 
an angle of no more than about seven 
degrees and fifteen minutes. What, 
therefore, must have been my amaze- 
ment, on awakening from a brief and 
disturbed slumber, on the morning of 
this day, the seventeenth, at finding the 
surface beneath me so suddenly and 
wonderfully augmented in volume, as 
to subtend no less than thirty-nine de- 
grees in apparent angular diameter! I 
was thunderstruck! No words can give 
any adequate idea of the extreme, the 
absolute horror and astonishment, with 
which I was seized possessed, and al- 
together overwhelmed. My knees tot- 
tered beneath me—my teeth chattered 
—my hair started up on end. ‘The 
balloon, then, had actually burst!’ 
These were the first tumultuous ideas 
that hurried through my mind: ‘The 
balloon had positively burst!—I was 
falling—falling with the most impetu- 
ous, the most unparalleled velocity! 
To judge by the immense distance al- 
ready so quickly passed over, it could 
not be more than ten minutes, at the 
farthest, before I should reach the sur- 
face of the earth, and be hurled into 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


annihilation!’ But at length reflection 
came to my relief. I paused; I con- 
sidered; and I began to doubt. The 
matter was impossible. I could not in 
any reason have so rapidly come down. 
Besides, although I was evidently ap- 
proaching the surface below me, it was 
with a speed by no means commensurate 
with the velocity I had at first con- 
ceived. This consideration served to 
calm the perturbation of my mind, and 
I finally succeeded in regarding the 
phenomenon in its proper point of view. 
In fact, amazement must have fairly 
deprived me of my senses, when I 
could not see the vast difference, in 
appearance, between the surface below 
me, and the surface of my mother 
earth. The latter was indeed over my 
head, and completely hidden by the 
balloon, while the moon—the moon 
itself in all its glory—lay beneath me, 
and at my feet. 

“The stupor and surprise produced in 
my mind by this extraordinary change 
in the posture of affairs, was, perhaps, 
after all, that part of the adventure 
least susceptible of explanation. For 
the bouleversement in itself was not 
only natural and inevitable, but had 
been long actually anticipated as a 
circumstance to be expected when- 
ever I should arrive at that exact 
point of my voyage where the attrac- 
tion of the planet should be superseded 
by the attraction of the satellite—or, 
more precisely, where the gravitation 
of the balloon toward the earth should 
be less powerful than its gravitation 
toward the moon. To be sure I arose 
from a sound slumber, with all my 
senses in confusion, to the contempla- 
tion of a very startling phenomenon, 
and one which, although expected, was 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


not expected at the moment. The revo- 

lution itself must, of course, have taken 
place in an easy and gradual manner, 
and it is by no means clear that, had I 
even been awake at the time of the oc- 
currence, I should have been made 
aware of it by any internal evidence 
of an inversion—that is to say, by any 
inconvenience or disarrangement, either 
about my person or about my apparatus. 

“Tt is almost needless to say that, 
upon coming to a due sense of my situa- 
tion, and emerging from the terror 
which had absorbed every faculty of 
my soul, my attention was, in the first 
place, wholly directed to the contem- 
plation of the general physical appear- 
ance of the moon. It lay beneath me 
like a chart—and although I judged it 
to be still at no inconsiderable distance, 
the indentures of its surface were de- 
fined to my vision with a most striking 
and altogether unaccountable distinct- 
ness. The entire absence of ocean or 
sea, and indeed of any lake or river, or 
body of water whatsoever, struck me, 
at first glance, as the most extraordi- 
nary feature in its geological condition. 
Yet, strange to say, I beheld vast level 
regions of a character decidedly alluvial, 
although by far the greater portion of 
the hemisphere in sight was covered 
with innumerable volcanic mountains, 
conical in shape, and having more the 
appearance of artificial than of natural 
protuberance. The highest among them 
does not exceed three and three-quarter 
miles in perpendicular elevation; but a 
map of the volcanic districts of the 
Campi Phlegrei would afford to your 
Excellencies a better idea of their gen- 
eral surface than any unworthy descrip- 
tion I might think proper to attempt. 
The greater part of them were in a 


381 


state of evident eruption, and gave me 
fearfully to understand their fury and 
their power, by the repeated thunders 
of the miscalled meteoric stones, which 
now rushed upward by the balloon 
with a frequency more and more 
appalling. 

“April 18th. To-day I found an enor- 
mous increase in the moon’s apparent 
bulk—and the evidently accelerated 
velocity of my descent began to fill me 
with alarm. It will be remembered, 
that, in the earliest stage of my specu- 
lations upon the possibility of a pas- 
sage to the moon, the existence, in its 
vicinity, of an atmosphere, dense in 
proportion to the bulk of the planet, 
had entered largely into my calcula- 
tions; this too in spite of many theories 
to the contrary, and, it may be added, 
in spite of a general disbelief in the 
existence of any lunar atmosphere at 
all. But, in addition to what I have 
already urged in regard to Encke’s 
comet and the zodiacal light, I had 
been strengthened in my opinion by cer- 
tain observations of Mr. Schroeter, of 
Lilienthal. He observed the moon when 
two days and a half old, in the eve- 
ning soon after sunset, before the dark 
part was visible, and continued to watch 
it until it became visible. The two 
cusps appeared tapering in a very sharp 
faint prolongation, each exhibiting its 
farthest extremity faintly illuminated 
by the solar rays, before any part of 
the dark hemisphere was visible. Soon 
afterward, the whole dark limb _ be- 
came illuminated. This prolongation of 
the cusps beyond the semicircle, I 
thought, must have arisen from the 
refraction of the sun’s rays by the 
moon’s atmosphere. I computed, also, 
the height of the atmosphere (which 


382 


could refract light enough into its dark 
hemisphere to produce a twilight more 
luminous than the light reflected from 
the earth when the moon is about 32° 
from the new) to be 1,356 Paris feet; 
in this view, I supposed the greatest 
height capable of refracting the solar 
ray, to be 5,376 feet. My ideas on this 
topic had also received confirmation by 
a passage in the eighty-second volume 
of the Philosophical Transactions, in 
which it is stated, that, at an occulta- 
tion of Jupiter’s satellites, the third dis- 
appeared after having been about 1” or 
2’’ of time indistinct, and the fourth 
became indiscernible near the limb.* 


*Hevelius writes that he has several 
times found, in skies perfectly clear, 
when even stars of the sixth and seventh 
magnitude were conspicuous, that, at 
the same altitude of the moon, at the 
same elongation from the earth, and 
with one and the same excellent tele- 
scope, the moon and its macule did not 
appear equally lucid at all times. From 
the circumstances of the observation, 
it is evident that the cause of this 
phenomenon is not either in our air, in 
the tube, in the moon, or in the eye of 
the spectator, but must be looked for 
in something (an atmosphere?) exist- 
ing about the moon. 

Cassini frequently observed Saturn, 
Jupiter, and the fixed stars, when ap- 
proaching the moon to occultation, to 
have their circular figure changed into 
an oval one; and, in other occultations, 
he found no alteration of figure at all. 
Hence it might be supposed, that at 
some times, and not at others, there is 
a dense matter encompassing the moon 
wherein the rays of the stars are 
refracted.—E. A. P. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“Upon the resistance or, more prop- 
erly, upon the support of an atmos- 
phere, existing in the state of density 
imagined, I had, of course, entirely de- 
pended for the safety of my ultimate 
descent. Should I then, after all, 
prove to have been mistaken, I had in 
consequence nothing better to expect, 
as a finale to my adventure, than being 
dashed into atoms against the rugged 
surface of the satellite. And, indeed, I 
had now every reason to be terrified. 
My distance from the moon was com- 
paratively trifling, while the labor re- 
quired by the condenser was diminished 
not at all, and I could discover no 
indication whatever of a decreasing 
rarity in the air. 

“April 19th. This morning, to my 
great joy, about nine o’clock, the sur- 
face of the moon being frightfully near, 
and my apprehensions excited to the 
utmost, the pump of my condenser at 
length gave evident tokens of an altera- 
tion in the atmosphere. By ten, I had 
reason to believe its density consider- 
ably increased. By eleven, very little 
labor was necessary at the apparatus; 
and at twelve o’clock, with some hesi- 
tation, I ventured to unscrew the tourni- 
quet, when, finding no inconvenience 
from having done so, I finally threw 
open the gum-elastic chamber, and un- 
rigged it from around the car. As 
might have been expected, spasms and 
violent headache were the immediate 
consequences of an experiment so pre- 
cipitate and full of danger. But these 
and other difficulties attending respira- ~ 
tion, as they were by no means so great 
as to put me in peril of my life, I 
determined to endure as I best could, in 
consideration of my leaving them be- 
hind me momently in my approach to 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


the denser strata near the moon. This 
approach, however, was still impetuous 
in the extreme; and it soon became 
alarmingly certain that, although I had 
probably not been deceived in the ex- 
pectation of an atmosphere dense in 
proportion to the mass of the satellite, 
still I had been wrong in supposing this 
density, even at the surface, at all ade- 
quate to the support of the great weight 
contained in the car of my balloon. 
Yet this should have been the case, and 
in an equal degree as at the surface of 
the earth, the actual gravity of bodies 
at either planet supposed in the ratio 
of the atmospheric condensation. That 
it was not the case, however, my pre- 
cipitous downfall gave testimony 
enough; why it was not so, can only be 
explained by a reference to those pos- 
sible geological disturbances to which 
I have formerly alluded. At all events 
I was now close upon the planet, and 
coming down with the most terrible 
impetuosity. I lost not a moment, ac- 
cordingly, in throwing overboard first 
my ballast, then my water-kegs, then 
my condensing apparatus and gum-elas- 
tic chamber, and finally every article 
within the car. But it was all to no 
purpose. I still fell with horrible rap- 
idity, and was now not more than half 
a mile from the surface. As a last re- 
source, therefore, having got rid of my 
coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from 
the balloon the car itself, which was 
of no inconsiderable weight, and thus, 
clinging with both hands to the net- 
work, I had barely time to observe that 
the whole country, as far as the eye 
could reach, was thickly interspersed 
with diminutive habitations, ere I 
tumbled headlong into the very heart 
of a fantastical-looking city, and into 


383 


the middle of a vast crowd of ugly 
little people, who none of them uttered 
a single syllable, or gave themselves 
the least trouble to render me assist- 
ance, but stood, like a parcel of idiots, 
grinning in a ludicrous manner, and 
eyeing me and my balloon askant, with 
their arms set a-kimbo. I turned from 
them in contempt, and, gazing upward 
at the earth so lately left, and left per- 
haps for ever, beheld it like a huge, 
dull, copper shield, about two degrees 
in diameter, fixed immovably in the 
heavens overhead, and tipped on one 
of its edges with a crescent border of 
the most brilliant gold. No traces of 
land or water could be discovered, and 
the whole was clouded with variable 
spots, and belted with tropical and 
equatorial zones. 

“Thus, may it please your Excel- 
lencies, after a series of great anxieties, 
unheard-of dangers, and unparalleled es- 
capes, I had, at length, on the nineteenth 
day of my departure from Rotterdam, 
arrived in safety at the conclusion of 
a voyage undoubtedly the most extraor- 
dinary, and the most momentous, ever 
accomplished, undertaken, or conceived 
by any denizen of earth. But my ad- 
ventures yet remain to be related. And 
indeed your Excellencies may well 
imagine that, after a residence of five 
years upon a planet not only deeply in- 
teresting in its own peculiar character, 
but rendered doubly so by its intimate 
connection, in capacity of satellite, with 
the world inhabited by man, I may have 
intelligence for the private ear of the 
State’s College of Astronomers of far 
more importance than the details, how- 
ever wonderful, of the mere voyage 
which so happily concluded. This is, 
in fact, the case. I have much—very 


384 


much which it would give me the great- 
est pleasure to communicate. I have 
much to say of the climate of the 
_ planet; of its wonderful alternations of 
heat and cold; of unmitigated and burn- 
ing sunshine for one fortnight, and more 
than polar frigidity for the next; of a 
constant transfer of moisture, by distil- 
lation like that im vacuo, from the point 
beneath the sun to the point the farth- 
est from it; of a variable zone of 
running water; of the people them-~ 
selves; of their manners, customs, and 
political institutions; of their peculiar 
physical construction; of their ugliness; 
of their want of ears, those useless ap- 
pendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly 
modified; of their consequent ignorance 
of the use and properties of speech; 
of their substitute for speech in a singu- 
lar method of inter-communication; of 
the incomprehensible connection be- 
tween each particular individual in the 
moon with some particular individual 
on the earth—a connection analogous 
with, and depending upon, that of the 
otbs of the planet and the satellite, and 
by means of which the lives and desti- 
nies of the inhabitants of the one are 
interwoven with the lives and destinies 
of the inhabitants of the other; and 
above all, if it so please your Excel- 
lencies—above all, of those dark and 
hideous mysteries which lie in the outer 
regions of the moon—regions which, 
owing to the almost miraculous accord- 
ance of the satellite’s rotation on its 
own axis with its sidereal revolution 
about the earth, have never yet been 
turned, and, by God’s mercy, never 
shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the 
telescopes of man. All this, and more 
—much more—would I most willingly 
detail. But, to be brief, I must have 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


my reward. I am pining for a return 
to my family and to my home; and 
as the price of any farther communica- 
tion on my part—in consideration of 
the light which I have it in my power 
to throw upon many very important 
branches of physical and metaphysical 
science—I must solicit, through the in- 
fluence of your honorable body, a par- 
don for the crime of which I have been 
guilty in the death of the creditors upon 
my departure frora Rotterdam. This, 
then, is the object of the present paper. 
Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, 
whom I have prevailed upon, and prop- 
erly instructed, to be my messenger 
to the earth, will await your Excellen- 
cies’ pleasure, and return to me with 
the pardon in question, if it can, in 
any manner, be obtained. 

“I have the honor to be, etc., your 
Excellencies’ very humble servant, 

“HANS PFAALL.” 


Upon finishing the perusal of this 
very extraordinary document, Professor 
Rubadub, it is said, dropped his pipe 
upon the ground in the extremity of 
his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus 
Von Underduk having taken off his 
spectacles, wiped them, and deposited 
them in his pocket, so far forgot both 
himself and his dignity, as to turn 
round three times upon his heel in the 
quintessence of astonishment and ad- 
miration. There was no doubt about 
the matter—the pardon should be ob- 
tained. So at least swore, with a 
round oath, Professor Rubadub, and so 
finally thought the illustrious Von Un- 
derduk, as he took the arm of his 
brother in science, and without saying 
a word, began to make the best of his 
way home to deliberate upon the 


THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL 


measures to be adopted. Having 
reached the door, however, of the 
burgomaster’s dwelling, the professor 
ventured to suggest that as the mes- 
-senger had thought proper to disappear 
—no doubt frightened to death by the 
savage appearance of the burghers of 
Rotterdam—the pardon would be of 
little use, as no one but a man of the 
moon would undertake a voyage to so 
vast a distance. To the truth of this 
observation the burgomaster assented, 
and the matter was therefore at an 
end. Not so, however, rumors and 
speculations. The letter, having been 
published, gave rise to a variety of 
gossip and opinion. Some of the over- 
wise even made themselves ridiculous 
by decrying the whole business as noth- 
ing better than a hoax. But hoax, with 
these sort of people, is, I believe, a 
general term for all matters above their 
comprehension. For my part, I cannot 
conceive upon what data they have 
founded such an accusation. Let us 
see what they say: 

Imprimis. That certain wags in 
Rotterdam have certain especial antip- 
athies to certain burgomasters and 
astronomers. 

Secondly. That an odd little dwarf 
and bottle conjurer, both of whose 
ears, for some misdemeanor, have been 
cut off close to his head, has been miss- 
ing for several days from the neighbor- 
ing city of Bruges. 

Thirdly. That the newspapers which 
were stuck all over the little balloon 
were newspapers of Holland, and there- 
fore could not have been made in the 
moon. ‘They were dirty papers—very 
dirty—and Gluck, the printer, would 
take his Bible oath to their having been 
vrinted in Rotterdam. 


385 


Fourthly. That Hans Pfaall him- 
self, the drunken villain, and the three 
very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, 
were all seen, no longer than two or 
three days ago, in a tippling house in 
the suburbs, having just returned, with 
money in their pockets from a trip be- 
yond the sea. 

Lastly. That it is an opinion very 
generally received, or which ought to 
be generally received, that the College 
of Astronomers in the city of Rotter- 
dam, as well as all other colleges in all 
other parts of the world,—not to men- 
tion colleges and astronomers in gen- 
eral—are, to say the least of the 
matter, not a whit better, nor greater, 
nor wiser than they ought to be.* 


*There have been other “voyages to 
the moon,” but none of higher merit 
than the ‘““Moon-Story” of R. A. Locke. 
That of Bergerac is utterly meaning- 
less. In the third volume of the 
American Quarterly Review will be 
found an elaborate criticism upon a 
certain “Journey” of the kind in ques- 
tion:—a criticism in which it is diffi- 
cult to say whether the critic most 
exposes the stupidity of the book, or 
his own absurd ignorance of astronomy. 
I forget the title of the work; but the 
means of the voyage are more deplor- 
ably ill conceived than are even the 
ganzas of our friend the Signor Gon- 
zales. The adventurer, in digging the 
earth, happens to discover a peculiar 
metal for which the moon has a strong 
attraction, and straightway constructs 
of it a box, which? when cast loose 
from its terrestrial fastenings, flies with 
him, forthwith, to the satellite. The 
“Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is a jeu 
desprit not altogether contemptible, 


386 


and has been translated into German. 
Thomas, the hero, was, in fact, the 
game-keeper of an Irish peer, whose 
eccentricities gave rise to the tale. The 
“flight” is made on an eagle’s back, 
from Hungry Hill, a lofty mountain at 
the end of Bantry Bay. 

In these various brochures the aim 
is always satirical; the theme being a 
description of lLunarian customs as 
compared with ours. In none is there 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


any effort at plausibility in the details 
of the voyage itself. The writers seem, 
in each instance, to be utterly unin- 
formed in respect to astronomy. In 
“Hans Pfaall” the design is original, 
inasmuch as regards an attempt at 
verisimilitude, in the application of 
scientific principles (so far as the 
whimsical nature of the subject would 
permit), to the actual passage between 
the earth and the moon.—E, A. P. 


The Balloon-Hoax 


(Astounding News by Express, via Norfolk!—The Atlantic Crossed in Three 


Days! 


Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying Machine!—Arrival at 


Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, S. C., of Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, 
Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four others, in the Steering 
Balloon, ‘Victoria,’ after a Passage of Seventy-five Hours from Land to 


Land! 


Full Particulars of the Voyage! 


The subjoined jew d’esprit with the preceding heading in magnificent capitals, well 
interspersed with notes of admiration, was originally published, as matter of 
fact, in the New York Sun, a daily newspaper, and therein fully subserved 
the purpose of creating indigestible aliment for the quidnuncs during the few 
hours intervening between a couple of the Charleston mails. The rush for the 
“sole paper which had the news” was something beyond even the prodigious; 
and, in fact, if (as some assert) the “Victoria” did not absolutely accomplish 
the voyage recorded, it will be difficult to assign a reason why she should not 


have accomplished it—E. A. P.) 


THE great problem is at length 
solved! The air, as well as the earth 
and the ocean, has been subdued by 
science, and will become a common and 
convenient highway for mankind. The 
Atlantic has been actually crossed in a 
- Balloon! and this too without difficulty 
—without any great apparent danger— 
with thorough control of the machine— 
and in the inconceivably brief period of 
seventy-five hours from shore to shore! 
By the energy of an agent at Charles- 


ton, S. C., we are enabled to be the 
first to furnish the public with a de- 
tailed account of this most extraordi- 
nary voyage, which was performed be- 
tween Saturday, the 6th instant, at 11 
A. M. and 2 P. M., on Tuesday, the 9th 
instant, by Sir Everard Bringhurst; 
Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Ben- 
tinck’s; Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. 
Robert Holland, the well-known aero- 
nauts; Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, author 
of “Jack Sheppard,” etc.; and Mr. 


| 


| 





THE BALLOON-HOAX 


Henson, the projector of the late un- 
successful flying machine—with two 
seamen from Woolwich—in all, eight 
persons. The particulars furnished be- 
low may be relied on as authentic and 
accurate in every respect, as, with a 
slight exception, they are copied ver- 
batim from the joint diaries of Mr. 
Monck Mason and Mr. Harrison Ains- 
worth, to whose politeness our agent is 
also indebted for much verbal informa- 
tion respecting the balloon itself, its 
construction, and other matters of in- 
terest. The only alteration in the MS. 


-received, has been made for the pur- 


pose of throwing the hurried account 
of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a con- 
hected and intelligible form. 


THE RALLOON 


“Two very decided failures, of late, 
—those of Mr. Henson and Sir George 
Cayley,—had niuch weakened the pub- 
lic interest in the subject of aerial 
navigation. Mr. MHenson’s scheme 
(which at first was considered very 
feasible even by men of science) was 
founded upon the principle of an in- 
clined plane, started from an eminence 
by an extrinsic force, applied and con- 
tinued by the revolution of impinging 
vanes, in form and number resembling 
the vanes of a windmill. But, in all the 
experiments made with models at the 
Adelaide Gallery, it was found that 
the operation of these fans not only 
did not propel the machine, but actu- 
ally impeded its flight. The only pro- 
pelling force it ever exhibited, was the 
mere impetus acquired from the de- 
scent of the inclined plane; and this 
impetus carried the machine farther 
when the vanes were at rest, than when 


387 


they were in motion—a fact which 
sufficiently demonstrates their inutility; 
and in the absence of the propelling, 
which was also the sustaining, power, 
the whole fabric would necessarily 
descend. This consideration led Sir 
George Cayley to think only of adapt- 
ing a propeller to some machine having 
of itself an independent power of sup- 
port—in a word, to a balloon; the idea, 
however, being novel, or original, with 
Sir George, only so far as regards the 
mode of its application to practice. He 
exhibited a model of his invention at 
the Polytechnic Institution. The pro- 
pelling principle, or power, was here, 
also, applied to interrupted surfaces, or 
vanes, put in revolution. These vanes 
were four in number, but were found 
entirely ineffectual in moving the bal- 
loon, or in aiding its ascending power. 
The whole project was thus a complete 
failure. 

“Tt was at this juncture that Mr. 
Monck Mason (whose voyage from 
Dover to Weilburg in the balloon ‘Nas- 
sau’ occasioned so much excitement in 
1837) conceived the idea of employing 
the principle of the Archimedean screw 
for the purpose of propulsion through 
the air—rightly attributing the failure 
of Mr. Henson’s scheme, and of Sir 
George Cayley’s to the interruption of 
surface in the independent vanes. He 
made the first public experiment at 
Willis’s Rooms, but afterward removed 
his model to the Adelaide Gallery. 

“Like Sir George Cayley’s balloon, - 
his own was an ellipsoid. Its length 
was thirteen feet six inches—height, 
six feet eight inches. It contained 
about three hundred and twenty cubic 
feet of gas, which, if pure hydrogen, 
would support twenty-one pounds upon 


388 


its first inflation, before the gas has 
time to deteriorate or escape. The 
weight of the whole machine and appa- 
ratus was seventeen pounds—leaving 
about four pounds to spare. Beneath 
the centre of the balloon, was a frame 
of light wood, about nine feet long, and 
rigged on to the balloon itself with a 
network in the customary manner. 
From this framework was suspended 
a wicker basket or car. 

“The screw consists of an axis of 
hollow brass tube, eighteen inches in 
length, through which, upon a semi- 
spiral inclined at fifteen degrees, pass a 
series of steel-wire radii, two feet long, 
and thus projecting a foot on either 
side. These radii are connected at the 
outer extremities by two bands of flat- 
tened wire—the whole in this manner 
forming the framework of the screw, 
which is completed by a covering of 
oiled silk cut into gores, and tightened 
so as to present a tolerably uniform 
surface. At each end of its axis this 
screw is supported by pillars of hollow 
brass tube descending from the hoop. 
In the lower ends of these tubes are 
holes in which the pivots of the axis 
revolve. From the end of the axis 
which is next the car, proceeds a shaft 
of steel, connecting the screw with the 
pinion of a piece of spring machinery 
fixed in the car. By the operation of 
this spring, the screw is made to re- 
volve with great rapidity, communi- 
cating a progressive motion to the 
whole. By means of the rudder, the 
machine was readily turned in any di- 
rection. The spring was of great power, 
compared with its dimensions, being 
capable of raising forty-five pounds 
upon a barrel of four inches diameter, 
after the first turn, and gradually in- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


creasing as it was wound up. It 
weighed, altogether, eight pounds six 
ounces. The rudder was a light frame 
of cane covered with silk, shaped some- 
what like a battledoor, and was about 
three feet long, and at the widest, one 
foot. Its weight was about two ounces. 
It could be turned flat, and directed 
upward or downward, as well as to the 
right or left; and thus enabled the aero- 
naut to transfer the resistance of the 
air which in an inclined position it 
must generate in its passage, to any 
side upon which he might desire to act; 
thus determining the balloon in the. 
opposite direction. 

“This model (which, through want 
of time, we have necessarily described 
in an imperfect manner) was put in 
action at the Adelaide Gallery, where 
it accomplished a velocity of five miles 
per hour; although, strange to say, it 
excited very little interest in compari- 
son with the previous complex machine 
of Mr. Henson—so resolute is the 
world to despise anything which carries 
with it an air of simplicity. To accom- 
plish the great desideratum of aerial 
navigation, it was very generally sup- 
posed that some exceedingly compli- 
cated application must be made of 
some unusually profound principle in 
dynamics. 

‘So well satisfied, however, was Mr. 
Mason of the ultimate success of his 
invention, that he determined to con- 
struct immediately, if possible, a bal- 
loon of sufficient capacity to test the 
question by a voyage of some extent— 
the original design being to cross the 
British Channel, as before, in the Nas- 
sau balloon. To carry out his views, 
he solicited and obtained the patronage 
of Sir Everard Bringhurst and Mr. 








THE BALLOON-HOAX 


Osborne, two gentlemen well known 
for scientific acquirement, and _ espe- 
cially for the interest they have ex- 
hibited in the progress of aerostation. 
The project, at the desire of Mr. Os- 
borne, was kept a profound secret from 
the public—the only persons entrusted 
with the design being those actually 
engaged in the construction of the 
machine, which was built (under the 
superintendence of Mr. Mason, Mr. 
Holland, Sir Everard Bringhurst, and 
Mr. Osborne) at the seat of the latter 
gentleman near Penstruthal, in Wales. 
Mr. Henson, accompanied by his friend 
Mr. Ainsworth, was admitted to a pri- 
vate view of the balloon, on Saturday 
last—when the two gentlemen made 
final arrangements to be included in the 
adventure. We are not informed for 
what reason the two seamen were also 
included in the party—but, in the 
course of a day or two, we shall put 
our readers in possession of the 
minutest particulars respecting this 
extraordinary voyage. 

“The balloon is composed of silk, 
varnished with the liquid gum caout- 
chouc. It is of vast dimensions, con- 
taining more than 40,000 cubic feet of 
gas; but as coal-gas was employed in 
place of the more expensive and incon- 
venient hydrogen, the supporting power 
of the machine, when fully inflated, and 
immediately after inflation, is not more 
than about 2500 pounds. The coal-gas 
is not only much less costly, but is 
easily procured and managed. 

“For its introduction into common 
use for purposes of aerostation, we are 
indebted to Mr. Charles Green. Up 
to his discovery, the process of infla- 
tion was not only exceedingly expen- 
sive, but uncertain. Two and even 


389 


three days have frequently been wasted 
in futile attempts to procure a suffi- 
ciency of hydrogen to fill a balloon, 
from which it had great tendency to 
escape, owing to its extreme subtlety, 
and its affinity for the surrounding at- 
mosphere. In a balloon sufficiently per- 
fect to retain its contents of coal-gas 
unaltered, in quantity or amount, for 
six months, an equal quantity of hydro- 
gen could not be maintained in equal 
purity for six weeks. 

“The supporting power being  esti- 
mated at 2500 pounds, and the united 
weights of the party amounting only 
to about 1200, there was left a surplus 
of 1300, of which again 1200 was ex- 
hausted by ballast, arranged in bags of 
different sizes, with their respective 
weights marked upon them—by cord- 
age, barometers, telescopes, barrels 
containing provision for a fortnight, 
water-casks, cloaks, carpet-bags, and 
various other indispensable matters, 
including a coffee-warmer, contrived 
for warming coffee by means of slack- 
lime, so as to dispense altogether with 
fire, if it should be judged prudent to 
do so. All these articles, with the ex- 
ception of the ballast, and a few trifles, 
were suspended from the hoop over- 
head. The car is much smaller and 
lighter, in proportion, than the one ap- 
pended to the model. It is formed of 
a light wicker, and is wonderfully 
strong, for so frail-looking a machine. 
Its rim is about four feet deep. The 
rudder is also very much larger, in pro- 
portion, than that of the model; and 
the screw is considerably smaller. The 
balloon is furnished besides with a 
grapnel, and a guide-rope; which latter 
is of the most indispensable impor- 
tance. A few words, in explanation, 


390 


will here be necessary for such of our 
readers as are not conversant with the 
details of aerostation. 

“As soon as the balloon quits the 
earth, it is subjected to the influence 
of many circumstances tending to cre- 
ate a difference in its weight; augment- 
ing or diminishing its ascending power. 
For example, there may be a deposition 
of dew upon the silk, to the extent, 
even, of several hundred pounds; bal- 
last has then to be thrown out, or the 
machine may descend. This _ ballast 
being discarded, and a clear sunshine 
evaporating the dew, and at the same 
time expanding the gas in the silk, the 
whole will again rapidly ascend. To 
check this ascent, the only recourse is 
(or rather was, until Mr. Green’s in- 
vention of the guide-rope) the permis- 
sion of the escape of gas from the 
valve; but, in the loss of gas, is a 
proportionate general loss of ascending 
power; so that, in a comparatively 
brief period, the best-constructed bal- 
loon must necessarily exhaust all its 
resources, and come to the earth. This 
was the great obstacle to voyages of 
length. 

“The guide-rope remedies the diffi- 
culty in the simplest manner conceiv- 
able. It is merely a very long rope 
which is suffered to trail from the car, 
and the effect of which is to prevent 
the balloon from changing its level in 
any material degree. If, for example, 
there should be a deposition of mois- 
ture upon the silk, and the machine 
begins to descend in consequence, there 
will be no necessity for discharging bal- 
last to remedy the increase of weight, 
for it is remedied, or counteracted, in 
an exactly just proportion, by the de- 
posit on the ground of just so much of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the end of the rope as is necessary. 
If, on the other hand, any circum- 
stances should cause undue levity, and 
consequent ascent, this levity is imme- 
diately counteracted by the additional 
weight of rope upraised from the earth. 
Thus, the balloon can neither ascend 
nor descend, except within very narrow 
limits, and its resources, either in gas 
or ballast, remain comparatively unim- 
paired. When passing over an expanse 
of water, it becomes necessary to em- 
ploy small kegs of copper or wood, 
filled with liquid ballast of a lighter 
nature than water. These float, and 
serve all the purposes of a mere rope 
on land. Another mest important office 
of the guide-rope, is to point out the 
direction of the balloon. The rope 
drags, either on land or sea, while the 
balloon is free; the latter, consequently, 
is always in advance, when any prog- 
ress whatever is made: a comparison, 
therefore, by means of the compass, of 
the relative positions of the two ob- 
jects, will always indicate the course. 
In the same way, the angle formed by 
the rope with the vertical axis of the 
machine, indicates the velocity. When 
there is xo angle—in other words, when 
the rope hangs perpendicularly, the 
whole apparatus is stationary; but the 
larger the angle, that is to say, the 
farther the balloon precedes the end 
of the rope, the greater the velocity; 
and the converse. 

“As the original design was to cross 
the British Channel, and alight as near 
Paris as possible, the voyagers had 
taken the precaution to prepare them- 
selves with passports directed to all 
parts of the Continent, specifying the 
nature of the expedition, as in the case 
of the ‘Nassau’ voyage, and entitling 


THE BALLOON-HOAX 


the adventurers to exemption from the 
usual formalities of office; unexpected 
events, however, rendered these pass- 
ports superfluous. 

“The inflation was commenced very 
quietly at day-break, on Saturday 
morning, the 6th instant, in the court- 
yard of Wheal-Vor House, Mr. Os- 
borne’s seat, about a mile from Pen- 
struthal, in North Wales; and at seven 
minutes past eleven, everything being 
ready for departure, the balloon was set 
free, rising gently but steadily, in a 
direction nearly south; no use being 
made, for the first half hour, of either 
the screw or the rudder. We proceed 
now with the journal, as transcribed by 
Mr. Forsyth from the joint MSS. of 
Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Ainsworth. 
The body of the journal, as given, is 
in the handwriting of Mr. Mason, and 
a P. S. is appended, each day, by Mr. 
Ainsworth, who has in preparation, and 
will shortly give the public a more 
minute and, no doubt, a thrillingly in- 
teresting account of the voyage. 


THE JOURNAL 


“Saturday, April the 6oth—Every 
preparation likely to embarrass us hav- 
ing been made overnight, we com- 
menced the inflation this morning at 
daybreak; but owing to a thick fog, 
which encumbered the folds of the silk 
and rendered it unmanageable, we did 
not get through before nearly eleven 
o'clock. Cut loose, then, in high spirits, 
and rose gently but steadily, with a 
light breeze at north, which bore us in 
the direction of the British Channel. 
Found the ascending force greater than 
we had expected; and as we arose 
higher and so got clear of the cliffs, 


391 


and more in the sun’s rays, our ascent 
became very rapid. I did not wish, 
however, to lose gas at so early a 
period of the adventure, and so con- 
cluded to ascend for the present. We 
soon ran out our guide-rope; but even 
when we had raised it clear of the 
earth, we still went up. very rapidly. 
The balloon was unusually steady, and 
looked beautifully. In about ten min- 
utes after starting, the barometer indi- 
cated an altitude of 15,000 feet. The 
weather was remarkably fine, and the 
view of the subjacent country—a most 
romantic one when seen from any point 
—was now especially sublime. The 
numerous deep gorges presented the 
appearance of lakes, on account of the 
dense vapors with which they were 
filled, and the pinnacles and crags to 
the east, piled in inextricable confu- 
sion, resembling nothing so much as 
the giant cities of Eastern fable. We 
were rapidly approaching the moun. 
tains in the south, but our elevation 
was more than sufficient to enable us to 
pass them in safety. In a few minutes 
we soared over them in fine style; and 
Mr. Ainsworth, with the seamen, was 
surprised at their apparent want of 
altitude when viewed from the car, the 
tendency of great elevation in a balloon 
being to reduce inequalities of the sur- 
face below, to nearly a dead level. At 
half-past eleven still proceeding nearly 
south, we obtained our first view of the 
Bristol Channel; and, in fifteen minutes 
afterward, the line of breakers on the 
coast appeared immediately beneath us, 
and we were fairly out at sea. We 
now resolved to let off enough gas to 
bring our guide-rope, with the buoys 
affixed, into the water. This was im- 
mediately done, and we commenced a 


392 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


gradual descent. In about twenty min- 
utes our first buoy dipped, and at the 
touch of the second soon afterward, we 
remained stationary as to elevation. 
We were all now anxious to test the 
efficiency of the rudder and screw, and 
we put them both into requisition 
forthwith, for the purpose of altering 
our direction more to the eastward, 
and in a line for Paris. By means of 
the rudder we instantly effected the 
necessary change of direction, and our 
course was brought nearly at right 
angles to that of the wind; when we 
set in motion the spring of the screw, 
and were rejoiced to find it propel us 
readily as desired. Upon this we gave 
nine hearty cheers, and dropped in the 
sea a bottle, inclosing a slip of parch- 
ment with a brief account of the prin- 
ciple of the invention. Hardly, how- 
ever, had we done with our rejoicings, 
when an unforeseen accident occurred 
which discouraged us in no little de- 
gree. The steel rod connecting the 
spring with the propeller was suddenly 
jerked out of place, at the car end, 
(by a swaying of the car through some 
movement of one of the two seamen 
we had taken up,) and in an instant 
hung dangling out of reach, from the 
pivot of the axis of the screw. While 
we were endeavoring to regain it, our 
attention being completely . absorbed, 
we became involved in a strong current 
of wind from the east, which bore us, 
with rapidly increasing force, toward 
the Atlantic. We soon found ourselves 
driving out to sea at the rate of not 
less, certainly, than fifty or sixty miles 
an hour, so that we came up with Cape 
Clear, at some forty miles to our north, 
before we had secured the rod, and had 
time to think what we were about. It 


was now that Mr. Ainsworth made ai 
extraordinary but, to my fancy, a by 
no means unreasonable or chimerical 
proposition, in which he was instantly 
seconded by Mr. Holland—viz.: that 
we should take advantage of the strong 
gale which bore us on, and in place of 
beating back to Paris, make an attempt 
to reach the coast of North America. 
After slight reflection, I gave a willing 
assent to this bold proposition, which 
(strange to say) met with objection 
from the two seamen only. As the 
stronger party, however, we overruled 
their fears, and kept resolutely upon 
our course. We steered due west; but 
as the trailing of the buoys materially 
impeded our progress, and we had ‘he 
balloon abundantly at command, @ither 
for ascent or descent, we first threw 
out fifty pounds of ballast, and then 
wound up (by means of a windlass) so 
much of the rope as brought it quite 
clear of the sea. We perceived the 
effect of this manceuvre immediately, 
in a vastly increased rate of progress; 
and, as the gale freshened, we flew with 
a velocity nearly inconceivable; the 
guide-rope flying out behind the car, 
like a streamer from a vessel. It is 
needless to say that a very short time 
sufficed us to lose sight of the coast. 
We passed over innumerable vessels of 
all kinds, a few of which were en- 
deavoring to beat up, but the most of 
them lying to. We occasioned the 
greatest excitement on board all—an 
excitement greatly relished by our- 
selves, and especially by our two men, 
who, now under the influence of a dram 
of Geneva, seemed resolved to give all 
scruple, or fear, to the wind. Many of 
the vessels fired signal guns; and in 
all we were saluted with loud cheers 


THE BALLOON-HOAX 


(which we heard with surprising dis- 
tinctness) and the waving of caps and 
handkerchiefs. We kept on in this 
manner throughout the day with no 
material incident, and, as the shades 
of night closed around us, we made 
a rough estimate of the distance trav- 
ersed. It could not have been less than 
five hundred miles, and was probably 
much more. The propeller was kept 
in constant operation, and, no doubt, 
aided our progress materially. As the 
sun went down, the gale freshened into 
an absolute hurricane, and the ocean 
beneath was clearly visible on account 
of its phosphorescence. The wind was 
from the east all night, and gave us 
the brightest omen of success. We 
suffered no little from cold, and the 
dampness of the atmosphere was most 
unpleasant; but the ample space in the 
car enabled us to lie down, and by 
means of cloaks and a few blankets we 
did sufficiently well. 


“P. S. [by Mr. Ainsworth.] The 


last nine hours have been unquestion- . 


ably the most exciting of my life. I 
can conceive nothing more sublimating 
than the strange peril and novelty of 
an adventure such as this. May God 
grant that we succeed! I ask not suc- 
cess for mere safety to my _ insignifi- 
cant person, but for the sake of human 
knowledge and—for the vastness of the 
triumph. And yet the feat is only so 
evidently feasible that the sole wonder 
is why men have scrupled to attempt 
it before. One single gale such as now 
befriends us—let such a tempest whirl 
forward a balloon for four or five days 
(these gales often last longer) and the 
voyager will be easily borne, in that 
period, from coast to coast. In view 
of such a gale the broad Atlantic be- 


393 


comes a mere lake. I am more struck, 
just now, with the supreme silence 
which reigns in the sea beneath us, 
notwithstanding its agitation, than with 
any other phenomenon presenting itself. 
The waters give up no voice to the 
heavens. The immense flaming ocean 
writhes and is tortured uncomplain- 
ingly. The mountainous surges suggest 
the idea of innumerable dumb gigantic 
fiends struggling in impotent agony. In 
a night such as is this to me, a man 
liives—lives a whole century of ordi~ 
nary life—nor would I forego this 
rapturous delight for that of a whole 
century of ordinary existence. 
“Sunday, the 7th. [Mr. Mason’s 
MS.] This morning the gale, by ten, 
had subsided to an eight- or nine-knot 
breeze (for a vessel at sea), and bears 
us, perhaps, thirty miles per hour, or 
more. It has veered, nowever, very 
considerably to the north; and now, at 
sundown, we are holding our course 
due west, principally by the screw and 
rudder, which answer their purposes to 
admiration. JI regard the project as 
thoroughly successful, and the easy 
navigation of the air in any direction 
(not exactly in the teeth of a gale) as 
no longer problematical. We could not 
have made hedd against the strong 
wind of yesterday; but, by ascending, 
we might have got out of its influence, 
if requisite. Against a pretty stiff 
breeze; I feel convinced, we can make 
our way with the propeller. At noon, 
to-day, ascended to an elevation of 
nearly 25,000 feet, by discharging bal- 
last. Did this to search for a more 
direct current, but found none so fa- 
vorable as the one we are now in. 
We have an abundance of gas to take 
us across this small pond, even should 


394 


the voyage last three weeks. I have 
not the slightest fear for the result. 
The difficulty has been strangely exag- 
gerated and misapprehended. I can 
choose my current, and should I find 
all currents against me, I can make 
very tolerable headway with the pro- 


peller. We have had no _ incidents 
worth recording. The night promises 
fair. 


“P. S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] 1 have 
little to record, except the fact (to 
me quite a surprising one) that, at an 
elevation equal to that of Cotopaxi, I 
experienced neither very intense cold, 
nor headache, nor difficulty of breath- 
ing; neither, I find, did Mr. Mason, 
nor Mr. Holland, nor Sir Everard. Mr. 
Osborne complained of constriction of 
the chest—but this soon wore off. We 
have flown at a great rate during the 
day, and we must be more than half 
way across the Atlantic. We have 
passed over some twenty or thirty ves- 
sels of various kinds, and all seem to 
be delightfully astonished. Crossing 
the ocean in a balloon is not so difft- 
cult a feat after all. Omne ignotum 
pro magnifico. Mem.: at 25,000 feet 
elevation the sky appears nearly black, 
and the stars are distinctly visible; 
while the sea does not*seem convex (as 
one might suppose) but absolutely and 
most unequivocally concave.* 


*“Mr, Ainsworth has not attempted 
to account for this phenomenon, which, 
however, is quite susceptible of expla- 
nation. A line dropped from an eleva- 
tion of 25,000 feet, perpendicularly to 
the surface of the earth (or sea), would 
form the perpendicular of a right- 
angled triangle, of which the _ base 
would extend from the right angle to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“Monday, the 8th. [Mr. Mason’s 
MS.] This morning we had again 
some little trouble with the rod of the 
propeller, which must be entirely re- 
modelled, for fear of serious accident— 
I mean the steel rod, not the vanes. 
The latter could not be improved. The 
wind has been blowing steadily and 
strongly from the northeast all day; 
and so far fortune seems bent upon 
favoring us. Just before day, we were 
all somewhat alarmed at some odd 
noises and concussions in the balloon, 
accompanied with the apparent rapid 
subsidence of the whole machine. 
These phenomena were occasioned by 
the expansion of the gas, througn in- 
crease of heat in the atmosphere, and 
the consequent disruption of the minute 
particles of ice with which the network 


the horizon, and the hypothenuse from 


the horizon to the balloon. But the 
25,000 feet of altitude is little or noth- 
ing, in comparison with the extent of 
the prospect. In other words, the base 
and hypothenuse of the supposed tri- 
angle would be so long, when compared 
with the perpendicular, that the two 
former may be regarded as_ nearly 
parallel. In this manner the horizon 
of the aeronaut would appear to be 
on a level with the car. But, as the 
point immediately beneath him seems, 
and is, at a great distance below him, 
it seems, of course, also, at a great 
distance below the horizon. Hence the 
impression of concavity; and this im- 
pression must remain, until the eleva- 
tion shall bear so great a proportion to 
the extent of prospect, that the appar- 
ent parallelism of the base and hy- 
pothenuse disappears—when the earth’s 
real convexity must become apparent. 


> 


THE BALLOON-HOAX 


had become encrusted during the night. 
Threw down several: bottles to the ves- 
sels below. See one of them picked 
up by a large ship—seemingly one of 
the New York line packets. Endeav- 
ored to make out her name, but could 
not be sure of it. Mr. Osborne’s tele- 
scope made it out something like ‘Ata- 
lanta.’ It is now twelve at night, and 
we are still going nearly west, at a 
rapid pace. The sea is_ peculiariy 
phosphorescent. 

“P. S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] It is 
now two A. M., and nearly calm, as 
well as I can judge—but it is very 
difficult to determine this point, since 
we move with the air so completely. 
I have not slept since quitting Wheal- 


Vor, but can stand it no longer, and 


must take a nap. We cannot be far 
from the American coast. 

“Tuesday, the 9th. [Mr. Ains- 
worth’s MS.] One, Pp. M. We are in 
full view of the low coast of South 
Carolina. The great problem is accom- 
plished. We have crossed the Atlantic 
—fairly and easily crossed it in a bal- 
loon! God be praised! Who shall say 
that anything is impossible hereafter?” 


The Journal here ceases. Some par- 
ticulars of the descent were communi- 
cated, however, by Mr. Ainsworth to 
Mr. Forsyth. It was nearly dead calm 
when the voyagers first came in view 
of the coast, which was immediately 
recognized by both the seamen, and by 


395 


Mr. Osborne. The latter gentleman 
having acquaintances at Fort Moultrie, 
it was immediately resolved to descend 
in its vicinity. The balloon was brought 
over the beach (the tide being out and 
the sand hard, smooth, and admirably 
adapted for a descent), and the grap- 
nel let go, which took firm hold at 
once. The inhabitants of the island, 
and of the fort, thronged out, of 
course, to see the balloon; but it was 
with the greatest difficulty that any one 
could be made to credit the actual 
voyage—the crossing of the Atlantic. 
The grapnel caught at two P. M. pre- 
cisely; and thus the whole voyage was 
completed in seventy-five hours; or 
rather less, counting from shore to 
shore. No serious accident occurred. 
No real danger was at any time appre- 
hended. The balloon was exhausted 
and secured without trouble; and when 
the MS. from which this narrative is 
compiled was despatched from Charles- 
ton, the party were still at Fort Moul- 
trie. Their further intentions were not 
ascertained; but we can safely promise 
our readers some additional informa- 
tion either on Monday or in the course 
of the next day, at furthest. 

This is unquestionably the most 
stupendous, the most interesting, and 
the most important undertaking ever 
accomplished or even attempted by 
man. What magnificent events may 
ensue, it would be useless now to think 
of determining. 


Mellonta Lauta 


(This tale was published in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Mellonta Tauta are two Greek 


words meaning “‘Things of the Future.” 


Poe.—Ed.) 


The idea is a great favorite of 


ON BOARD BALLOON “SKYLARK,” APRIL 1, 2848. 


Now, my dear friend—now, for your 
sins, you are to suffer the infliction of 
a long gossiping letter. I tell you dis- 
tinctly that I am going to punish you 
for all your impertinences by being as 
tedious, as discursive, as incoherent, 
and as unsatisfactory as possible. Be- 
sides, here I am, cooped up in a dirty 
balloon, with some one or two hundred 
of the canaille, all bound on a Pleasure 
excursion, (what a funny idea some 
people have of pleasure!) and I have 
no prospect of touching terra firma for 
a month at least. Nobody to talk to. 
Nothing to do. When one has nothing 
to do, then is the time to correspond 
with one’s friends. You perceive, then, 
why it is that I write you this letter— 
it is on account of my ennut and your 
sins, 

Get ready your spectacles and make 
up your mind to be annoyed. I mean 
to write at you every day during this 
odious voyage. 

Heigho! when will any Jnvention 
visit the human pericranium? Are we 
forever to be doomed to the thousand 
inconveniences of the balloon? Will 
nobody contrive a more expeditious 
mode of progress? ‘The jog-trot move- 
ment, to my thinking, is little less than 
positive torture. Upon my word we 
have not made more than a hundred 
miles the hour since leaving home! 


The very birds beat us—at least some 
of them. I assure you that I do not 
exaggerate at all. Our motion, no 
doubt, seems slower than it actually is 
—this on account of our having no 
objects about us by which to estimate 
our velocity, and on account of our 
going with the wind. To be sure, when- 
ever we meet a balloon we have a 


chance of perceiving our rate, and then, 


I admit, things do not appear so very 
bad. Accustomed as I am to this mode 
of travelling, I cannot get over a kind 
of giddiness whenever a balloon passes 
us in a current directly overhead. It 
always seems to me like an immense 
bird of prey about to pounce upon us 
and carry us off in its claws. One went 
over us this morning about sunrise, and 
so nearly overhead that its drag-rope 
actually brushed the network suspend- 
ing our car, and caused us very serious 
apprehension. Our captain said that if 
the material of the bag had been the 
trumpery varnished “‘silk” of five hun- 
dred or a thousand years ago, we should 
inevitably have been damaged. This 
silk, as he explained it to me, was a 
fabric composed of the entrails of a 
species of earth-worm. The worm was 
carefully fed on mulberries—a kind of 
fruit resembling a watermelon—and, 
when sufficiently fat, was crushed in 
a mill. The paste thus arising was 


396 


| 


MELLONTA TAUTA 


called papyrus in its primary state, and 
went through a variety of processes 
until it finally became “silk.” Singular 
to relate, it was once much admired 
as an article of female dress! Bal- 
_ loons were also very generally con- 
structed from it. A better kind of 
material, it appears, was subsequently 
found in the down surrounding the 
seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called 
euphorbium, and at that time botan- 
ically termed milk-weed. This latter 
kind of silk was designated as silk- 
buckingham, on account of its superior 
durability, and was usually prepared for 
use by being varnished with a solution 
of gum caoutchouc—a substance which 
in some respects must have resembled 
the guttapercha now in common use. 
This caoutchouc was occasionally called 
Indian rubber or rubber of twist, and 
was no doubt one of the numerous 
fungi. Never tell me again that I am 
not at heart an antiquarian. 

Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it 
seems, has this moment knocked a man 
overboard from one of the small mag- 
netic propellers that swarm in ocean 
below us—a boat of about six thousand 
tons, and, from all accounts, shame- 
fully crowded. These diminutive 
barques should be prohibited from car- 
rying more than a definite number of 
passengers. ‘The man, of course, was 
not permitted to get on board again, 
and was soon out of sight, he and his 
life-preserver. I rejoice, my dear 
friend, that we live in an age so en- 
lightened that no such a thing as an 
individual is supposed to exist. It is 
the mass for which the true Humanity 
cares. By-the-by, talking of Humanity, 
do you know that our immortal Wig- 
gins is not so original in his views of 


397 


the Social Condition and so forth, as 
his contemporaries are inclined to sup- 
pose? Pundit assures me that the same 
ideas were put nearly in the same way, 
about ‘a thousand years ago, by an 
Irish philosopher called Furrier, on ac- 
count of his keeping a retail shop for 
cat peltries and other furs. Pundit 
knows, you know; there can be no mis- 
take about it. How very wonderfully 
do we see verified every day, the pro- 
found observation of the Hindoo Aries 
Tottle (as quoted by Pundit)—‘Thus 
must we say that, not once or twice, or 
a few times, but with almost infinite 
repetitions, the same opinions came 
round in a circle among men.” 

April 2d.—Spoke to-day the magnetic 
cutter in charge of the middle section 
of floating telegraph wires. I learn 
that when this species of telegraph was 
first put into operation by Horse, it 
was considered quite impossible to con- 
vey the wires over sea, but now we are 
at a loss to comprehend where the diffi- 
culty lay! So wags the world. Tem- 
pora mutantur—excuse me for quoting 
the Etruscan. What would we do with- 
out the Atlantic telegraph? (Pundit 
says Atlantic was the ancient adjec- 
tive.) We lay to a few minutes to ask 
the cutter some questions, and learned, 
among other glorious news, that civil 
war is raging in Africa, while the plague 
is doing its good work beautifully both 
in Yurope and Ayesher. Is it not truly 
remarkable that, before the magnificent 
light shed upon philosophy by Human- 
ity, the world was accustomed to re- 
gard War and Pestilence as calamities? 
Do you know that prayers were actu- 
ally offered up in the ancient temples 
to the end that these evils (!) might 
not be visited upon mankind? Is it 


398 


not really difficult to comprehend upon 
what principle of interest our fore- 
fathers acted? Were they so blind as 
not to perceive that the destruction 
of a myriad of individuals is only so 
much positive advantage to the mass! 
April 3d—lIt is really a very fine 
amusement to ascend the rope-ladder 
leading to the summit of the balloon- 
bag, and thence survey the surrounding 
world. From the car below you know 
the prospect is not so comprehensive— 
you can see little vertically. But 
seated here (where I write this) in the 
luxuriously-cushioned open piazza of 
the summit, one can see every thing 
that is going on in all directions. Just 
now there is quite a crowd of balloons 
in sight, and they present a very ani- 
mated appearance, while the air is re- 
sonant with the hum of so many mill- 
ions of human voices. I have heard it 
asserted that when Yellow or (Pundit 
will have it) Violet, who is supposed to 
have been the first zronaut, maintained 
the practicability of traversing the at- 
mosphere in all directions, by merely 
ascending or descending until a favor- 
able current was attained, he was 
scarcely hearkened to at all by his con- 
temporaries, who looked upon him as 
merely an ingenious sort of madman, 
because the philosophers (!) of the 
day declared the thing impossible. 
Really now it does seem to me quite 
unaccountable how any thing so ob- 
viously feasible could have escaped the 
sagacity of the ancient savans. But in 
all ages the great obstacles to advance- 
ment in Art have been opposed by the 
so-called men of science. To be sure, 
our men of science are not quite so 
bigoted as those of old:—oh, I have 
something so queer to tell you on this 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


topic. Do you know that it is not 
more than a thousand years ago since 
the metaphysicians consented to relieve 
the people of the singular fancy that 
there existed but two possible roads for 
the attainment of Truth! Believe it 
if you can! It appears that long, long 
ago, in the night of Time, there lived 
a Turkish philosopher (or Hindoo pos- 
sibly) called Aries Tottle. This per- 
son introduced, or at all events propa- 
gated what was termed the deductive 
or a priort mode of investigation. He 
started with what he maintained to be 
axioms or “self-evident truths,” and 
thence proceeded “logically” to results. 
His greatest disciples were one Neuclid, 
and one Cant. Well, Aries Tottle flour- 
ished supreme until advent of one Hog, 
surnamed the “Ettrick Shepherd,’ who 
preached an entirely different system, 
which he called the a posteriori or in- 
ductive. His plan referred altogether 
to Sensation. He proceeded by observ- 
ing, analyzing, and classifying facts— 
instantice nature, as they were affect- 
edly called—into general laws. Aries 
Tottle’s mode, in a word, was based on 
noumena; Hog’s on phenomena Well, 
so great was the admiration excited by 
this latter system that, at its first in- 
troduction, Aries Tottle fell into dis- 
repute; but finally he recovered ground 
and was permitted to divide the realm 
of Truth with his more modern rival. 
The savans now maintained the Aris- 
totelian and Baconian roads were the 
sole possible avenues to knowledge. 
“Baconian,” you must know, was an 
adjective invented as equivalent to 
Hog-ian and more euphonious and dig- 
nified. 

Now, my dear friend, I do assure 
you, most positively, that I represent 


MELLONTA TAUTA 


this matter fairly, on the soundest au- 
thority; and you can easily understand 
how a notion so absurd on its very face 
must have operated to retard the prog- 
ress of all true knowledge—which 
makes its advances almost invariably by 
intuitive bounds. The ancient idea 
confined investigations to crawling; 
and for hundreds of years so great was 
the infatuation about Hog especially, 
that a virtual end was put to all think- 
ing, properly so called. No man dared 
utter a truth to which he felt himself 
indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered 
not whether the truth was even demon- 
strably a truth, for the bullet-headed 
savans of the time regarded only the 
road by which he had attained it. They 
would not even Jook at the end. “Let 
us see the means,” they cried, ‘the 
means!” If, upon investigation of the 
means, it was found to come under 
neither the category Aries (that is to say 
Ram) nor under the category Hog, why 
then the savans went no farther, but 
pronounced the “theorist” a fool, and 


would have nothing to do with him or 


his truth. 

Now, it cannot be maintained, even, 
that by the crawling system the great- 
est amount of truth would be attained 
in any long series of ages, for the re- 
pression of imagination was an evil 
not to be compensated for by any 
superior certainty in the ancient modes 
of investigation. The error of these 
Jurmains, these Vrinch, these Inglitch, 
and these Amriccans (the latter, by the 
way, were our own immediate pro- 
genitors), was an error quite analogous 
with that of the wiseacre who fancies 
that he must necessarily see an object 
the better the more closely he holds 
it to his eyes. These people blinded 


399 


themselves by details. When they pro- 
ceeded Hoggishly, their “facts” were by 
no means always facts—a matter of 
little consequence had it not been for 
assuming that they were facts and must 
be facts because they appeared to be 
such. When they proceeded on the 
path of the Ram, their course was 
scarcely as straight as a ram’s horn, for 
they never had an axiom which was an 
axiom at all. They must have been very 
blind not to see this, even in their own 
day; for even in their own day many 
of the long “established” axioms had 
been rejected. For example—‘Ex nihilo 
nihil fit”; “a body cannot act where 
it is not”; “there cannot exist anti- 
podes”; “darkness cannot come out of 
light”—all these, and a dozen other 
similar propositions, formerly admitted 
without hesitation as axioms, were, even 
at the period of which I speak, seen to 
be untenable. How absurd in these 
people, then, to persist in putting faith 
in “axioms” as immutable bases of 
Truth! But even out of the mouths 
of their soundest reasoners it is easy 
to demonstrate the futility, the impal- 
pability of their axioms in general. 
Who was the soundest of their logi- 
cians? Let me see! I will go and ask 
Pundit and be back in a minute. * * * 
Ah, here we have it! Here is a book 
written nearly a thousand years ago and 
lately translated from the Inglitch— 
which, by the way, appears to have 
been the rudiment of the Amriccan. 
Pundit says it is decidedly the cleverest 
ancient work on its topic, Logic. The 
author (who was much thought of in 
his day) was one Miller, or Mill; and 
we find it recorded of him, as a point of 
some importance, that he had a mill- 


400 


horse called Bentham. But let us glance 
at the treatise! 

Ah!—‘“Ability or inability to con- 
ceive,’ says Mr. Mill, very properly, 
“is in no case to be received as a cri- 
terion of axiomatic truth.” What mod- 
ern in his senses would ever think of 
disputing this truism? The only won- 
der with us must be, how it happened 
that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary 
even to hint at any thing so obvious. 
So far good—but let us turn over 
another paper. What have we here?— 
“Contradictories cannot both be true— 
that is, cannot co-exist in nature.” Here 
Mr. Mill means, for example that a 
tree must be either a tree or not a 
tree—that it cannot be at the same 
time a tree and not a tree. Very well; 
but I ask him why. His reply is this— 
and never pretends to be any thing else 
than this—‘Because it is impossible to 
conceive that contradictories can both 
be true.” But this is no answer at all, 
by his own showing; for has he not 
just admitted as a truism that “ability 
or inability to conceive is im no case to 
be received as a criterion of axiomatic 
truth.” 

Now I do not complain of these 
ancients so much because their logic is, 
by their own showing, utterly baseless, 
worthless and fantastic altogether, as 
because of their pompous and imbecile 
proscription of all other roads of Truth, 
of all other means for its attainment 
than the two preposterous paths—the 
one of creeping and the one of crawling 
—to which they have dared to confine 
the Soul that loves nothing so well as 
to soar. 

By the by, my dear friend, do you 
not think it would have puzzled these 
ancient dogmaticians to have deter- 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


mined by which of their two roads it 
was that the most important and most 
sublime of all their truths was, in effect, 
attained? I mean the truth of Gravita- 
tion. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kep- 
ler admitted that his three laws were 
guessed at—these three laws of all laws 
which led the great Inglitch mathe- 
matician to his principle, the basis of 
all physicial principle—to go behind 
which we must enter the Kingdom of 
Metaphysics: Kepler guessed—that is 
to say imagined. He was essentially a 
“theorist” —that word now of so much 
sanctity, formerly an epithet of con- 
tempt. Would it not have puzzled these 
old moles too, to have explained by 
which of the two “roads” a crypto- 
graphist unriddles a cryptograph of 
more than usual secrecy, or by which 
of the two roads Champollion directed 
mankind to those enduring and almost 
innumerable truths which resulted from 
his deciphering the Hieroglyphics. 
One word more on this topic and I 
will be done boring you. Is it not 


passing strange that, with their eternal 


prattling about roads to Truth, these 
bigoted people missed what we now 
so clearly perceive to be the great high- 
way—that of Consistency? Does it 
not seem singular how they should have 
failed to deduce from the works of 
God the vital fact that a perfect con- 
sistency must be an absolute truth! 
How plain has been our progress since 
the late announcement of this proposi- 
tion! Investigation has been taken out 
of the hands of the ground-moles and 
given, as a task, to the true and only 
true thinkers, the men of ardent imagi- 
nation. These latter theorize. Can 
you not fancy the shout of scorn with 
which my words would be received by 








MELLONTA TAUTA 


our progenitors were it possible for 
them to be now looking over my 
shoulder? These men, I say, theorize; 
and their theories are simply corrected, 
reduced, systematized—cleared, little 
by little, of their dross of inconsis- 
tency—until, finally, a perfect consis- 
tency stands apparent which even the 
most stolid admit, because it zs a con- 
sistency, to be an absolute and an un- 
questionable truth. 

April 4th—The new gas is doing 
wonders, in conjunction with the new 
improvement with gutta percha. How 
very safe, commodious, manageable, 
and in every respect convenient are 
our modern balloons! Here is an im- 
mense one approaching us at the rate 
of at least a hundred and fifty miles 
an hour. It seems to be crowded with 
people—perhaps there are three or four 
hundred passengers—and yet it soars to 
an elevation of nearly a mile, looking 
down upon poor us with sovereign con- 
tempt. Still a hundred or even two 
hundred miles an hour is slow travelling 
after all. Do you remember our flight 
on the railroad across the Kanadaw 
continent?—fully three hundred miles 
the hour—that was travelling. Noth- 
ing to be seen though—nothing to be 
done but flirt, feast and dance in the 
magnificent saloons. Do you remember 
what an odd sensation was experienced 
when, by chance, we caught a glimpse 
of external objects while the cars were 
in full flight? Every thing seemed 
unique—in one mass. For my part, I 
cannot say but that I preferred the 
travelling by the slow train of a hun- 
dred miles the hour. Here we were 
permitted to have glass windows—even 
to have them open—and something like 
a distinct view of the country was at- 


401 


tainable. * * * Pundit says that the 
route for the gredt Kanadaw railroad 
must have been in some measure 
marked out about nine hundred years 
ago! In fact, he goes so far as to 
assert that actual traces of a road are 
still discernible—traces referable to a 
period quite as remote as that men- 
tioned. The track, it appears was 
double only; ours, you know, has twelve 
paths; and three or four new ones are 
in preparation. ‘The ancient rails are 
very slight, and placed so close to- 
gether as to be, according to modern 
notions, quite frivolous, if not danger- 
ous in the extreme. The present width 
of track—fifty feet—is considered, in- 
deed, scarcely secure enough. For my 
part, I make no doubt that a track of 
some sort must have existed in very 
remote times, as Pundit asserts; for 
nothing can be clearer, to my mind, 
than that, at some period—not less 
than seven centuries ago, certainly—the 
Northern and Southern Kanadaw con- 
tinents were wnited; the Kanawdians, 
then, would have been driven, by nec- 
essity, to a great railroad across the 
continent, 

April 5th—I am almost devoured by 
ennui. Pundit is the only conversible 
person on board; and he, poor soul! 
can speak of nothing but antiquities. 
He has been occupied all the day in the 
attempt to convince me that the ancient 
Amriccans governed themselves!—did 
ever anybody hear of such an absurd- 
ityrp—that they existed in a sort of 
every man-for-himself confederacy, 
after the fashion of the “‘prairie dogs” 
that we read of in fable. He says that 
they started with the queerest idea con- 
ceivable, viz: that all men are born free 
and equal—this in the very teeth of the 


402 
laws of gradation so visibly impressed 
upon all things both in the moral and 
physical universe. Every man “voted,” 
as they called it—that is to say med- 
died with public affairs—until, at 
length, it was discovered that what is 
everybody’s business is nobody’s, and 
that the “Republic” (so the absurd 
thing was called) was without a govern- 
ment at all. It is related, however, 
that the first circumstance which dis- 
turbed, very particularly, the self-com- 
placency of the philosophers who con- 
structed this ‘Republic,’ was the 
startling discovery that universal suf- 
frage gave opportunity for fraudulent 
schemes, by means of which any de- 
sired number of votes might at any 
time be polled, without the possibility 
of prevention or even detection, by any 
party which should be merely villainous 
enough not to be ashamed of the fraud. 
A little reflection upon this discovery 
sufficed to render evident the conse- 
quences, which were that rascality must 
predominate—in a word, that a repub- 
lican government could never be any 
thing but a rascally one. While the 
philosophers, however, were busied in 
blushing at their stupidity in not hav- 
ing foreseen these inevitable evils, and 
intent upon the invention of new 
theories, the matter was put to an 
abrupt issue by a fellow of the name 
of Mob, who took every thing into his 
own hands and set up a despotism, in 
comparison with which those of the 
fabulous Zeros and Hellofagabaluses 
were respectable and delectable. This 
Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is said 
to have been the most odious of all men 
that ever encumbered the earth. He 
was a giant in stature—insolent, rapac- 
ious, filthy; had the gall of a bullock 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with the heart of a hyena and the 
brains of a peacock. He died, at length, 
by dint of his own energies, which ex- 
hausted him. Nevertheless, he had his 
uses, as every thing has, however vile, 
and taught mankind a lesson which to 
this day it is in no danger of forget- 
ting—never to run directly contrary to | 
the natural analogies. As for Republi- — 
canism, no analogy could be found for | 
it upon the face of the earth—unless | 
we except the case of the “prairie | 
dogs,’ an exception which seems to 
demonstrate, if any thing, that democ- 
racy is a very admirable form of gov- 
ernment—for dogs. 

April 6th—Last night had a fine — 
view of Alpha Lyre, whose disk, | 
through our captain’s spy-glass, sub- 
tends an angle of half a degree, looking 
very much as our sun does to the naked 
eye on a misty day. Alpha Lyre, 
although so very much larger than our 
sun, by the by, resembles him closely 
as regards its spots, its atmosphere, anc 
in many other particulars. It is only 
within the last century, Pundit tells 
me, that the binary relation existing 
between these two orbs began even to 
be suspected. The evident motion of 
our system in the heavens was (strange 
to say!) referred to an orbit about a 
prodigious star in the centre of the 
galaxy. About this star, or at all events 
about a centre of gravity common to 
all the globes of the Milky Way and 
supposed to be near Alcyone in the 
Pleiades, every one of these globes was 
declared to be revolving, our own per- 
forming the circuit in a period of 117,- 
000,000 of years! We, with our pres- 
ent lights, our vast telescopic improve- 
ments, and so forth, of course find it 
difficult to comprehend the ground of 


MELLONTA TAUTA 


an idea such as this. Its first propa- 
gator was one Mudler. He was led, we 
must presume, to this wild hypothesis 
by mere analogy in the first instance; 
but, this being the case, he should have 
at least adhered to analogy in its de- 
velopment. A great central orb was, 
in fact, suggested; so far Mudler was 
consistent. This central orb, however, 
dynamically, should have been greater 
than all its surrounding orbs taken to- 
gether. The question might then have 
been asked—““Why do we not see it?” 
—we, especially, who occupy the mid 
region of the cluster—the very locality 
_ near which, at least, must be situated 
_ this inconceivable central sun. The 
astronomer, perhaps, at this point, took 
refuge in the suggestion of non-luminos- 
ity; and here analogy was suddenly 
let fall. But even admitting the central 
orb non-luminous, how did he manage 
to explain its failure to be rendered 
visible by the incalculable host of glor- 
ious suns glaring in all directions about 
it? No doubt what he finally main- 
tained was merely a centre of gravity 
common to_all the revolving orbs—but 
here again analogy must have been let 
fall. Our system revolves, it is true, 
about % common centre of gravity, but 
it does this in connection with and in 
consequence of a material sun whose 
mass more than counterbalances the 
rest of the system. The mathematical 
circle is a curve composed of an infin- 
ity of straight lines; but this idea of 
the circle—this idea of it which, in re- 
gard to all earthly geometry, we con- 
sider as merely the mathematical, in 
contradistinction from the practical, 
idea—is, in sober fact, the practical 
conception which alone we have any 
right to entertain in respect to those 


403 


Titanic circles with which we have to 
deal, at least in fancy, when we sup- 
pose our system, with its fellows, re- 
volving about a point in the centre 
of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous 
of human imaginations but attempt to 
take a single step toward the compre- 
hension of a circuit so unutterable! It 
would scarcely be paradoxical to say 
that a flash of lightning itself, travelling 
forever upon the circumference of this 
inconceivable circle, would still forever 
be travelling in a straight line. That 
the path of our sun along such a cir- 
cumference—that the direction of our 
system in such an orbit—would, to 
any human perception, deviate in the 
slightest degree from a straight line 
even in a million of years, is a proposi- 
tion not to be entertained; and yet 
these ancient astronomers were abso- 
lutely cajoled, it appears, into believ- 
ing that a decisive curvature had _ be- 
come apparent during the brief period 
of their astronomical history—during 
the mere point—during the utter noth- 
ingness of two or three thousand years! 
How incomprehensible, that consider- 
ations such:as this did not at once in- 
dicate to them the true state of affairs 
—that of the binary revolution of our 
sun and Alpha Lyre around a common 
centre of gravity! 

April 7th—Continued last night our 
astronomical amusements. Had a fine 
view of the five Neptunian asteroids, 
and watched with much interest the 
putting up of a huge impost on a couple 
of lintels in the new temple at Daphnis 
in the moon. It was amusing to think 
that creatures so diminutive as the 
lunarians, and bearing so little resem- 
blance to humanity, yet evinced a me- 
chanical ingenuity so much superior to 


404 


our Gwn. One finds it difficult, too, to 
conceive the vast masses which these 
people handle so easily, to be as light 
as our own reason tell us they actually 
are. 

April 8th—Eureka! Pundit is in his 
glory. A balloon from Kanadaw spoke 
us to-day and threw on board several 
late papers; they contain some exceed- 
ingly curious information relative to 
Kanawdian or rather Amriccan an- 
tiquities. You know, I presume, that 
laborers have for some months been 
employed in preparing the ground for a 
new fountain at Paradise, the Emper- 
or’s principal pleasure garden.  Par- 
adise, it appears, has been, Jiterally 
speaking, an island time out of mind— 
that is to say, its northern boundary 
was always (as far back as any record 
extends) a rivulet, or rather a very nar- 
row arm of the sea. This arm was 
gradually widened until it attained its 
present breadth—a mile. The whole 
length of the island is nine miles; the 
breadth varies materially. The entire 
area (so Pundit says) was, about eight 
hundred years ago, densely packed with 
houses, some of them twenty stories 
high: land (for some most unaccount- 
able reason) being considered as espe- 
cially precious just in this vicinity. The 
disastrous earthquake, however, of the 
year 2050, so totally uprooted and over- 
whelmed the town (for it was aimost 
too large to be called a village) that 
the most indefatigable of our antiquar- 
ians have never yet been able to obtain 
from the site any sufficient data (in the 
shape of coins, medals or inscriptions) 
wherewith to build up even the ghost of 
a theory concerning the manners, cus- 
toms, etc., etc., etc., of the aboriginal 
inhabitants. Nearly all that we have 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


hitherto known of them is, that they 
were a portion of the Knickerbocker 
tribe of savages infesting the continent 
at its first discovery by Recorder Riker, 
a knight of the Golden Fleece. They 
were by no means uncivilized, however, 
but cultivated various arts and even 
sciences after a fashion of their own. 
It is related of them that they were 
acute in many respects, but were oddly 
afflicted with monomania for building 
what, in the ancient Amriccan, was 
denominated ‘‘churches’”—a kind of 
pagoda instituted for the worship of 
two idols that went by the names of 
Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is 
said, the island became, nine tenths of 
it, church. The women, too, it appears, 
were oddly deformed by a natural pro- 
tuberance of the region just below the 
small of the back—although, most un- 
accountably, this deformity was looked 
upon altogether in the light of a beauty. 
One or two pictures of these singular 
women have in fact, been miraculously 
preserved. They look very odd, very— 
like something between a_ turkey-cock 
and a dromedary. . 

Well, these few details are nearly all 
that have descended to us respecting 
the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, 
however, that while digging in the cen- 
tre of the emperor’s garden, (which, 
you know, covers the whole island), 
some of the workmen unearthed a cub- 
ical and evidently chiseled block of 
granite, weighing several hundred 
pounds. It was in good preservation, 
having received, apparently, little in- 
jury from the convulsion which en- 
tombed it. On one of its surfaces was 
a marble slab with (only think of it!) 
aa inscription—a legible inscription. 
Pundit is in ecstacies. Upon detaching 


MELLONTA TAUTA 


the slab, a cavity appeared, containing 
a leaden box filled with various coins, 
a long scroll of names, several docu- 
ments which appear to resemble news- 
papers, with other matters of intense 
interest to the antiquarian! There can 
be no doubt that all these are genuine 
Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe 
called Knickerbocker. The papers 
thrown on board our balloon are filled 
with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., 
typography, etc., etc. I copy for your 
amusement the Knickerbocker inscrip- 
tion on the marble slab:— 


This Corner Stone of a Monument to 
the Memory of 
GEORGE WASHINGTON 
was laid with appropriate ceremonies 
on the 
19TH DAY OF OCTOBER, 1847 
the anniversary of the surrender of 
Lord Cornwallis 
to General Washington at Yorktown 
A: D. 1781 
under the auspices of the 
Washington Monument Association of 
the city of New York. 


This, as I give it, is a verbatim trans- 
lation done by Pundit himself, so there 
can be no mistake about it. From the 
few words thus preserved, we glean 
several important items of knowledge, 
not the least interesting of which is the 
fact that a thousand years ago actual 
monuments had fallen into disuse—as 
was all very proper—the people con- 
tenting themselves, as we do now, with 
a mere indication of the design to 
erect a monument at some future time; 
a corner-stone being cautiously laid by 
itself “‘solitary and alone” (excuse me 


405 


for quoting the great American poet 
Benton!), as a guarantee of the mag- 
nanimous intention. We ascertain, too, 
very distinctly, from this admirable in- 
scription, the how as well as the where 
and the what, of the great surrender in 
question. As to the where, it was York- 
town (wherever that was), and as to 
the what, it was General Cornwallis (no 
doubt some wealthy dealer in corn). 
He was surrendered. The inscription 
commemorates the surrender of—what? 
why, “of Lord Cornwallis.” The only 
question is what could the savages wish 
him surrendered for. But when we re- 
member that these savages were un- 
doubtedly cannibals, we are led to the 
conclusion that they intended him for 
sausage. As to the how of the sur- 
render, no language can be more ex- 
plicit. Lord Cornwallis was surren- 
dered (for sausage) ‘“‘under the auspices 
of the Washington Monument Associa- 
tion”—no doubt a charitable institution 
for the depositing of corner-stones. 
But, Heaven bless me! what is the mat- 
ter? Ah, I see—the balloon has col- 
lapsed, and we shall have a tumble 
into the sea. I have, therefore, only 
time enough to add that, from a hasty 
inspection of the fac-similes of news- 
papers, etc., etc., I find that the great 
men in those days among the Amric- 
cans, were one John, a smith, and one 
Zacchary, a tailor. 

Good-bye, until I see you again. 
Whether you ever get this letter or not 
is point of little importance, as I write 
altogether for my own amusement. I 





' shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, how- 


ever, and throw it into the sea. 
Yours everlastingly, 
PUNDITA. 


Mesmertc Revelation 


(Published in Columbian Magazine, 1845.—Ed.) 


WuHatTeEver doubt may still envelop 
the rationale of mesmerism, its startling 
facts are now almost universally ad- 
mitted. Of these latter, those who 
doubt, are your mere doubters by pro- 
fession—an unprofitable and _ disrep- 
utable tribe. There can be no more 
absolute waste of time than the at- 
tempt to prove, at the present day, that 
man, by mere exercise of will, can so 
impress his fellow as to cast him into 
an abnormal condition, in which the 
phenomena resemble very closely those 
of death, or at least resemble them 
more nearly than they do the phe- 
nomena of any other normal condition 
within our cognizance; that, while in 
this state, the person so impressed em- 
ploys only with effort, and then feebly, 
the external organs of sense, yet per- 
ceives, with keenly refined perception, 
and through channels supposed un- 
known, matters beyond the scope of 
the physical organs; that, moreover, his 
intellectual faculties are wonderfully 
exalted and invigorated; that his sym- 
pathies with the person so impressing 
him are profound; and, finally, that 
his susceptibility to the impression in- 
creases with its frequency, while in the 
same proportion, the peculiar pheno- 
mena elicited are more extended and 
more pronounced. 

I say that these—which are the laws 
of mesmerism in its general features— 
it would be supererogation to demon- 





*See Contents Marginalia for Brit- 
ish reprint.—Ed. 


strate; nor shall I inflict upon my read- 
ers so needless a demonstration to-day. 
My purpose at present is a very differ- 
ent one indeed. I am impelled, even 
in the teeth of a world of prejudice, to 
detail, without comment, the very re- 
markable substance of a colloquy occur- 
ring between a sleep-waker and myself. 

I had long been in the habit of mes- 
merizing the person in question (Mr. 
Vankirk), and the usual acute suscep- 
tibility and exaltation of the mesmeric 
perception had supervened. For many 
months he had been laboring under 
confirmed phthisis, the more distressing 
effects of which had been relieved by 
my manipulations; and on the night of 
Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was 
summoned to his bedside. 

The invalid was suffering with acute 
pain in the region of the heart, and 
breathed with great difficulty, having 
all the ordinary symptoms of asthma. 
In spasms such as these he had usually 
found relief from the application of 
mustard to the nervous centres, but to- 
night this had been attempted in vain. 

As I entered his room he greeted me 
with a cheerful smile, and although evi- 
dently in much bodily pain, appeared 
to be, mentally, quite at ease. 

“T sent for you to-night,” he said, 
“not so much to administer to my bod- 
ily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning 
certain physical impressions which, of 
late, have occasioned me much anxiety 
and surprise. I need not tell you how 
skeptical I have hitherto been on the 
topic of the soul’s immortality. I can- 


406 


MESMERIC REVELATION 


not deny that there has always existed, 
as if in that very soul which I have 
been denying, a vague half-sentiment 
of its own existence. But this half-sen- 
timent at no time amounted to con- 
viction. With it my reason had nothing 
to do. All attempts at logical inquiry 
resulted, indeed, in leaving me more 
sceptical than before. I had been ad- 
vised to study Cousin. I studied him 
in his own works as well as in those 
of his European and American echoes. 
The ‘Charles Elwood’ of Mr. Brownson 
for example, was placed in my hands. 
I read it with profound attention. 
Throughout I found it logical, but the 
portions which were not merely logical 
were unhappily the initial arguments of 
the disbelieving hero of the book. In 
his summing up it seemed evident to 
me that the reasoner had not even suc- 
ceeded in convincing himself. His end 
had plainly forgotten his beginning, 
like the government of Trinculo. In 
short, I was not long in perceiving that 
if man is to be intellectually convinced 
of his own immortality, he will never 
be so convinced by the mere abstrac- 
tions which have been so long the fash- 
ion of the moralists of England, of 
France, and of Germany. Abstractions 
may amuse and exercise, but take no 
hold on the mind. Here upon earth, at 
least, philosophy, I am persuaded, will 
always in vain call upon us to look upon 
qualities as things. The will may assent 
—the soul—the intellect, never. 

“T repeat, then, that I only half felt, 
and never intellectually believed, But 
latterly there has been a certain deep- 
ening of the feeling, until it has come 
so nearly to resemble the acquiescence 
of reason, that I find it difficult to dis- 
tinguish between the two, I am en- 


407 


abled, too, plainly to trace this effect 
to the mesmeric influence. I cannot 
better explain my meaning than by the 
hypothesis that the mesmeric exalta- 
tion enables me to perceive a train of 
ratiocination which, in my abnormal 
existence, convinces, but which, in full 
accordance with the mesmeric pheno- 
mena, does not extend, except through 
its effect, into my normal condition. In 
sleep-waking, the reasoning and its con- 
clusion—the cause and its effect—are 
present together. In my natural state, 
the cause vanishing, the effect only, and 
perhaps only partially, remains. 

“These considerations have led me to 
think that some good results might 
ensue from a series of well-directed 
questions propounded to me while mes- 
merized. You have often observed the 
profound self-cognizance evinced by the 
sleep-waker—the extensive knowledge 
he displays upon all points relating to 
the mesmeric condition itslf; and from 
this self-cognizance may be deduced 
hints for the proper conduct of a 
catechism.” 

I consented of course to make this 
experiment. A few passes threw Mr. 
Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His 
breathing became immediately more 
easy, and he seemed to suffer no phy- 
sical uneasiness. The following conver- 
sation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue 
representing the patient, and P. myself. 

P. Are you asleep? 

V. Yes—no; I would rather sleep 
more soundly. 

P. [After a few more passes.] Do 
you sleep now? 

Vac, 

P. How do you think your present 
illness will result? 


408 


V. [After a long hesitation and 
speaking as if with effort.| I must die. 
P. Does the idea of death afflict your 

V. [Very quickly.| No—no! 

P. Are you pleased with the pros- 
pect? 

V. If I were awake I should like to 
die, but now it is no matter. The mes- 
meric condition is so near death as to 
content me. 

P. I wish you would explain your- 
self, Mr. Vankirk. 

V: I am willing to do so, but it re- 
quires more effort than I feel able to 
make. You do not question me prop- 
erly. 

P. What then shall I ask? 

V. You must begin at the beginning. 

P. The beginning! But where is the 
beginning? 

V. You know that the beginning is 
Gop. [This was said in a low, fluctuat- 
ing tone, and with every sign of the 
most profound veneration. | 

P. What, then, is God? 

V. [ Hesitating for many neesy] 
I cannot tell. 

P. Is not God spirit? 

V. While I was awake I knew what 
you meant by “spirit,” but now it seems 
only a word—such, for instance, as 
truth, beauty—a quality, I mean. 

P. Is not God immaterial? 

V. There is no immateriality; it is 
a mere word. That which is*not mat- 
ter, is not at all—unless qualities are 
things. 

P. Is God, then, material? 

V. No. [This reply startled me very 
much. | 

P. What, then, is he? 

V. [After a long pause, and mutter- 
ingly.| I see—but it is a thing difficult 
to tell. [Another long bause.| He is 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


not spirit, for he exists. Nor is he 
matter, as you understand it. But 
there are gradations of matter of which 


| 
: 


man knows nothing; the grosser im- | 
pelling the finer, the finer pervading the © 


grosser. The atmosphere, for example, 
impels the electric principle, while the 
electric principle permeates the atmos- 
phere. These gradations of matter in- 
crease in rarity or fineness until we 
arrive at a matter unparticled—without 
particles—indivisible—one; and _ here 
the law of impulsion and permeation is 
modified. The ultimate or unparticled 
matter not only permeates all things, 
but impels all things; and thus 7s all 
things within itself. This matter is 
God. What men attempt to embody in 
the word “thought,” is this matter in 
motion. 

P. The metaphysicians maintain that 
all action is reducible to motion and 
thinking, and that the latter is the 
origin of the former. 

V. Yes; and I now see the confusion 
of idea. Motion is the action of mind, 
not of thinking. ‘The unparticled mat- 
ter, or God, in quiescence is (as nearly 
as we can conceive it) what men call 
mind. And the power of self-move- 
ment (equivalent in effect to human 
volition) is, in the unparticled matter, 
the result of its unity and omnipreval- 
ence; how, I know not, and now clearly 
see that I shall never know. But the 
unparticled matter, set in motion by 
a law or quality existing within itself, 
is thinking. 

P. Can you give me no more precise 
idea of what you term the unparticled 
matter? 

V. The matters of which man is cog- 
nizant escape the senses in gradation. 
We have, for example, a metal, a piece 


MESMERIC REVELATION 


of wood, a drop of water, the atmos- 
phere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the 
luminiferous ether. Now, we call all 
these things matter, and embrace all 
matter in one general definition; but 
in spite of this, there can be no two 
ideas more essentially distinct than that 
which we attach to a metal, and that 
which we attach to the luminiferous 
ether. When we reach the latter, we 
feel an almost irresistible inclination to 
class it with spirit, or with nihility. 
The only consideration which restrains 
us is our conception of its atomic con- 
stitution; and here, even, we have to 
seek aid from our notion of an atom, 
as something possessing in infinite 
minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. 
Destroy the idea of the atomic consti- 
tution and we should no longer be able 
to regard the ether as an entity, or, at 
least, as matter. For want of a bet- 
ter word we might term it spirit. Take, 
now, a step beyond the luminiferous 
ether; conceive a matter as much more 
rare than the ether, as this ether is 
more rare than the metal, and we ar- 
rive at once (in spite of all the school 
dogmas) at a unique mass—an unpar- 
ticled matter. For although we may 
admit infinite littleness in the atoms 
themselves, the infinitude of littleness 
in the spaces between them is an ab- 
surdity. There will be a point—there 
will be a degree of rarity at which, if 
the atoms are sufficiently numerous, the 
interspaces must vanish, and the mass 
absolutely coalesce. But the consider- 
ation of the atomic constitution being 
now taken away, the nature of the mass 
inevitably glides into what we conceive 
of spirit. It is clear, however. that it 
is as fully matter as before. The truth 
is, it is impossible to conceive spirit, 


409 


since it is impossible to imagine what 
is not. When we flatter ourselves that 
we have formed its conception, we have 
merely deceived our understanding by 
the consideration of infinitely rarified 
matter. 

P. There seems to me an_insur- 
mountable objection to the idea of 
absolute coalescence;—and that is the 
very slight resistance experienced by 
the heavenly bodies in their revolu- 
tions through space—a resistance now 
ascertained, it is true, to exist in some 
degree, but which is, nevertheless, so 
slight as to have been quite overlooked 
by the sagacity even of Newton. We 
know that the resistance of bodies is, 
chiefly, in proportion to their density. 
Absolute coalescence is absolute dens- 
ity. Where there are no interspaces, 
there can be no yielding. An ether, 
absolutely dense, would put an _ infi- 
nitely more effectual stop to the prog- 
ress of a star than would an ether of 
adamant or of iron. 

V. Your objection is answered with 
an ease which is nearly in the ratio of 
its apparent unanswerability—As re- 
gards the progress of the star, it can 
make no difference whether the star 
passes through the ether or the ether 
through it. There is no astronomical 
error more unaccountable than that 
which reconciles the known retardation 
of the comets with the idea of their 
passage through an ether; for, how- 
ever rare this ether be supposed, it 
would put a stop to all sidereal revolu- 
tion in a very far briefer period than 
has been admitted by those astrono- 
mers who have endeavored to slur over 
a point which they found it impossible 
to comprehend. The retardation actu- 
ally experienced is, on the other hand, 


410 


about that which might be expected 
from the friction of the ether in the 
instantaneous passage through the orb. 
In the one case, the retarding force is 
momentary and complete within itself 
—in the other it is endlessly accumu- 
lative. 

P. But in all this—in this identifi- 
cation of mere matter with God—is 
there nothing of irreverence? [J was 
forced to repeat this question before 
the sleep-waker fully comprehended my 
meaning. | 

V. Can you say why matter should 
be less reverenced than mind? But 
you forget that the matter of which 
I speak is, in all respects, the very 
“mind” or “spirit” of the schools, so 
far as regards its high capacities, and 
is, moreover, the ‘matter’ of these 
schools at the same time. God, with 
all the powers attributed to spirit, is 
but the perfection of matter. 

P. You assert, then, that the unpar- 
ticled matter, in motion, is thought. 

V. In general, this motion is the 
universal thought of the universal 
mind. This thought creates. All cre- 
ated things are but the thoughts of 
God. 

P. You say, “in general.” 


V. Yes. The universal mind is God. 
For new  individualities, matter is 
necessary. 


P. But you now speak of “mind” 
and ‘‘matter” as do the metaphysicians. 

V. Yes—to avoid confusion. When 
I say “mind,” I mean the unparticled 
or ultimate matter; by “matter,” I 
intend all else. 

P. You were saying that “for new 
individualities matter is necessary.” 

V. Yes; for mind, existing unincor- 
porate, is merely God. To create 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


individual, thinking beings, it was 
necessary to incarnate portions of the 
divine mind. Thus man is individual- 
ized. Divested of corporate investiture, 
he were God. Now the particular 
motion of the incarnated portions of 
the unparticled matter is the thought 
of man; as the motion of the whole is 
that of God. 

P. You say that divested of the 
body man will be God? 


V. [After much  hesitation.| I 
could not have said this; it is an 
absurdity. 

P. [Referring to my notes.| You 


did say that “divested of corporate in- 
vestiture man were God.” 

V. And this is true. Man thus di- 
vested would be God—would be unin- 
dividualized. But he can never. be thus 
divested—at least never will be—else 
we must imagine an action of God re- 
turning upon itself—a purposeless and 
futile action. Man is a creature. 
Creatures are thoughts of God. It is 
the nature of thought to be irrevocable. 

P. I do not comprehend. You say 
that man will never put off the body? 

V.1I say that he will never be 
bodiless. 

P. Explain. 

V. There are two bodies—the rudi- 
mental and the complete, correspond- . 
ing with the two conditions of the 
worm and the butterfly. What we call 
“death,” is but the painful metamor- 
phosis. Our present incarnation is 
progressive, preparatory, temporary. 
Our future is perfected, ultimate, im- 
mortal. The ultimate life is the full 
design. 

P. But of the worm’s metamorpho- 
sis we are palpably cognizant. 

V. We, certainly—but not the worm. 


MESMERIC REVELATION 411 


The matter of which our rudimental 
body is composed, is within the ken 
of the organs of that body; or, more 
distinctly, our rudimental organs are 
adapted to the matter of which is 
formed the rudimental body; but not 
to that of which the ultimate is com- 
posed. The ultimate body thus escapes 
our rudimental senses, and we perceive 
only the shell which falls, in decaying, 
from the inner form not that inner 
form itself; but this inner form as well 
as the shell, is appreciable by those 
who have already acquired the ultimate 
life. 

P. You have often said that the 
mesmeric state very nearly resembles 
death. How is this? 

V. When I say that it resembles 
death, I mean that it resembles the 
ultimate life; for when I am entranced 
the senses of my rudimental life are in 
abeyance and I perceive external things 
directly, without organs, through a 
medium which I shall employ in the 
ultimate, unorganized life. 

P. Unorganized? 

V. Yes; organs are contrivances by 
which the individual is brought into 
sensible relation with particular classes 
and forms of matter, to the exclusion 
of other classes and forms. The organs 
of man are adapted to his rudimental 
condition, and to that only; his ulti- 
mate condition, being unorganized, is of 
unlimited comprehension in all points 
but one—the nature of the volition of 
God—that is to say, the motion of the 
unparticled matter. You may have a 
distinct idea of the ultimate body by 
conceiving it to be entire brain. This 
it is mot; but a conception of this na- 
ture will bring you near a comprehen- 
sion of what it zs. A luminous body 


imparts vibration to the luminiferous 
ether. The vibrations generate similar 
ones within the retina; these again 
communicate similar ones to the optic 
nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones 
to the brain; the brain, also, similar 
ones to the unparticled matter which 
permeates it. The motion of this lat- 
ter is thought, of which perception is 
the first undulation. This is the mode 
by which the mind of the rudimental 
life communicates with the external 
world; and this external world is, te 
the rudimental life, limited, through 
the idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in 
the ultimate, unorganized life, the ex- 
ternal world reaches the whole body, 
(which is of a substance having affinity 
to brain, as I have said,) with no other 
intervention than that of an infinitely 
rarer ether than even the luminiferous; 
and to this ether—in unison with it— 
the whole body vibrates, setting in 
motion the unparticled matter which 
permeates it. It is to the absence of 
idiosyncratic organs, therefore, that we 
must attribute the nearly unlimited 
perception of the ultimate life. To 


rudimental beings, organs are the 
cages necessary to confine them until 
fledged. 

P. You speak of rudimental “be. 
ings.” Are there other rudimental 
thinking beings than man? 

V. The multitudinous conglomera- 


tion of rare matter into nebulz, plan- 
ets, suns, and other bodies which are 
neither nebule, suns, nor planets, is for 
the sole purpose of supplying pabulum 
for the idiosyncrasy of the organs of 
an infinity of rudimental beings. But 
for the necessity of the rudimental, 
prior to the ultimate life, there would 
have been no bodies such as_ these. 


412 


Each of these is tenanted by a distinct 
variety of organic rudimental, thinking 
creatures. In all, the organs vary with 
the features of the place tenanted. At 
death, or metamorphosis, these crea- 
tures, enjoying the ultimate life—im- 
mortality—and cognizant of all secrets 
but the one, act all things and pass 
every where by mere volition:—in- 
dwelling, not the stars, which to us 
seem the sole palpabilities, and for the 
accommodation of which we blindly 
deem space created—but that spacer 
itself—that infinity of which the truly 
substantive vastness swallows up the 
star-shadows—blotting them out as 
non-entities from the perception of the 
angels. 

P,. You say that “but for the neces- 
sity of the rudimental life, there would 
have been no stars. But why this 
necessity? 

V. In the inorganic life, as well as 
in the inorganic matter generally, there 
is nothing to impede the action of one 
simple wnique law—the Divine Voli- 
tion. With the view of producing im- 
pediment, the organic life and matter 
(complex, substantial, and law-encum- 
bered) were contrived. 

P. But again—why need this im- 
pediment have been produced? 

V. The result of law inviolate is 
perfection—right—negative happiness. 
The result of law violate is imperfec- 
tion, wrong, positive pain. Through 
the impediments afforded by the num- 
ber, complexity, and substantiality of 
the laws of organic life and matter, the 
violation of law is rendered, to a cer- 
tain extent, practicable. Thus pain, 
which in the inorganic life is impos- 
sible. is possible in the organic. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


P. But to what good end is pain 
thus rendered possible? 

V. All things are either good or bad 
by comparison. A _ sufficient analysis 
will show that pleasure, in all cases, is 
but the contrast of pain. Positive 
pleasure is a mere idea. To be happy 
at any one point we must have suffered 
at the same. Never to suffer would 
have been never to have been blessed. 
But it has been shown that, in the 
inorganic life, pain cannot be; thus the 
necessity for the organic. The pain of 
the primitive life of Earth, is the sole 
basis of the bliss of the ultimate life 
in Heaven. 

P. Still, there is one of your expres- 
sions which I find it impossible to 
comprehend—“the truly substantive 
vastness of infinity.” 

V. This, probably, is because you 
have no sufficiently generic conception 
of the term “substance” itself. We 
must not regard it as a quality, but as 
a sentiment:—it is the perception, in 
thinking beings, of the adaptation of 
matter to their organization. There are 
many things on the Earth, which would 
be nihility to the inhabitants of Venus 
—many things visible and tangible in 
Venus, which we could not be brought 
to appreciate as existing at all. But 
to the inorganic beings—to the angels 
—the whole of the unparticled matter 
is substance; that is to say, the whole 
of what we term “space,” is to them 
the truest substantiality;—the stars. 
meantime, through what we consider 
their materiality, escaping the angelic 
sense, just in proportion as the unpar- 
ticled matter, through what we con- 
sider its immateriality, eludes the 
organic. 


THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR 


As the sleep-waker pronounced these 
Jatter words, in a feeble tone, I ob- 
served on his countenance a singular 
expression, which somewhat alarmed 
me, and induced me to awake him at 
once. No sooner had I done this than, 
with a bright smile irradiating all his 
features, he fell back upon his pillow 
and expired. I noticed that in less 


413 


than a minute afterward his corpse had 
all the stern rigidity of stone. His 
brow was of the coldness of ice. Thus, 
ordinarily, should it have appeared, 
only after long pressure from Azrael’s 
hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, 
during the latter portion of his dis- 
course, been addressing me from out 
the regions of the shadows? 


The Case of M. Valdemar’ 


(Published in American Review, December, 1845.—Ed.) 


Or course I shall not pretend to con- 
sider it any matter for wonder, that the 
extraordinary case of. M. Valdemar has 
excited discussion. It would have been 
a miracle had it not—especially under 
the circumstances. Through the desire 
of all parties concerned, to keep the 
affair from the public, at least for the 
present, or until we had further oppor- 
tunities for investigation—through our 
endeavors to effect this—a garbled or 
exaggerated account made its way into 
society, and became the source of many 
unpleasant misrepresentations; and, 
very naturally, of a great deal of dis- 
belief. 

It is now rendered necessary that I 
give the facts—as far as I comprehend 
them myself. They are, succinctly, 
these: 

My attention, for the last three 
years, had been repeatedly drawn to the 
subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine 
months ago, it occurred to me, quite 
suddenly, that in the series of experi- 


*See Contents, Marginalia, for Brit- 
ish reprint.—Ed 


ments made hitherto, there had been a 
very remarkable and most unaccount- 
able omission:—no person had as yet 
been mesmerized i articulo mortis. It 
remained to be seen, first, whether, in 
such condition, there existed in the pa- 
tient any susceptibility to the magnetic 
influence; secondly, whether, if any ex- 
isted, it was impaired or increased by 
the condition; thirdly, to what extent, 
or for how long a period, the encroach- 
ments of Death might be arrested by 
the process. There were other points 
to be ascertained, but these most ex- 
cited my curiosity—the last in especial, 
from the immensely important charac- 
ter of its consequences. 

In looking around me for some sub- 
ject by whose means I might test these 
particulars, I was brought to think of 
my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the 
well-known compiler of the ‘Biblio- 
theca Forensica,’’ and author (under the 
nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of 
the Polish versions of “Wallenstein” 
and “Gargantua.” M. Valdemar, who 
has resided principally at Harlem, N. 
Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) 


414 


particularly noticeable for the extreme 
spareness of his person—his_ lower 
limbs much resembling those of John 
Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness 
of his whiskers, in violent contrast to 
the blackness of his hair—the latter, in 
consequence, being very generally mis- 
taken for a wig. His temperament was 
markedly nervous, and rendered him a 
good subject for mesmeric experiment. 
On two or three occasions I had put 
him to sleep with little difficulty, but 
was disappointed in other results which 
his peculiar constitution had naturally 
led me to anticipate. His will was at 
no period positively, or thoroughly, 
under my control, and in regard to 
clairvoyance, I could accomplish with 
him nothing to be relied upon. I al- 
ways attributed my failure at these 
points to the disordered state of his 
health. For some months previous to 
my becoming acquainted with him, his 
physicians had declared him in a con- 
firmed phthisis. It was his custom, 
indeed, to speak calmly of his ap- 
proaching dissolution, as of a matter 
neither to be avoided nor regretted. 
When the ideas to which I have al- 
luded first occurred to me, it was of 


course very naturai that I should think . 


of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady 
philosophy of the man too well to ap- 
prehend any scruples from him; and 
he had no relatives in America who 
would be likely to interfere. I spoke 
to him frankly upon the subject; and, 
to my surprise, his interest seemed 
vividly excited. I say to my surprise, 
for, although he had always yielded 
his person freely to my experiments, 
he had never before given me any 
tokens of sympathy with what I did. 
His disease was of that character which 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


would admit of exact calculation in re. 
spect to the epoch of its termination in 
death; and it was finally arranged be- 
tween us that he would send for me 
about twenty-four hours before the 
period announced by his physicians as 
that of his decease. 

It is now rather more than seven 
months since I received, from M. Val. 
demar himself, the subjoined note: 





“My Dear P——. 
“You may as well come now. D 
and F——- are agreed that I cannot 


hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; 
and I think’ they have hit the time 
very nearly. VALDEMAR.” 


I received this note within half an 
hour after it was written, and in fifteen 
minutes more I was in the dying man’s 
chamber. I had not seen him for ten 
days, and was appalled by the fearful 
alteration which the brief interval had 
wrought in him. His face wore a leaden 
hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; 
and the emaciation was so extreme, 
that the skin had been broken through 
by the cheek-bones. His expectoration 
was excessive. The -pulse was barely 
perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, 
in a very remarkable manner, both his 
mental power and a certain degree of 
physical strength. He spoke with dis- 
tinctness—took some palliative medi- 
cines without aid—and, when I entered 
the room, was occupied in penciling 
memoranda in a pocket-book. He was 
propped up in the bed by pillows. 
Doctors D and F—— were in 
attendance. 

After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I 
took these gentlemen aside, and ob- 
tained from them a minute account of 
the patient’s condition. The left lung 








THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR 


had been for eighteen months in a 
semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and 
was, of course, entirely useless for all 
purposes of vitality. The right, in its 
upper portion, was also partially, if not 
thoroughly, ossified, while the lower 
region was merely a mass of purulent 
_ tubercles, running one into another. 
Several extensive perforations existed; 
and, at one point, permanent adhesion 
to the ribs had taken place. These 
appearances in the right lobe were of 
comparatively recent date. The ossifi- 
cation had proceeded with very unusual 
rapidity; no sign of it had been dis- 
covered a month before, and the adhe- 
sion had only been observed during the 
three previous days. Independently of 
the phthisis, the patient was suspected 
of aneurism of the aorta; but on this 
point the osseous symptoms rendered 
an exact diagnosis impossible. It was 
the opinion of both physicians that M. 
Valdemar would die about midnight on 
the morrow (Sunday). It was then 
seven o'clock on Saturday evening. 

On quitting the invalid’s bedside to 
hold conversation with myself, Doctors 
D and F had bidden him a 
final farewell. It had not been their 
intention to return; but, at my request, 
they agreed to look in upon the patient 
about ten the next night. 

~When they had gone, I spoke freely 
with M. Valdemar on the subject of 
bis approaching dissolution, as well as, 
more particularly, of the experiment 
proposed. He still professed himself 
quite willing and even anxious to have 
it made, and urged me to commence it 
at once. -A male and a female nurse 
were in attendance; but I did not feel 
myself altogether at liberty to engage 
in a task of this character with no 








415 


more reliable witnesses than these peo- 
ple, in case of sudden accident, might 
prove. I therefore postponed opera- 
tions until about eight the next night, 
when the arrival of a medical student, 
with whom I had some acquaintance 
(Mr. Theodore L——1), relieved me 
from further embarrassment. It had 
been my design, originally, to wait for 
the physicians; but I was induced to 
proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties 
of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my 
conviction that I had not a moment 
to Jose, as he was evidently sinking 
fast. 

Mr. L 1 was so kind as to accede 
to my desire that he would take notes 
of all that occurred; and it is from 
his memoranda that what I now have 
to relate is, for the most part, either 
condensed or copied verbatim. 

It wanted about five minutes of 
eight when, taking the patient’s hand, 
I begged him to state, as distinctly as 
he could, to Mr. L——, whether he 
(M. Valdemar) was entirely willing 
that I should make the experiment of 
mesmerizing him in his then condition. 

He replied feebly, yet quite audibly: 
“Yes, I wish to be mesmerized’”—add- 
ing immediately afterward: “I fear vou 
have deferred it too long.” 

While he spoke thus, I commenced 
the passes which I had already found 
most effectual in subduing him. He 
was evidently influenced with the first 
lateral stroke of my hand across his 
forehead; but, although I exerted all 
my powers, no further perceptible ef- 
fect was induced until some minutes 
after ten-o’clock, when Doctors D—— 
and F called, according to appoint- 
ment. I explained to them, in a few 
words, what I designed, and as they 








416 


opposed no objection, saying that the 
patient was already in the death agony, 
I proceeded without hesitation—ex- 
changing, however, the lateral passes 
for downward ones, and directing my 
gaze entirely into the right eye of the 
sufferer. 

By this time his pulse was imper- 
ceptible and his breathing was stertori- 
ous, and at intervals of half a minute. 

This condition was nearly unaltered 
for a quarter of an hour. At the expi- 
ration of this period, however, a natural 
although a very deep sigh escaped from 
the bosom of the dying man, and the 
stertorious breathing ceased—that is to 
say, its stertoriousness was no longer 
apparent; the intervals were undimin- 
ished. The patient’s extremities were 
of an icy coldness. 

At five minutes before eleven, I per- 
ceived unequivocal signs of the mes- 
meric influence. The glassy roll of the 
eye was changed for that expression of 
uneasy inward examination which is 
never seen except in cases of sleep- 
waking, and which it is quite impos- 
sible to mistake. With a few rapid 
lateral passes I made the lids quiver, 
as in incipient sleep, and with a few 
more I closed them altogether. I was 
not satisfied, however, with this, but 
continued the manipulations vigorously, 
and with the fullest exertion of the will, 
until I had completely stiffened the 
limbs of the slumberer, after placing 
them in a seemingly easy position. The 
legs were at full length; the arms were 
nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a 
moderate distance from the loins. The 
head was very slightly elevated. 

When I had accomplished this, it was 
fully midnight, and I requested the 
gentlemen present to examine M. Val- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


demar’s condition. After a few experi- 


ments, they admitted him to be in an | 


unusually perfect state of mesmeric 


trance. The curiosity of both the phy- — 


sicians was greatly excited. Dr. D—— 
resolved at once to remain with the 
patient all night, while Dr. F took 
leave with a promise to return at day- 
break. Mr. L——1 and the nurses re- 
mained. 

We left M. Valdemar entirely undis- 
turbed until about three o’clock in the 
morning, when I approached him and 
found him in precisely the same con- 
dition as when Dr. F went away— 
that is to say, he lay in the same posi- 
tion; the pulse was imperceptible; the 
breathing was gentle (scarcely notice- 
able, unless through the application of 
a mirror to the lips); the eyes were 
closed naturally; and the limbs were as 
rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the 
general appearance was certainly not 
that of death. 

As I approached M. Valdemar I 
made a kind of half effort to influence 
his right arm into pursuit of my own, as 
I passed the latter gently to and fro 
above his person. In such experiments 
with this patient, I had never perfectly 
succeeded before, and assuredly I had 
little thought of succeeding now; but 
to my astonishment, his arm very read- 
ily, although feebly, followed every di- 
rection I:assigned it with mine. I de- 
termined to hazard a few words of con- 
versation. 

“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you 
asleep?” He made no answer, but I 
perceived a tremor about the lips, and 
was thus induced to repeat the question, 
again and again. At its third repetition, 
his whole frame was agitated by a very 
slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed 











THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR 


themselves so far as to display a white 
line of a ball; the lips moved sluggishly, 
and from between them, in a barely 
audible whisper, issued the words: 

“Ves—asleep now. Do not wake 
me!—let me die so!” 

1 here felt the limbs, and found them 
as rigid as ever. The right arm, as 
before, obeyed the direction of my 
hand. I questioned the sleep-waker 
again: 

“Do you still feel pain in the breast, 
M. Valdemar?” 

The answer now was immediate, but 
even less audible than before: 

“No pain—I am dying!” 

I did not think it advisable to dis- 
turb him further just then, and noth- 
ing more was said or done until the 
arrival of Dr. F , who came a little 
before sunrise, and expressed unbounded 
astonishment at finding the patient still 
alive. After feeling the pulse and ap- 
plying a mirror to the lips, he requested 
me to speak to the sleep-waker again. 
I did so, saying: 

“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?” 

As before, some minutes elapsed ere 
a reply was made; and during the in- 
terval the dying man seemed to be col- 
lecting his energies to speak. At my 
fourth repetition of the question, he 
said very faintly, almost inaudibly: 

“Ves; still asleep—dying.” 

It was now the opinion, or rather the 
wish, of the physicians, that M. Valde- 
mar should be suffered to remain un- 
disturbed in his present apparently tran- 
quil cordition, until death should super- 
vene—and this, it was generally agreed, 
must now take place within a few min- 
utes. I concluded, however, to speak 
to him once more, and merely repeated 
my previous question. 





417 


While I spoke, there came a marked 
change over the countenance of the 
sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves 
slowly open, the pupils disappearing up- 
wardly; the skin generally assumed a 
cadaverous hue, resembling not so much 
parchment as white paper; and the cir- 
cular hectic spots which, hitherto, had 
been strongly defined in the centre of 
each cheek, went out at once. I use 
this expression, because the suddenness 
of their departure put me in mind of 
nothing so much as the extinguishment 
of a candle by a puff of the breath. The 
upper lip, at the same time, writhed 
itself away from the teeth, which it 
had previously covered completely; 
while the lower jaw fell with an audible 
jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, 
and disclosing in full view the swollen 
and blackened tongue. I presume that 
no member of the party then present 
had been unaccustomed to death-bed 
horrors; but so hideous beyond concep- 
tion was the appearance of M. Valde- 
mar at this moment, that there was a 
general shrinking back from the region 
of the bed. 

I now feel that I have reached a 
point of this narrative at which every 
reader will be startled into positive dis- 
belief. It is my business, however, 
simply to proceed. 

There was no longer the faintest sign 
of vitality in M. Valdemar; and con- 
cluding him to be dead, we were con- 
signing him to the charge of the nurses, 
when a strong vibratory motion was 
observable in the tongue. This con- 
tinued for perhaps a minute. At the 
expiration of this period, there issued 
from the distended and motionless jaws 
a voice—such as it would be madness 
in me to attempt describing. There 


418 


are, indeed, two or three epithets which 
might be considered as applicable to it 
in part; I might say, for example, that 
the sound was harsh, and broken and 
hollow; but the hideous whole is in- 
describable, for the simple reason that 
no similar sounds have ever jarred upon 
the ear of humanity. There were two 
particulars, nevertheless, which I thought 
then, and still think, might fairly be 
stated as characteristic of the intona- 
tion—as well adapted to convey some 
idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In 
the first place, the voice seemed to reach 
cur ears—at least mine—from a vast 
distance, or from some deep cavern 
within the earth. In the second place, 
it impressed me (1 fear, indeed, 
that it will be impossible to make my- 
self comprehended) as gelatinous or 
glutinous matters impress the sense of 
touch. 

I have spoken both of ‘‘sound” and 
of ‘voice.’ I mean to say that the 
sound was one of distinct—of even 
wonderfully, thrillingly distinct—syllabi- 
fication. M. Valdemar spoke—obvi- 
ously in reply to the question I had 
propounded to him a few minutes be- 
fore. I had asked him, it will be re- 
membered, if he still slept. He now 
said: 

“Ves;—no;—I have been sleeping— 
and now—now—Z/ am dead.” 

No person present even affected to 
deny, or attempted to repress, the 
unutterable, shuddering horror which 
these few words, thus uttered, were so 
well calculated to convey. Mr. L——l 
(the student) swooned. The nurses 
Jmmediately left the chamber, and could 
not be induced to return. My own 
impressions I would not pretend to 
render intelligible to the reader. For 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, 
silently—without the utterance of a 
word—in endeavors to revive Mr. 
I 1. When he came to himself, we 
addressed ourselves again to an inves- 
tigation of M. Valdemar’s condition. 

It remained in all respects as I have 
last described it, with the exception 
that the mirror no longer afforded evi- 
dence of respiration. An attempt to 
draw blood from the arm failed. I 
should mention, too, that this limb was 
no further subject to my will. I en- 
deavored in vain to make it follow the 
direction of my hand. The only real 
indication, indeed, of the mesmeric in- 
fluence, was now found in the vibratory 
movement of the tongue, whenever: I 
addressed M. Valdemar a question. He 
seemed to be making an effort to reply, 
but had no longer sufficient volition. 
To queries put to him by any other 
person than myself he seemed utterly 
insensible—although I endeavored to 
place each member of the company in 
mesmeric rapport with him. I believe 
that I have now related all that is neces- 
sary to an-understanding of the sleep- 
waker’s state at this epoch. Other 
nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock 
I left the house in company with the 
two physicians and Mr. L——I. 

In the afternoon we all called again 
to see the patient. His condition re- 
mained precisely the same. We had 
now some discussion as to the propriety 
and feasibility of awakening him; but 
we had little difficulty in agreeing that 
no good purpose would be served by so 
doing. It was evident that, so far, 
death (or what is usually termed death) 
had been arrested by the mesmeric 
process. It seemed clear to us all that 
to awaken M. Valdemar would be 





THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR 


merely to insure his instant, or at least 
his speedy, dissolution. 

From this period until the close of 
last week—an interval of nearly seven 
months—we continued to make daily 
calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accom- 
panied, now and then, by medical and 
other friends. All this time the sleep- 
waker remained exactly as I have last 
described him. The nurses’ attentions 
were continual. 

It was on Friday last that we finally 
resolved to make the experiment of 
awakening, or attempting to awaken 
him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortu- 
nate result of this latter experiment 
which has given rise to so much dis- 
cussion in private circles—to so much 
of what I cannot help thinking un- 
warranted popular feeling. 

For the purpose of relieving M. 
Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I 
made use of the customary passes. 
These for a time were unsuccessful. 
The first indication of revival was af- 
forded by a partial descent of the iris. 
_It was observed, as especially remark- 
able, that this lowering of the pupil 
was accompanied by the profuse out- 
flowing of a yellowish ichor (from be- 
neath the lids) of a pungent and highly 
offensive odor. 

It was now suggested that I should 
attempt to influence the patient’s arm 
as heretofore. I made the attempt and 
failed. Dr. F—— then intimated a 
desire to have me put a question. I 
did so, as follows: 


419 


“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us 
what are your feelings or wishes now?” 

There was an instant return of the 
hectic circles on the cheeks: the tongue 
quivered, or rather rolled violently in 
the mouth (although the jaws and lips 
remained rigid as before), and at length 
the same hideous voice which I have 
already described, broke forth: 

“For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!— 
put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken 
me!—quick!—J say to you that I am 


dead!” 


I was thoroughly unnerved, and for 
an instant remained undecided what to 
do. At first I made an endeavor to re- 
compose the patient; but, failing in 
this through total abeyance of the will, 
I retracted my steps and as earnestly 
struggled to awaken him. In this at- 
tempt I soon saw that I should be 
successful—or at least I soon fancied 
that my success would be complete— 
and I am sure that all in the room were 


“prepared to see the patient awaken. 


For what really occurred, however, it 
is quite impossible that any human 
being could have been prepared. 

As I rapidly made the mesmeric 
passes, amid ejaculations of ‘‘dead! 
dead!” absolutely bursting from the 
tongue and not from the lips of the 
sufferer, his whole frame at once— 
within the space of a single minute, or 
even less, shrunk—crumbled, absolutely 
rotted away beneath my hands. Upon 
the bed, before that whole company, 
there lay a nearly liquid mass of loath- 
some—of detestable putrescence. 


The Premature Burtal 


(See tale, The Man of the Crowd.—Ed.) 


THERE are certain themes of which 
the interest is all-absorbing, but which 
are too entirely horrible for the pur- 
poses of legitimate fiction. These the 
mere romanticist must eschew, if he do 
not wish to offend or to disgust. They 
are with propriety handled only when 
the severity and majesty of truth sanc- 
tify and sustain them. We thrill, for 
example, with the most intense of 
“pleasurable pain” over the accounts of 
the Passage of the Beresina, of the 
Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at 
London, of the Massacre of St. Barth- 
olomew,: or of the stifling of the hun- 
dred and twenty-three prisoners in the 
Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these 
accounts it is the fact—it is the reality 
—it is the history which excites. As 
inventions, we should regard them with 
simple abhorrence. 

I have mentioned some few of the 
more prominent and august calamities 
on record; but in these it is the extent, 
not less than the character of the calam- 
ity, which so vividly impresses the 
fancy. I need not remind the reader 
that, from the long and weird catalogue 
of human miseries, I might have se- 
lected many individual instances more 
replete with essential suffering than 
any of these vast generalities of dis- 
aster. The true wretchedness, indeed 
—the ultimate woe—is particular, not 
diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of 
agony are endured by man the unit, and 
never by man the mass—for this let 
us thank a merciful God! 

To be buried while alive is, beyond 


question, the most terrific of these ex- 
tremes which has ever fallen to the lot 
of mere mortality. That it has fre- 
quently, very frequently, so fallen will 
scarcely be denied by those who. think. 
The boundaries which divide Life from 
Death are at best shadowy and vague. 
Who shall say where the one ends, and 
where the other begins? We know 
that there are diseases in which occur 
total cessations of all the apparent func- 
tions of vitality, and yet in which these 
cessations are merely suspensions, prop- 
erly so called. They are only tempo- 
rary pauses in the incomprehensible 
mechanism. A certain period elapses, 
and some unseen mysterious principle 
again sets in motion the magic pinions 
and the wizard wheels.; The silver cord 
was not for ever loosed, nor the golden 
bowl irreparably broken. But where, 
meantime, was the soul? 

Apart, however, from the inevitable 
conclusion, a priori that such causes . 
must produce such effects—that the 
well-known occurrence of such cases 
of suspended animation must naturally 
give rise, now and then, to premature 
interments—apart from this considera- 
tion, we have the direct testimony of 
medical and ordinary experience to 
prove that a vast number of such inter- 
ments have actually taken place. I 
might refer at once, if necessary to a 
hundred well-authenticated instances. 
One of very remarkable character, and 
of which the circumstances may be fresh 
in the memory of some of my readers, 
occurred, not very long ago, in the 


420 








THE PREMATURE BURIAL 


reighboring city of Baltimore, where 
it occasioned a painful, intense, and 
widely-extended excitement. The wife 
of one of the most respectable citizens 
—a lawyer of eminence and a member 
of Congress—was seized with a sudden 
and unaccountable illness, which com- 
pletely baffled the skill of her physi- 
cians. After much suffering she died, 
or was supposed to die. No one sus- 
pected, indeed, or had reason to sus- 
pect, that she was not actually dead. 
She presented all the ordinary appear- 
ances of death. The face assumed the 
usual pinched and sunken outline. The 
lips were of the usual marble pallor. 
The eyes were lustreless. There was 
no warmth. Pulsation had ceased. For 
three days the body was preserved un- 
buried, during which it had acquired 
a stony rigidity. The funeral, in short, 
was hastened, on account of the rapid 
advance of what was supposed to be 
decomposition. 

The lady was deposited in her family 
vault, which, for three subsequent years, 
was undisturbed. At the expiration of 
this term it was opened for the recep- 
tion of a sarcophagus—but, alas! how 
fearful a shock awaited the husband, 
who, personally, threw open the door! 
As its portals swung outwardly back, 
some white-apparelled object fell rat- 
tling within his arms. It was the skele- 
ton of his wife in her yet unmoulded 
shroud. 

A careful investigation rendered it 
evident that she had revived within two 
days after her entombment; that her 
struggles within the coffin had caused 
it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the 
floor, where it was so broken as to per- 
mit her escape. A lamp which had been 
accidentally left, full of oil, within the 


421 


tomb, was found empty; it might have 
been exhausted, however, by evapora- 
tion. On the uppermost of the steps 
which led down into the dread chamber 
was a large fragment of the coffin, with 
which, it seemed, that she had en- 
deavored to arrest attention by striking 
the iron door. While thus occupied, 
she probably swooned, or possibly died, 
through sheer terror; and, in falling, 
her shroud became entangled in some 
iron-work which projected interiorly. 
Thus she remained, and thus she rotted, 
erect: 

In the year 1810, a case of living 
inhumation happened in France, at- 
tended with circumstances which go far 
to warrant the assertion that truth is, 
indeed, stranger than fiction. The 
heroine of the story was a Mademoiselle 
Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of 
illustrious family, of wealth, and of 
great personal beauty. Among her nu- 
merous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a 
poor /itterateur, or journalist of Paris. 
His talents and general amiability had 
recommended him to the notice of the 
heiress, by whom he seems to have been 
truly beloved; but her pride of birth 
decided her, finally, to reject him, and 
to wed a Monsieur Renelle, a banker 
and a diplomatist of some eminence. 
After marriage, however, this gentleman 
neglected, and, perhaps, even more posi- 
tively ill-treated her. Having passed 
with him some wretched years, she died 
—at least her condition so closely re- 
sembled death as to deceive every one 
who saw her. She was buried—not in 
a vault, but in an ordinary grave in the 
village of her nativity. Filled with 
despair, and still inflamed by the mem- 
ory of profound atttachment, the lover 
journeys from the capital to the remote 


422 


province in which the village lies, with 
the romantic purpose of disinterring the 
corpse, and possessing himself of its 
luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. 
At midnight he unearths the coffin, 
opens it, and is in the act of detaching 
the hair, when he is arrested by the 
unclosing of the beloved eyes. In fact, 
the lady had been buried alive. Vi- 
tality had not altogether departed, and 
she was aroused by the caresses of her 
Jover from the lethargy which had been 
mistaken for death. He bore her fran- 
tically to his lodgings in the village. He 
employed certain powerful restoratives 
suggested by no little medical learning. 
In fine, she revived. She recognized 
her preserver. She remained with him 
until, by slow degrees, she fully recov- 
ered her original health. Her woman’s 
heart was not adamant, and this last 
lesson of love sufficed to soften it. She 
bestowed it upon Bossuet. She returned 
no more to her husband, but, conceal- 
ing from him her resurrection, fled with 
her lover to America. Twenty years 
afterward, the two returned to France, 
in the persuasion that time had so 
greatly altered the lady’s appearance 
that her friends would be unable to 
recognize her. ‘They were mistaken, 
however; for, at the first meeting, Mon- 
sieur Renelle did actually recognize and 
make claim to his wife. This claim she 
resisted, and a judicial tribunal sus- 
tained her in her resistance, deciding 
that the peculiar circumstances, with 
the long lapse of years, had extin- 
guished, not only equitably, but legally, 
the authority of the husband. 

The Chirurgical Journal of Leipsic, 
a periodical of high authority and merit, 
which some American book-seller would 
do well to translate and republish, rec- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ords in a late number a very distressing 
event of the character in question. 

An officer of artillery, a man of 
gigantic stature and of robust health, 
being thrown from an unmanageable 
horse, received a very severe contusion 
upon the head, which rendered him in- 
sensible at once; the skull was slightly 
fractured, but no immediate danger was 
apprehended. ‘Trepanning was accom- 
plished successfully. He was bled, and 
many other of the ordinary means of 
relief were adopted. Gradually, how- 
ever, he fell into a more and more 
hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it 
was thought that he died. 

The weather was warm, and he was 
buried with indecent haste in one of the 
public cemeteries. His funeral took 
place on Thursday. On the Sunday 
following, the grounds of the cemetery 
were, as usual, much thronged with 
visitors, and about noon an intense ex- 
citement was created by the declaration 
of a peasant that, while sitting upon 
the grave of the officer, he had distinctly 
felt a commotion of the earth, as if 
occasioned by some one struggling be- 
neath. At first little attention was paid 
to the man’s asseveration; but his evi- 
dent terror, and the dogged obstinacy 
with which he persisted in his story, 
had at length their natural effect upon 
the crowd. Spades were hurriedly pro- 
cured, and the grave, which was shame- 
fully shallow, was in a few minutes so 
far thrown open that the head of its 
occupant appeared. He was then seem- 
iigly dead; but he sat nearly erect 
within his coffin, the lid of which, in 
his furious struggles, he had partially 
uplifted. 

He was forthwith conveyed to the 
nearest hospital, and there pronounced 





THE PREMATURE BURIAL 


to be still living, although in an asphytic 
condition. After some hours he re- 
vived, recognized individuals of his ac- 
quaintance, and, in broken sentences 
spoke of his agonies in the grave. 

From what he related, it was clear 
that he must have been conscious of 
life for more than an hour, while in- 
humed, before lapsing into insensibility. 
The grave was carelessly and loosely 
filled with an exceedingly porous soil; 
and thus some air was necessarily ad- 
mitted. He heard the footsteps of the 
crowd overhead, and endeavored to 
make himself heard in turn. It was 
the tumult within the grounds of the 
cemetery, he said, which appeared to 
awaken him from a deep sleep, but no 
sooner was he awake than he became 
fully aware of the awful horrors of his 
position. 

This patient, it is recorded, was doing 
well, and seemed to be in a fair way of 
ultimate recovery, but fell a victim to 
the quackeries of medical experiment. 
The galvanic battery was applied, and 
he suddenly expired in one of those 
ecstatic paroxysms which, occasionally, 
it superinduces. 

The mention of the galvanic battery, 
nevertheless, recalls to my memory a 
well-known and very extraordinary case 
in point, where its action proved the 
means of restoring to animation a young 
attorney of London, who had been 
interred for two days. This occurred 
in 1831, and created, at the time, a 
very profound sensation wherever it 
was made the subject of converse. 

The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, 
had died, apparently, of typhus fever, 
accompanied with some anomalous 
symptoms which had excited the curi- 
osity of his medical attendants. Upon 


423 


his seeming decease, his friends were 
requested to sanction a post-mortem 
examination, but declined to permit it. 
As often happens, when such refusals 
are made, the practitioners resolved to 
disinter the body and dissect it at 
leisure, in private. Arrangements were 
easily effected with some of the nu- 
merous corps of body-snatchers, with 
which London abounds; and, upon the 
third night after the funeral, the sup- 
posed corpse was unearthed from a 
grave eight feet deep, and deposited in 
the operating chamber of one of the pri- 
vate hospitals. 

An incision of some extent had been 
actually made in the abdomen, when 
the fresh and undecayed appearance of 
the subject suggested an application of 
the battery. One experiment succeeded 
another, and the customary effects 
supervened, with nothing to character- 
ize them in any respect, except, upon 
ene or two occasions, a more than ordi- 
nary degree of life-likeness in the con- 
vulsive action. 

It grew late. The day was about to 
dawn; and it was thought expedient, at 
length, to proceed at once to the dis- 
section. A student, however, was es- 
pecially desirous of testing a theory of 
his own, and insisted upon applying the 
battery to one of the pectoral muscles. 
A rough gash was made, and a wire 
hastily brought in contact; when the 
patient, with a hurried but quite un- 
convulsive movement, arose from the 
table, stepped into the middle of the 
floor, gazed about him uneasily for a 
few seconds, and then—spoke. What 
he said was unintelligible; but words 
were uttered; the syllabification was 
distinct. Having spoken, he fell heavily 
to the floor. 


424 


For some moments all were paralyzed 
with awe—but the urgency of the case 
soon restored them their presence of 
mind. It was seen that Mr. Stapleton 
was alive, although in a swoon. Upon 
exhibition of ether he revived and was 
rapidly restored to health, and to the 
society of his friends—from whom, 
however, all knowledge of his resuscita- 
tion was withheld, until a relapse was 
no longer to be apprehended. Their 
wonder—their rapturous astonishment 
—may be conceived. 

The most thrilling peculiarity of this 
incident, nevertheless, is involved in 
what Mr. S. himself asserts. He de- 
clares that at no period was he alto- 
gether insensible—that, dully and con- 
fusedly, he was aware of everything 
which happened to him, from the mo- 
ment in which he was pronounced dead 
by his physicians, to that in which he 
fell swooning to the floor of the hos- 
pital. “I am alive,” were the uncom- 
prehended words which, upon recogniz- 
ing the locality of the dissecting-room, 
he had endeavored, in his extremity, 
to utter. 

It were an easy matter to multiply 
such histories as these—but I forbear— 
for, indeed, we have no need of such 
to establish the fact that premature 
interments occur. When we reflect how 
very rarely, from the nature of the 
case, we have it in our power to detect 
them, we must admit that they may 
frequently occur without our cogni- 
zance. Scarcely, in truth, is a grave- 
yard ever encroached upon, for any 
purpose, to any great extent, that skele- 
tons are not found in postures which 
suggest the most fearful of suspicions. 

Fearful indeed the suspicion—but 
more fearful the doom! It may be 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


asserted, without hesitation, that no 
event is so terribly well adapted to in- 
spire the supremeness of bodily and of 
mental distress, as is ‘burial before 
death. The unendurable oppression of 
the lungs—the stifling fumes of the 
damp earth—the clinging to the death 
garments—the rigid embrace of the 
narrow house—the blackness of the ab- 
solute Night—the silence like a sea that 
overwhelms—the unseen but palpable 
presence of the Conqueror Worm— 
these things, with the thoughts of the 
air and grass above, with memory of 
dear friends who would fly to save us 
if but informed of our fate, and with 
consciousness that of this fate they can 
never be informed—that our hopeless 
portion is that of the really dead—these 
considerations, I say, carry into the 
heart, which still palpitates, a degree of 
appalling and intolerable horror from 
which the most daring imagination must 
recoil. We know of nothing so agoniz- 
ing upon Earth—we can dream of noth- 
ing half so hideous in the realms of the 
nethermost Hell. And thus all narra- 
tives upon this topic have an interest 
profound; an interest, nevertheless, 
which, through the sacred awe of the 
topic itself, very properly and very pe- 
culiarly depends upon our conviction of 
the truth of the matter narrated. What 
I have now to tell is of my own actual 
knowledge—of my own positive and 
personal experience. 

For several years I had been subject, 
to attacks of the singular disorder which 
physicians have agreed to term cata- 
lepsy, in default of a more definitive 
title. Although both the immediate and 
the predisposing causes, and even the 
actual diagnosis, of this disease are still 
mysterious, its obvious and apparent 


THE PREMATURE BURIAL 


character is sufficiently well understood. 
Its variations seem to be chiefly of 
degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for 
a day only, or even for a shorter period, 
in a species of exaggerated lethargy. 
He is senseless and externally motion- 
less; but the pulsation of the heart is 
still faintly perceptible; some traces of 
warmth remain; a slight color lingers 
within the centre of the cheek; and, 
upon application of a mirror to the lips, 
we can detect a torpid, unequal, and 
vacillating action of the lungs. Then 
again the duration of the trance is for 
weeks—even for months; while the 
closest scrutiny, and the most rigorous 
medical tests, fail to establish any ma- 
terial distinction between the state of 
the sufferer and what we conceive of 
absolute death. Very usually he is 
saved from premature interment solely 
by the knowledge of his friends that he 
has been previously subject to cata- 
lepsy, by the consequent suspicion ex- 
cited, and, above all, by the non-ap- 
pearance of decay. The advances of 
the malady are, luckily, gradual. The 
first manifestations, although marked, 
are unequivocal. The fits grow succes- 
sively more and more distinctive, and 
endure each for a longer term than the 
preceding. In this lies the principal 
security from inhumation. The unfor- 
tunate whose first attack should be of 
the extreme character which is occa- 
sionally seen, would almost inevitably 
be consigned alive to the tomb. 

My own case differed in no important 
particular from those mentioned in 
medical books. Sometimes, without any 
apparent cause, I sank, little by little, 
into a condition of semi-syncope, or 
half swoon; and, in this condition, with- 
out pain, without ability to stir, or, 


425: 


strictly speaking, to think, but with a 
dull lethargic consciousess of life and 
of the presence of those who surrounded 
my bed, I remained, until the crisis 
of the disease restored me, suddenly, to 
perfect sensation. At other times I 
was quickly and impetuously smitten. 
I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and 
dizzy, and so fell prostrate at once. 
Then, for weeks, all was void, and 
black, and silent, and Nothing became 
the universe. Total annihilation could 
be no more. From these latter at- 
tacks I awoke, however, with a grada- 
tion slow in proportion to the sudden- 
ness of the seizure. Just as the day 
dawns to the friendless and houseless 
beggar who roams the streets through- 
out the long desolate winter night— 
just so tardily—just so wearily—just so 
cheerily came back the light of the 
Soul to me. 

Apart from the tendency to trance, 
however, my general health appeared 
to be good; nor could I perceive that 
it was at all affected by the one preva- 
lent malady—unless, indeed, an idiosyn- 
crasy in my ordinary sleep may be 
looked upon as superinduced. Upon 
awaking from slumber, I could never 
gain, at once, thorough possession of 
my senses, and always remained, for 
many minutes, in much bewilderment 
and perplexity—the mental faculties in 
general, but the memory in especial, 
being in a condition of absolute abey- 
ance. 

In all that I endured there was no 
physical suffering, but of moral distress 
an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel. 
I talked ‘of worms, of tombs, and 
epitaphs.” I was lost in reveries of 
death, and the idea of premature burial 
held continual possession of my brain. 


426 


The ghastly Danger to which I was 
subjected haunted me day and night. 
In the former, the torture of meditation 
was excessive; in the latter, supreme. 
When the grim Darkness overspread 
the Earth, then, with every horror of 
thought, I shook—shook as the quiver- 
ing plumes upon the hearse. When Na- 
ture could endure wakefulness no 
longer, it was with a struggle that I 
consented to sleep—for I shuddered to 
reflect that, upon awaking, I might 
find myself the tenant of a grave. And 
when, finally, I sank into slumber, it 
was only to rush at once into a world 
of phantasms, above which, with vast, 
sable, overshadowing wings, hovered, 
predominant, the one sepulchral Idea. 

From the innumerable images of 
gloom which thus oppressed me in 
dreams, I select for record but a soli- 
tary vision. Methought I was im- 
mersed in a cataleptic trance of more 
than usual duration and _ profundity. 
Suddenly there came an icy hand upon 
my forehead, and an impatient, gibber- 
ing voice whispered the word “‘Arise!”’ 
within my ear. 

I sat erect. The darkness was total. 
I could not see the figure of him who 
had aroused me. I could call to mind 
neither the period at which I had fallen 
into the trance, nor the locality in 
which I then lay. While I remained 
motionless, and busied in endeavors to 
collect my thought, the cold hand 
grasped me fiercely by the wrist, shak- 
ing it petulantly, while the gibbering 
voice said again: 

“Arise! did I not bid thee arise?” 

“And who,” I demanded, “art thou?” 

“T have no name in the regions which 
I inhabit,” replied the voice, mourn- 
fully; “I was mortal, but am fiend. I 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


was merciless, but am pitiful. Thou 
dost feel that I shudder. My teeth 
chatter as I speak, yet it is not with 
the chilliness of the night—of the night 
without end. But this hideousness is 
insufferable. How canst thou tran- 
quilly sleep? I cannot rest for the cry 
of these great agonies. These sights 
are more than I can bear. Get thee 
up! Come with me into the outer 
Night, and let me unfold to thee the 
graves. Is not this a spectacle of woe? 
—Behold!” 

I looked; and the unseen figure, 
which still grasped me by the wrist, had 
caused to be thrown open the graves of 
all mankind; and from each issued the 
faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so 
that I could see into the innermost 
recesses, and there view the shrouded 
bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers 
with the worm. But alas! the real 
sleepers were fewer, by’ many millions, 
than those who slumbered not at all; 
and there was a feeble struggling; and 
there was a general and sad unrest; and 
from out the depths of the countless 
pits there came a melancholy rustling 
from the garments of the buried. And 
of those who seemed tranquilly to re- 
pose, I saw that a vast number had 
changed, in a greater or less degree, 
the rigid and uneasy position in which 
they had originally been entombed. 
And the voice again said to me as I 
gazed: 

“Ts it not—oh! is it mot a pitiful 
sight?” But, before I could find words 
to reply, the figure had ceased to grasp 
my wrist, the phosphoric lights expired, 
and the graves were closed with a sud- 
den violence, while from out them arose 
a tumult of despairing cries, saying 


THE PREMATURE BURIAL 


again: “Is it not—O, God, is it mot a 
very pitiful sight?” 

Phantasies such as these, presenting 
themselves at night, extended their ter- 
rific influence far into my waking hours. 
My nerves became thoroughly unstrung, 
and I fell a prey to perpetual horror. 
_ I hesitated to ride, or to walk, or to 
indulge in any exercise that would carry 
me from home. In fact, I no longer 
dared trust myself out of the immediate 
presence of those who were aware of 
my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling 
into one of my usual fits, I should be 
buried before my real condition could 
be ascertained. I doubted the care, 
the fidelity of my dearest friends. I 
dreaded that, in some trance of more 
than customary duration, they might 
be prevailed upon to regard me as irre- 
coverable. I even went so far as to 
fear that, as I occasioned much trou- 
ble, they might be glad to consider any 
very protracted attack as sufficient ex- 
cuse for getting rid of me altogether. 
It was in vain they endeavored to re- 
assure me by the most solemn promises. 
I exacted the most sacred oaths, that 
under no circumstances they would bury 
me until decomposition had so mate- 
rially advanced as to render further 
preservation impossible. And, even 
then, my mortal terrors would listen to 
no reason—would accept no consola- 
tion. I entered into a series of elabo- 
_ rate precautions. Among other things, 
I had the family vault so remodelled as 
to admit of being readily opened from 
within. The slightest pressure upon a 
long lever that extended far into the 
tomb would cause the iron portals to 
fly back. There were arrangements also 
for the free admission of air and light, 
and convenient receptacles for food and 


427 


water, within immediate reach of the 
coffin intended for my reception. This 
coffin was warmly and softly padded, 
and was provided with a lid, fashioned 
upon the principle of the vault-door, 
with the addition of springs so contrived 
that the feeblest movement of the body 
would be sufficient to set it at liberty. 
Besides all this, there was suspended 
from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, 
the rope of which, it was designed, 
should extend through a hole in the 
coffin, and so be fastened to one of 
the hands of the corpse. But, alas! 
what avails the vigilance against the 
Destiny of man? Not even these well- 
contrived securities sufficed to save 
from the uttermost agonies of living in- 
humation, a wretch to these agonies 
foredoomed! 

There arrived an epoch—as often 
before there had arrived—in which I 
found myself emerging from total un- 
consciousness into the first feeble and 
indefinite sense of existence. Slowly— 
with a tortoise gradation—approached 
the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. 
A torpid uneasiness. An apathetic en- 
durance of dull pain. No care—no 
hope—no effort. Then, after a long in- 
terval, a ringing in the ears; then, after 
a lapse still longer, a prickling or 
tingling sensation in the extremities; 
then a seemingly eternal period of pleas- 
urable quiescence, during which the 
awakening feelings are struggling into 
thought; then a brief re-sinking into 
nonentity; then a sudden recovery. At 
length the slight quivering of an eye- 
lid, and immediately thereupon, an elec- 
tric shock of a terror, deadly and in- 
definite, which sends the blood in tor- 
rents from the temples to the heart. 
And now the first positive effort to 


428 


think. And now the first endeavor to 
remember. And now a partial and 
evanescent success. And now the mem- 
ory has so far regained its dominion, 
that, in some measure, I am cognizant 
of my state. I feel that I am not 
awaking from ordinary sleep. I recol- 
lect that I have been subject to cata- 
lepsy. And now, at last, as if by the 
rush of an ocean, my shuddering spirit 
is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger 
—hby the one spectral and ever-preva- 
Jent idea. 

For some minutes after this fancy 
possessed me, I remained without mo- 
tion. And why? I could not summon 
courage to move. I dared not make 
the effort which was to satisfy me of 
my fate—and yet there was something 
at my heart which whispered me z¢ was 
sure. Despair—such as no other spe- 
cies of wretchedness ever calls into 
being—despair alone urged me, after 
long irresolution, to uplift the heavy 
lids of my eyes. I uplifted them. It 
was dark—all dark. I knew that the 
fit was over. I knew that the crisis of 
my disorder had long passed. I knew 
that I had now fully recovered the 
use of my visual faculties—and yet it 
was dark—all dark—the intense and 
utter raylessness of the Night that en- 
dureth for evermore. 

I endeavored to shriek; and my lips 
and my parched tongue moved con- 
vulsively together in the attempt—but 
no voice issued from the cavernous 
lungs, which oppressed as if by the 
weight of some incumbent mountain, 
gasped and palpitated, with the heart, 
at every elaborate and _ struggling 
inspiration. 

The movement of the jaws, in this 
effort to cry aloud, showed me that 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


they were bound up, as is usual with 
the dead. I felt, too, that I lay upon 
some hard substance; and by something 
similar my sides were, also, closely com- 
pressed. So far, I had not ventured 
to stir any of my limbs—but now I 
violently threw up my arms, which had 
been lying at length, with the wrists 
crossed. They struck a solid wooden 
substance, which extended above my 
person at on elevation of not more 
than six inches from my face. I could 
no longer doubt that I reposed within 
a coffin at last. 

And now, amid all my infinite mis- 
eries, came sweetly the cherub Hope— 
for I thought of my precautions. I 
writhed, and made spasmodic exertions 
to force open the lid: it would not 
move. I felt my wrists for the bell- 
rope: it was not to be found. And 
now the Comforter fled for ever, and 
a still sterner Despair reigned tri- 
umphant; for I could not help perceiv- 
ing the absence of the paddings which 
I had so carefully prepared—and then, 
too, there came suddenly to my nostrils 
the strong peculiar odor of moist earth. 
The conclusion was irresistible. I was 
not within the vault. I hdd fallen into 
a trance while absent from home— 
while among strangers—when, or how, I 
could not remember—and it was they 
who had buried me as a dog—nailed up 
in some common coffin—and_ thrust 
deep, deep, and for ever, into some 
ordinary and nameless grave. 

As this awful conviction forced itself, 
thus, into the innermost chambers of my 
soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. 
And in this second endeavor I succeeded. 
A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or 
yell, of agony, resounded through the 
realms of the subterranean Night. 





THE PREMATURE BURIAL 


“Fillo! hillo, there!” said a_ gruff 
voice, in reply. 

“What the devil’s the matter now!” 
said a second. 

“Get out o’ that!” said a third. 

“What do you mean by yowling in 
that ere kind of style, like a catty- 
mount?” said a fourth; and hereupon 
I was seized and shaken without cere- 
mony, for several minutes, by a junto 
of very rough-looking individuals. They 
did not arouse me from my slumber— 
for I was wide-awake when I screamed 
—but they restored me to the full pos- 
session of my memory. 

This adventure occurred near Rich- 
mond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a 
friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning 
expedition, some miles down the banks 
of the James River. Night approached, 
and we were overtaken by a storm. 
The cabin of a small sloop lying at 
anchor in the stream, and laden with 
garden mould, afforded us the only 
available shelter. We made the best 
of it, and passed the night on board. I 
slept in one of the only two berths in 
the vessel—and the berths of a sloop 
of sixty or seventy tons need scarcely 
be described. That which I occupied 
had no bedding of any kind. Its ex- 
treme width was eighteen inches. The 
distance of its bottom from the deck 
overhead was precisely the same. I 
found it a matter of exceeding diffi- 
culty to squeeze myself in. Neverthe- 
less, I slept soundly; and the whole of 
my vision—for it was no dream, and no 
nightmare—arose naturally from the 
circumstances of my position—from my 
ordinary bias of thought—and from the 
difficulty, to which I have alluded, of 
collecting my senses, and especially of 
regaining my memory, for a long time 


429 


after awaking from slumber. The men 
who shook me were the crew of the 
sloop, and some laborers engaged to 
unload it. From the load itself came 
the earthly smell. The bandage about 
the jaws was a silk handkerchief in 
which I had bound up my head, in de- 
fault of my customary nightcap. 

The tortures endured, however, were 
indubitably quite equal, for the time, 
to those of actual sepulture. They 
were fearfully—they were inconceiv- 
ably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded 
Good; for their very excess wrought in 
my spirit an inevitable revulsion. My 
soul acquired tone—acquired temper. 
I went abroad. I took vigorous exer- 
cise. I breathed the free air of Heaven. 
I thought upon other subjects than 
Death. I discarded my medical books. 
“Buchan” I burned. I read no “Night 
Thoughts”—no fustian about church- 
yards—no bugaboo tales—such as this. 
In short I became a new man, and lived 
a man’s life. From that memorable 
night, I dismissed forever my charnel 
apprehensions, and with them vanished 
the cataleptic disorder, of which, per- 
haps, they had been less the conse- 
quence than the cause. 

There are moments when, even to 
the sober eye of Reason, the world of 
our sad Humanity may assume the 
semblance of a Hell—but the imagina- 
tion of man is no Carathis, to explore 
with impunity its every cavern. Alas! 
the grim legion of sepulchral terrors can- 
not be regarded as altogether fanciful— 
but, like the Demons in whose company 
Afrasiab made his voyage down the 
Oxus, they must sleep, or they will 
devour us—they must be suffered to 
slumber, or we perish. 


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AGM ed GNU eI A 











Lhe Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


Upon my return to the United States 
a few months ago, after the extraordi- 
nary series of adventure in the South 
Seas and elsewhere, of which an account 
is given in the following pages, accident 
threw me into the society of several 
gentlemen in Richmond, Va., who felt 
deep interest in all matters relating to 
the regions I had visited, and who were 
constantly urging it upon me, as a duty, 
to give my narrative to the public. I 
had several reasons, however, for de- 
clining to do so, some of which were 
of a nature altogether private, and con- 
cern no person but myself; others not 
so much so. One consideration which 
deterred me was, that having kept no 
journal during a greater portion of the 
time in which I was absent, I feared I 
should not be able to write, from mere 
memory, a statement so minute and 
connected as to have the appearance of 
that truth it would really possess, bar- 
ring only the natural and unavoidable 
exaggeration to which all of us are 
prone when detailing events which have 
had powerful influence in exciting the 
imaginative faculties. Another reason 
was, that the incidents to be narrated 
were of a nature so positively marvel- 
lous that, unsupported as my assertions 
must necessarily be (except by the evi- 
dence of a single individual, and he a 
half-breed Indian), I could only hope 
for belief among my family, and those 
of my friends who have had reason, 


through life, to put faith in my verac- 
ity—the probability being that the pub- 
lic at large would regard what I should 
put forth as merely an impudent and 
ingenious fiction. A distrust in my 
own abilities as a writer was, neverthe- 
less, one of the principal causes which 
prevented me from complying with the 
suggestion of my advisers. 

Among those gentlemen in Virginia 
who expressed the greatest interest in 
my statement, more particularly in re- 
gard to that portion of it which related 
to the Antartic Ocean, was Mr. Poe, 
lately editor of the Southern Literary 
Messenger, a monthly magazine, pub- 
lished by Mr. Thomas W. White, in the 
city of Richmond. He strongly advised 
me, among others, to prepare at once 
a full account of what I had seen and 
undergone, and trust to the shrewdness 
and common-sense of the public—in- 
sisting, with great plausibility, that 
however ‘roughly, as regards mere au- 
thorship, my book should be got up, its 
very uncouthness, if there were any, 
would give it all the better chance of 
being received as truth. 

Notwithstanding this representation, 
I did not make up my mind to do as 
he suggested. He afterward proposed 
(finding that I would not stir in the 
matter) that I should allow him to 
draw up, in his own words, a narrative 
of the earlier portion of my adventures 
from facts afforded by myself, publish- 


431 


432 


ing it in the Southern Messenger under 
the garb of fiction. To this, perceiving 
no objection, I consented, stipulating 
only that my real name should be re- 
tained. Two numbers of the pretended 
fiction appeared, consequently, in the 
Messenger for January and February, 
(1837), and, in order that it might cer- 
tainly be regarded as fiction, the name 
of Mr. Poe was affixed to the articles 
in the table of contents of the mag- 
azine. 

The manner in which this ruse was 
received has induced me at length to 
undertake a regular compilation and 
publication of the adventures in ques- 
tion; for I found that, in spite of the 
air of fable which had been so ingen- 
iously thrown around that portion of 
my statement which appeared in the 
Messenger (without altering or distort- 
ing a single fact), the public were still 
not at all disposed to receive it as fable, 
and several letters were sent to Mr. 
P.’s address, distinctly expressing a con- 
viction to the contrary. I thence con- 
cluded that the facts of my narrative 
would prove of such a nature as to 
carry with them sufficient evidence of 
their own authenticity, and that I had 
consequently little to fear on the score 
of popular incredulity. 

This expose being made, it will be 
seen at once how much of what follows 
T claim to be in my own writing; and 
it will also be understood that no fact 
is misrepresented in the first few pages 
which were written by Mr. Poe. Even 
to those readers who have not seen the 
Messenger, it will be unnecessary to 
point out where his portion ends and 
my own commences; the difference in 
point of style will be readily perceived. 

A. G. PYM. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


CHAPTER I 


My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. 
My father was a respectable trader in 
sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was 
born. My maternal grandfather was an 
attorney in good practice. He was for- 
tunate in every thing, and had specu- 
lated very successfully in stocks of the 
Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly 
called. By these and other means he 
had managed to lay by a tolerable sum 
of money. He was more attached to 
myself, I believe, than to any other 
person in the world, and I expected to 
inherit the most of his property at his 
death. He sent me, at six years of 
age, to the school of old Mr. Ricketts, 
a gentleman with only one arm, and of 
eccentric manners—he is well known to © 
almost every person who has visited | 
New Bedford. I stayed at his school | 
until I was sixteen, when I left him | 
for Mr. E. Ronald’s academy on the 
hill. Here I became intimate with the 
son of Mr. Barnard, a sea-captain, who 
generally sailed in the employ of Lloyd 
and Vredenburgh—Mr. Barnard is also © 
very well known in New Bedford, and 
has many relations, I am certain, in 
Edgarton. His son was named Augus- 
tus, and he was nearly two years older | 
than myself. He had been on a whaling © 
voyage with his father in the John | 
Donaldson, and was always talking to © 
me of his adventures in the South © 
Pacific Ocean. I used frequently to go © 
home with him, and remain all day, and | 
sometimes all night. We occupied the 
same bed, and he would be sure to 
keep me awake until almost light, tell- 
ing me stories of the natives of the 
Island of Tinian, and other places he | 
had visited in his travels, At last I. 











THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


could not help being interested in what 
he said, and by degrees I felt the great- 
est desire to go to sea. I owned a sail- 
boat called the Ariel, and worth about 
seventy-five dollars. She had a half 
deck or cuddy, and was rigged sloop- 
fashion—I forget her tonnage, but she 
would hold ten persons without much 
crowding. In this boat we were in the 
habit of going on some of the maddest 
freaks in the world; and, when I now 
think of them, it appears to me a thou- 
sand wonders that I am alive to-day. 

I will relate one of these adventures 
by way of introduction to a longer and 
more momentous narrative. One night 
there was a party at Mr. Barnard’s, and 
both Augustus and myself were not a 
little intoxicated toward the close of it. 
As usual, in such cases, I took part of 
his bed in preference to going home. 
He went to sleep, as I thought, very 
quietly (it being near one when the 
party broke up), and without saying a 
word on his favorite topic. It might 
have been half an hour from the time 
of our getting in bed, and I was just 
about falling into a doze, when he sud- 
denly started up, and swore with a ter- 
rible oath that he would not go to sleep 
for any Arthur Pym in Christendom, 
when there was so glorious a breeze 
from the southwest. I never was so 
astonished in my life, not knowing what 
he intended, and thinking that the wines 
and liquors he had drunk had set him 
entirely beside himself. He proceeded 
to talk very coolly, however, saying he 
knew that I supposed him intoxicated, 
but that he was never more sober in 
his life. He was only tired, he added, 
of lying in bed on such a fine night 
like a dog, and was determined to get 
up and dress, and go out on a frolic 


433 - 


with the boat. I can hardly tell what. 
possessed me, but the words were no 
sooner out of his mouth than I felt a 
thrill of the greatest excitement and 
pleasure, and thought his mad idea one 
of the most delightful and most reason- 
able things in the world. It was blow- 
ing almost a gale, and the weather was 
very cold—it being late in October. I 
sprang out of bed, nevertheless, in a 
kind of ecstacy, and told him I was 
quite as brave as himself, and quite as 
tired as he was of lying in bed like 
a dog, and quite as ready for any fun 
or frolic as any Augustus Barnard in 
Nantucket. 

We lost no time in getting on our 
clothes and hurrying down to the boat, 
She was lying at the old decayed wharf 
by the lumber-yard of Pankey & Co., 
and almost thumping her side out 
against the rough logs. Augustus got 
into her and bailed her, for she was 
nearly half full of water. This being 
done, we hoisted jib and mainsail, kept 
full, and started boldly out to sea. 

The wind, as I before said, blew 
freshly from the southwest. The night 
was very clear and cold. Augustus had 
taken the helm, and I stationed myself 
by the mast, on the deck of the cuddy. 
We flew along at a great rate—neither 
of us having said a word since casting 
loose from the wharf. I now asked my 
companion what course he intended to 
steer, and what time he thought it prob- 
able we should get back. He whistled 
for a few minutes, and then said crust- 
ily: “7 am going to sea—you may go 
home if you think proper.” Turning 
my eyes upon him, I perceived at once 
that, in spite of his assumed nonchal- 
ance, he was greatly agitated. I could 
see him distinctly by the light of the 


434 


moon—his face was paler than any 
marble, and his hand shook so exces- 
sively that he could scarcely retain hold 
of the tiller. I found that something 
had gone wrong, and became seriously 
alarmed. At this period I knew little 
about the management of a boat, and 
was now depending entirely upon the 
nautical skill of my friend. The wind, 
too, had suddenly increased, and we 
were fast getting out of the lee of the 
land—still I was ashamed to betray any 
trepidation, and for almost half an hour 
maintained a resolute silence. I could 
stand it no longer, however, and spoke 
to Augustus about the propriety of 
turning back. As before, it was nearly 
2 minute before he made answer, or 
took any notice of my suggestion. “By 
and by,” said he at length—‘‘time 
enough—home by and by.” I had ex- 
pected such a reply, but there was 
something in the tone of these words 
which filled me with an indescribable 
feeling of dread. I again looked at the 
speaker attentively. His lips were per- 
fectly livid, and his knees shook so 
violently together that he seemed 
scarcely able to stand. “For God’s 
sake, Augustus,” I screamed, now heart- 
ily frightened, “what ails you?—what 
is the matter?—what are you going to 
do?” ‘Matter!’ he stammered, in the 
greatest apparent surprise, letting go 
the tiller at the same moment, and 
falling forward into the bottom of the 
Loat—‘‘matter—why, nothing is the 
— matter — going home —d—d—don’t 
you seer” The whole truth now flashed 
upon me. I flew to him and raised 
him up. He was drunk—beastly. drunk 
—he could no longer either stand, speak 
or see. His eyes were perfectly glazed; 
and as I let him go in the extremity of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


my despair, he rolled like a mere log 
into the bilgewater, from which I had 
lifted him. It was evident that, dur- 
ing the evening, he had drunk far more 
than I suspected, and that his conduct 
in bed had been the result of a highly- 
concentrated state of intoxication—a 
state which, like madness, frequently 
enables the victim to imitate the out- 
ward demeanor of one in perfect pos- 
session of his senses. The coolness of 
the night air, however, had had its 
usual effect—the mental energy began 
to yield before its influence—and the 
confused perception which he no doubt 
then had of his perilous situation had 
assisted in hastening the catastrophe. 
He was now thoroughly insensible, and 
there was no probability that he would 
be otherwise for many hours. 

It is hardly possible to conceive the 
extremity of my terror. The fumes of 
the wine lately taken had evaporated, 
leaving me doubly timid and irresolute. 
I knew that I was altogether incapable 
of managing the boat, and that a fierce 
wind and strong ebb-tide were hurrying 
us to destruction. A storm was evi- 
dently gathering behind us; we had 
neither compass nor provisions; and it 
was clear that, if we held our present 
course, we should be out of sight of 
land before daybreak. These thoughts, 
with a crowd of others equally fearful, 
flashed through my mind with a bewil- 
dering rapidity, and for some moments 
paralyzed me beyond the possibility of 
making any exertion. The boat was 
going through the water at a terrible 
rate—full before the wind—no reef in 
either jib or mainsail—running her 
bows completely under the foam. It 
was a thousand wonders she did not 
broach to—Augustus having let go the 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


tiller, as I said before, and I being too 
much agitated to think of taking it my- 
self. By good luck, however, she kept 
steady, and gradually I recovered some 
degree of presence of mind. Still the 
wind was increasing fearfully; and 
whenever we rose from a plunge for- 
ward, the sea behind fell combing over 
our counter, and deluged us with water. 
I was so utterly benumbed, too, in 
every limb, as to be nearly unconscious 
of sensation. At length I summoned 
up the resolution of despair, and rush- 
ing to the mainsail, let it go by the run. 
As might have been expected, it flew 
over the bows, and, getting drenched 
with water, carried away the mast short 
off by the board. This latter accident 
alone saved me from instant destruc- 
tion. Under the jib only, I now 
boomed along before the wind, ship- 
ping heavy seas occasionally, but re- 
lieved from the terror of immediate 
death. I took the helm, and breathed 
with greater freedom, as I found that 
there yet remained to us a chance of 
ultimate escape. Augustus still lay 
senseless in the bottom of the boat; 
and as there was imminent danger of 
his drowning (the water being nearly 
a foot deep just where he fell), I con- 
trived to raise him partially up, and 
keep him in a sitting position, by pass- 
ing a rope round his waist, and lashing 
it to a ring-bolt in the deck of the 
cuddy. Having thus arranged every 
thing as well as I could in my chilled 
and agitated condition, J recommended 
myself to God, and made up my mind 
to bear whatever might happen with 
all the fortitude in my power. 

Hardly had I come to this resolution, 
when, suddenly, a loud and long scream 
or yell, as if from the throats of a 


435 


thousand demons, seemed to pervade 
the whole atmosphere around and above 
the boat. Never while I live shall I 
forget the intense agony of terror I 
experienced at that moment. My hair 
stood erect on my head—I felt the 
blood congealing in my veins—my 
heart ceased utterly to beat, and with- 
out having once raised my eyes to learn 
the source of my alarm, I tumbled 
headlong and insensible upon the body 
of my fallen companion. 

I found myself, upon reviving. in the 
cabin of a large whaling-ship (the Pen- 
guin) bound to Nantucket. Several 
persons were standing over me, and 
Augustus, paler than death, was busily 
occupied in chafing my hands. Upon 
seeing me open my eyes, his exclama- 
tions of gratitude and joy excited alter- 
nate laughter and tears from the rough: 
looking personages who were present. 
The mystery of our being in existence 
was now soon explained. We had been 
run down by the whaling-ship, which 
was close-hauled, beating up to Nan- 
tucket with every sail she could ven- 
ture to set, and consequently running 
almost at right angles to our own 
course. Several men were on the look- 
out forward, but did not perceive our 
boat until it was an impossibility to 
avoid coming in contact—their shouts 
of warning upon seeing us were what 
so terribly alarmed me. The huge ship, 
I was told, rode immediately over us 
with as much ease as our own little 
vessel would have passed over a feather, 
and without the least perceptible im- 
pediment to her progress. Not a scream 
arose from the deck of the victim— 
there was a slight grating sound to be 
heard mingling with the roar of wind 
and water, as the frail bark which was 


436 


swallowed up rubbed for a moment 
along the keel of her destroyer—but 
this was all. Thinking our boat (which 
it will be remembered was dismasted) 
some maere shell cut adrift as useless, 
the captain (Captain E. T. V. Block, 
of New London) was for proceeding on 
his course without troubling himself 
further about the matter. Luckily, 
there were two of the look-out who 
swore positively to having seen some 
person at our helm, and represented the 
' possibility of yet saving him. A dis- 
cussion ensued, when Block grew angry, 
and, after a while, said that “it was no 
business of his to be eternally watching 
for egg-shells; that the ship should not 
put about for any such nonsense; and 
if there was a man run down, it was 
nobody’s fault but his own—he might 
drown and be d—d,” or some language 
to that effect. Henderson, the first 
mate, now took the matter up, being 
justly indignant, as well as the whole 
ship’s crew, at a speech evincing such 
a degree of heartless atrocity. He spoke 
plainly, seeing himself upheld by the 
men, told the captain he considered him 
a fit subject for the gallows, and that 
he would disobey his orders if he were 
hanged for it the moment he set his 
foot on shore. He strode aft, jostling 
Block (who turned pale and made no 
answer) on one side, and seizing the 
helm, gave the word, in a firm voice, 
Hard-a-lee! The men flew to their 
posts, and the ship went cleverly about. 
All this had occupied nearly five min- 
utes, and it was supposed to be hardly 
within the bounds of possibility that 
any individual could be saved—allow- 
ing any to have been on board the boat. 
Yet, as the reader has seen, both Au- 
gustus and myself were rescued; and 


to be my Own. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


our deliverance seemed to have been 
brought about by two of those almost 
inconceivable pieces of good fortune 
which are attributed by the wise and 
pious to the special interference of 
Providence. 

While the ship was yet in stays, the 
mate lowered the jolly-boat and jumped 
into her with the very two men, I 
believe, who spoke up as having seen 
me at the helm. They had just left 
the lee of the vessel (the moon still 
shining brightly) when she made a long 
and heavy roll to windward, and Hen- 
derson, at the same moment, starting 
up in his seat, bawled out to his crew 
to back water. He would say nothing 
else—repeating his cry impatiently, 
back water! back water! The men put 
back as speedily as possible; but by 
this time the ship had gone round, 
and gotten fully under headway, 
although all hands on board were mak- 
ing great exertions to take in sail. In 
despite of the danger of the attempt, the 
mate clung to the main-chains as soon 
as they came within his reach. Another 
huge lurch now brought the starboard 
side of the vessel out of the water 
neatly as far as her keel, when the 
cause of his anxiety was rendered 
obvious enough. The body of a man 
was seen to be affixed in the most sin- 
gular manner to the smooth and shin-- 
ing bottom (the Penguin was coppered 
and copper-fastened), and beating vio- 
lently against it with every movement 
of the hull. After several ineffectual 
efforts, made during the lurches of the 
ship, and at the imminent risk of 
swamping the boat, I was finally dis- 
engaged from my perilous situation and 
taken on board—for the body proved 
It appeared that one 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


of the timber-bolts having started and 
broken a passage through the copper, it 
had arrested my progress as I passed 
under the ship, and fastened me in so 
extraordinary a manner to her bottom. 
The head of the bolt had made its way 
*hrough the collar of the green baize 
jacket I had on, and through the back 
part of my neck, forcing it self out 
between two sinews and just below the 
right ear. I was immediately put to 
bed—although life seemed to be totally 
extinct. There was no surgeon on 
board. ‘The captain, however, treated 
me with every attention—to make 
amends, I presume, in the eyes of his 
crew, for his atrocious behavior in the 
previous portion of the adventure. 

In the meantime, Henderson had 
again put off from the ship, although 
the wind was now blowing almost a 
hurricane. He had not been gone many 
minutes when he fell in with some 
fragments of our boat, and shortly 
afterward one of the men with him 
asserted that he could distinguish a cry 
for help at intervals amid the roaring 
of the tempest. This induced the hardy 
seamen to persevere in their search for 
more than half an hour, although re- 
peated signals to return were made 
them by Captain Block and although 
every moment on the water in so frail 
a boat was fraught to them with the 
most imminent and deadly peril. In- 
deed, it is nearly impossible to conceive 
how the small jolly they were in could 
have escaped destruction for a single 
instant. She was built, however, for 
the whaling service, and was fitted, as 
I have since had reason to believe, with 
air-boxes, in the manner of some life- 
boats used on the coast of Wales. 

After searching in vain for about the 


437, 


period of time just mentioned, it was 
determined to get back to the ship. 
They had scarcely made this resolve 
when a feeble cry arose from a dark 
object that floated rapidly by. They 
pursued and soon overtook it. It proved 
to be the entire deck of the Ariel’s 
cuddy. Augustus was struggling near 
it, apparently in the last agonies. Upon 
getting hold of him it was found that 
he was attached by a rope to the float- 
ing timber. This rope, it will be re- 
membered, I had myself tied around his 
waist, and made fast to a ring-bolt, for 
the purpose of keeping him in an up- 
right position, and my so doing, it ap- 
peared, had been ultimately the means 
of preserving his life. The Ariel was 
slightly put together, and in going down 
her frame naturally went to pieces; the 
deck of the cuddy, as might have been 
expected, was lifted, by the force of the 
water rushing in, entirely from the main 
timbers, and floated (with other frag- 
ments, no doubt) to the surface—Au- 
gustus was buoyed up with it, and thus 
escaped a terrible death. 

It was more than an hour ofter being 
taken on board the Penguin before he 
could give any account of himself, or 
be made to comprehend the nature of 
the accident which had befallen our 
boat. At length he became thoroughly 
aroused, and spoke much of his sensa- 
tions while in the water. Upon his first 
attaining any degree of consciousness, 
he found himself beneath the surface, 
whirling round and round with incon- 
ceivable rapidity, and with a rope 
wound in three or four folds tightly 
about his neck. In an instant after- 
ward he felt himself going rapidly up- 
ward, when, his head striking violently 
against a hard substance, he again re- 


4338 


lapsed in insensibility. Upon once more 
reviving he was in fuller possesion of 
his reason—this was still, however, in 
the greatest degree clouded and con- 
fused. He now knew that some acci- 
dent had occurred, and that he was in 
the water, although his mouth was 
above the surface, and he could breathe 
with some freedom. Possibly, at this 
period the deck was drifting rapidly 
before the wind, and drawing him after 
it as he floated upon his back. Of 
course, as long as he could have re- 
tained his position, it would have been 
nearly impossible that he should be 
drowned. Presently a surge threw him 
directly athwart the deck; and this 
post he endeavored to maintain, 
screaming at intervals for help. Just 
before he was discovered by Mr. Hen- 
derson, he had been obliged to relax 
his hold through exhaustion, and, fall- 
ing into the sea, had given himself up 
for lost. During the whole period of 
his struggles he had not the faintest 
recollection of the Ariel, nor of any 
matters in connection with the source 
of his disaster. A vague feeling of ter- 
ror and despair had taken entire pos- 
session of his faculties. When he was 
finally picked up, every power of his 
mind had failed him; and, as before 
said, it was nearly an hour after get- 
ting on board the Penguin before he 
became fully aware of his condition. 
In regard to myself—I was resuscitated 
from a state bordering very nearly upon 
death (and after every other means had 
been tried in vain for three hours and 
a half) by vigorous friction with flan- 
nels bathed in hot oil—a proceeding 
suggested by Augustus. The wound in 
my neck, although of an ugly appear- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ance, proved of little real consequence, 
and I soon recovered from its effects. 
The Penguin got into port about nine 
o’clock in the morning, after encounter- 
ing one of the severest gales ever ex- 
perienced off Nantucket. Both Augus- 
tus and myself managed to appear at 
Mr. Barnard’s in time for breakfast— 
which luckily, was somewhat late, 
owing to the party overnight. I sup- 
pose, all at the table were too much 
fatigued themselves to notice our jaded 
appearance—of course, it would not 
have borne a very rigid scrutiny. 
School-boys, however, can accomplish 
wonders in the way of deception, and I 
verily believe not one of our friends in 
Nantucket had the slightest suspicion 
that the terrible story told by some 
sailors in town of their having run 
down a vessel at sea and drowned some 
thirty or forty poor devils, had refer- 
ence either to the Ariel, my compan- 
ion, or myself. We two have since very 
frequently talked the matter over—but 
never without a shudder. In one of our 
conversations Augustus frankly con- 
fessed to me, that in his whole life he 
had at no time experienced so excru- 
ciating a sense of dismay, as when on 
board our little boat he first discovered 
the extent of his intoxication, and felt 
himself sinking beneath its influence. 


Cuapter II 


In no affairs of mere prejudice, pro 
or con, do we deduce inferences with 
entire certainty, even from the most 
simple data. It might be supposed that 
a catastrophe such as I have just re- 
lated would have effectually cooled my 
incipient passion for the sea. On the 
contrary, I never experienced a more 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


ardent’ longing for the wild adventures 
incident to the life of a navigator than 
within a week after our miraculous de- 
liverance. This short period proved 
amply long enough to erase from my 
memory the shadows and bring out in 
vivid light all the pleasurably exciting 
points of color, all the picturesqueness, 
of the late perilous accident. My con- 
versations with Augustus grew daily 
more frequent and more intensely full 
of interest. He had a manner of re- 
lating his stories of the ocean (more 
than one half of which I now suspect 
to have been sheer fabrications) well 
adapted to have weight with one of my 
enthusiastic temperament and _ some- 
what gloomy although glowing imagina- 
tion. It is strange, too, that he most 
strongly enlisted my feelings in behalf 
of the life of a seaman, when he de- 
picted his more terrible moments of 
suffering and despair. For the bright 
side of the painting I had a limited 
sympathy. My visions were of ship- 
wreck and famine; of death or captiv- 
ity among barbarian hordes; of a life- 
time dragged out in sorrow and tears, 
upon some gray and desolate rock, in 
an ocean unapproachable and unknown. 
Such visions or desires—for they 
amounted to desires—are common, I 
have since been assured, to the whole 
numerous race of the melancholy 
among men—at the time of which I 
speak I regarded them only as _ pro- 
phetic glimpses of a destiny which I 
felt myself in 3 measure bound to ful- 
fil. Augustus thoroughly entered into 
my state of mind. It is probable, in- 
deed, that our intimate communion had 
resulted in a partial interchange of 
character. 

About eighteen months after the 


439 


period of the Ariel’s disaster, the firm 
of Lloyd and Vredenburgh (a house 
connected in some manner with the 
Messieurs Enderby, I believe, of Liver- 
pool) were engaged in repairing and 
fitting out the brig Grampus for a whal- 
ing voyage. She was an old hulk, and 
scarcely sea-worthy when all was done 
to her that could be aone. I hardly 
know why she was chosen in preference 
to other and good vessels belonging to 
the same owners—but so it was. Mr. 
Barnard was appointed to command 
her, and Augustus was going with him. 
While the brig was getting ready, he 
frequently urged upon me the excel- 
lency of the opportun‘ty now offered 
for indulging my desire of travel. He 
found me by no means an unwilling 
listener—yet the matter could not be so 
easily arranged. My father made no 
direct opposition; but my mother went 
into hysterics at the bare mention of 
the design; and, more than all, my 
grandfather, from whom I expected 
much, vowed to cut me off with a shil- 
ling if I should ever broach the subject 
to him again. These difficulties, how- 
ever, so far from abating my desire, 
only added fuel to the flame. I deter- 
mined to go at all hazards; and, having 
made known my intentions to Augustus, 
we set about arranging a plan by which 
it might be accomplished. In the mean- 
time I forbore speaking to any of my 
relations in regard to the voyage, and, 
as I busied myself ostensibly with my 
usual studies, it was supposed that I 
had abandoned the design. I have since 
frequently examined my conduct on 
this occasion with sentiments of dis- 
pleasure as well as of surprise. The 
intense hypocrisy I made use of for the 
furtherance of my project—an hypoc- 


440 


risy pervading every word and action 
of my life for so long a period of time 
—could only have been rendered toler- 
able to myself by the wild and burning 
expectation with which I looked for- 
ward to the fulfilment of my long- 
cherished visions of travel. 

In pursuance of my scheme of de- 
ception, I was necessarily obliged to 
leave much to the management of Au- 
gustus, who was employed for the 
greater part of every day on board the 
Grampus, attending to some arrange- 
ments for his father in the cabin and 
tabin-hold. At night, however, we were 
sure to have a conference and talk over 
our hopes. After nearly a month 
passed in this manner, without our hit- 
ting upon any plan we thought likely 
to succeed, he told me at last that he 
had determined upon every thing neces- 
sary. I had a relation living in New 
Bedford, a Mr. Ross, at whose house I 
was in the habit of spending occasion- 
ally two or three weeks at a time. The 
brig was to sail about the middle of 
June (June, 1827), and it was agreed 
that, a day or two before her putting 
to sea, my father was to receive a note, 
as usual, from Mr. Ross, asking me to 
come over and spend a fortnight with 
Robert and Emmet (his sons). Augus- 
tus charged himself with the inditing 
of this note and getting it delivered. 
Having set out, as supposed, for New 
Bedford, I was then to report myself 
to my companion, who would contrive 
a hiding-place for me in the Grampus. 
This hiding-place, he assured me, would 
be rendered sufficiently comfortabie for 
a residence of many days, during which 
I was not to make my appearance. 
When the brig had proceeded so far 
on her course as to make any turning 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


back a matter out of question, I should 
then, he said, be formally installed in 
all the comforts of the cabin; and as to 
his father, he would only laugh heartily 
at the joke. Vessels enough would be 
met with by which a letter might be 
sent home explaining the adventure to 
my parents. 

The middle of June at length arrived, 
and every thing had been matured. 
The note was written and delivered, and 
on a Monday morning I left the house 
for the New Bedford packet, as sup- 
posed. I went, however, straight to 
Augustus, who was waiting for me at 
the corner of a street. It had been our 
original plan that I should keep out of 
the way until dark, and then slip on 
board the brig; but, as there was now a 
thick fog in our favor, it was agreed 
to lose no time in secreting me. Au- 
custus led the way to the wharf, and I 
followed at a little distance, enveloped 
in a thick seaman’s cloak, which he had 
brought with him, so that my person 
might not be easily recognized. Just as 
we turned the second corner, after pass- 
ing Mr. Edmund’s well, who should ap 
pear, standing right in front of me, and 
looking me full in the face, but old Mr. 
Peterson, my grandfather. ‘‘Why, bless 
my soul, Gordon,” said he, after a long 
pause, “why, why,—whose dirty cloak 
is that you have on?” “Sir!” J re- 
plied, assuming, as well as I could, in 
the exigency of the moment, an air of 
offended surprise, and talking in the 
gruffest of all imaginable tones—“sir! 
you are a sum’mat mistaken—my name, 
in the first place, bee’nt nothing at all 
like Gordon, and I’d want you for to 
know better, you blackguard, than to 
call my new overcoat a darty one.” 
For my life I could hardly refrain from 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


screaming with laughter at the odd 
manner in which the old gentleman 
received this handsome rebuke. He 
started back two or three steps, turned 
first pale and then excessively red, 
threw up his spectacles, then, putting 
them down, ran full tilt at me, with 
his umbrella uplifted. He stopped 
short, however, in his career, as if 
struck with a sudden recollection; and 
presently, turning round, hobbled off 
down the street, shaking all the while 
with rage, and muttering between his 
teeth: “Won't do—new — glasses— 
thought it was Gordon—d—d good-for- 
nothing salt water Long Tom.” 

After this narrow escape we pro- 
ceeded with greater caution, and ar- 
rived at our point of destination in 
safety. There were only one or two 
of the hands on board, and these were 
busy forward, doing something to the 
forecastle combings. Captain Barnard, 
we knew very well, was engaged at 
Lloyd and Vredenburgh’s, and would 
remain there until late in the evening, 
so we had little to apprehend on his 
account. Augustus went first up the 
vessel’s side, and in a short while I fol- 
lowed him, without being noticed by the 
men at work. We proceeded at once 
into the cabin, and found no person 
there. it was fitted up in the most 
comfortable style—a thing somewhat 
unusual in a whaling-vessel, There 
were four very excellent state-rooms, 
with wide and convenient berths. There 
was also a large stove, I took notice, 
and a remarkably thick and valuable 
carpet covering the floor of both the 
cabin and state-rooms. The ceiling 
was full seven feet high, and, in short, 
every thing appeared of a more roomy 
and agreeable nature than I had an- 


4AL 


ticipated. Augustus, however, would 
allow me but little time for observa- 
tion, insisting upon the necessity of my 
concealing myself as soon as possible. 
He led the way into his own state- 
room, which was on the starboard side 
of the brig, and next to the bulkheads. 
Upon entering, he closed the door and 
bolted it. I thought I had never seen 
a nicer little room than the one in 
which I now found myself. It was 
about ten feet long, and had only one 
berth, which, as I said before, was wide 
and convenient. In that portion of the 
closet nearest the bulkheads there was a 
space of four feet square, containing a 
table, a chair, and a set of hanging 
shelves full of books, chiefly books of 
voyages and travels. There were many 
other little comforts in the room, 
among which I ought not to forget a 
kind of safe or refrigerator, in which 
Augustus pointed out to me a host of 
delicacies, both in the eating and drink- 
ing department. 

He now pressed with his knuckles 
upon a certain spot of the carpet in one 
corner of the space just mentioned, 
letting me know that a portion of the 
flooring, about sixteen inches square, 
had been neatly cut out and again ad- 
justed. As he pressed, this portion 
rose up at one end sufficientiy to allow 
the passage of his finger beneath. In 
this manner he raised the mouth of the 
trap (to which the carpet was still 
fastened by tacks), and I found that 
it led into the after-hold. He next lit 
a small taper by means of a phosphor- 
ous match, and, placing the light in a 
dark lantern, descended with it through 
the opening, bidding me follow. I did 
so, and he then pulled the cover upon 
the hole, by means of a nail driven 


442 


into the under side—the carpet, of 
course, resuming its original position on 
the floor of the state-room, and all 
traces of the aperture being concealed. 

The taper gave out so feeble a ray 
that it was with the greatest difficulty 
I could grope my way through the con- 
fused mass of lumber among which I 
now found myself. By degrees, how- 
ever, my eyes became accustomed to 
the gloom, and I proceeded with less 
trouble, holding on to the skirts of my 
friend’s coat. He brought me, at 
length, after creeping and winding 
through innumerable narrow passages, 
to an iron-bound box, such as is used 
sometimes for packing fine earthen- 
ware. It was nearly four feet high, and 
full six long, but very narrow. Two 
large empty oil-casks lay on the top 
of it, and above these, again, a vast 
quantity of straw matting, piled up as 
high as the floor of the cabin. In every 
direction around was wedged as closely 
as possible, even up to the ceiling, a 
complete chaos of almost every species 
of ship-furniture, together with a 
heterogeneous medley of crates, ham- 
pers, barrels, and bales, so that it 
seemed a matter no less than mirac- 
ulous that we had discovered any pas- 
sage at all to the box. I afterward 
found that Augustus had purposely ar- 
ranged the stowage in this hold with a 
view to affording me a thorough con- 
cealment, having had only one assistant 
in the labor, a man not going out in the 
brig. 

My companion now showed me that 
one of the ends of the box could be 
removed at pleasure. He slipped it 
aside and displayed the interior, at 
which I was excessively amused. A 
mattress from one of the cabin berths 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


covered the whole of its bottom, and iv 
contained almost every article of mere 
comfort which could be crowded into 
so small a space, allowing me, at the 
same time, sufficient room for my ac- 
commodation, either in a sitting posi- 
tion or lying at full length. Among 
other things, there were some books, 
pen, ink, and paper, three blankets, a 
large jug full of water, a keg of sea- 
biscuit, three or four immense Bologna 
sausages, an enormous ham, a cold leg 
of roast mutton, and half a dozen bot- 
tles of cordials and liqueurs. I pro- 
ceeded immediately to take possession 
of my little apartment, and this with 
feelings of higher satisfaction, I am 
sure, than any monarch ever exper- 
ienced upon entering a new palace. Au- 
gustus now pointed out to me the 
method of fastening the open end of 
the box, and then, holding the taper 
close to the deck, showed me a piece 
of dark whipcord lying along it. This, 
he said, extended from my hiding-place 
throughout all the necessary windings 
among the lumber, to a nail which was 
driven into the deck of the hold, im- 
mediately beneath the trap-door leading 
into his state-room. By means of this 
cord I should be enabled readily to 
trace my way out without his guidance, 
provided any unlooked for accident 
should render such a stej) necessary. 
He now took his departure, leaving with 
me the lantern, together with a copious 
supply of papers and phosphorous, and 
promising to pay me a visit as often as 
he could contrive to do so without ob- 
servation. This was on the seventeenth 
of June. 

I remained three days and nights (as 
nearly as I could guess) in my hiding- 
place without getting out of it at all, 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


except twice for the purpose of stretch- 
ing my limbs by standing erect between 
two crates just opposite the opening. 
During the whole period I saw nothing 
ef Augustus; but this occasioned me 
little uneasiness, as I knew the brig 
was expected to put to sea every hour, 
and in the bustle he could not easily 
find opportunities of coming down to 
me. At length I heard the trap open 
and shut, and presently he called in a 
low voice; asking if all was well, and 
if there was any thing I wanted. 
“Nothing,” I replied; “I am as com- 
fortable as can be; when will the brig 
sail?” “She will be under way in less 
than half an hour,” he answered. “I 
came to let you know, and for fear you 
should be uneasy at my absence. I 
shall not have a chance of coming down 
again for some time—perhaps for three 
or four days more. All is going on 
right above-board. After I go up and 
close the trap, do you creep along the 
whipcord to where the nail is driven 
in. You will find my watch there— 
it may be useful to you, as you have 
no daylight to keep time by. I suppose 
you can’t tell how long you have been 
buried—only three days—this is the 
twentieth. I would bring the watch to 
your box, but am afraid of being 
missed.’ With this he went up. 

In about an hour after he had gone 
I distinctly felt the brig in motion, and 
congratulated myself upon having at 
length fairly commenced a_ voyage. 
Satisfied with this idea, I determined 
to make my mind as easy as possible 
and await the course of events until [ 
should be permitted to exchange the 
box for the more roomy, although 
hardly more comfortable accommoda- 
tions of the cabin. My first care was 


443 


to get the watch. Leaving the taper 
burning, I groped along in the dark, 
following the cord through windings 
innumerable, in some of which I dis- 
covered that, after toiling a long dis- 
tance, I was brought back within a 
foot or two of a former position. At 
length I reached the nail, and securing 
the object of my journey, returned 
with it in safety. I now looked over 
the books which had been so thought- 
fully provided, and selected the expe- 
dition of Lewis and Clarke to the mouth 
of the Columbia. With this I amused 
myself for some time, when, growing 
sleepy, I extinguished the light with 
great care, and soon fell into a sound 
slumber. 

Upon awakening I felt strangely 
confused in mind, and some time 
elapsed before I could bring to recol- 
lection all the various circumstances of 
my situation. By degrees, however, I 
remembered all. Striking a light, I 
looked at the watch; but it was run 
down, and there were, consequently, no 
means of determining how long I slept. 
My limbs were greatly cramped, and l 
was forced to relieve them by standing 
between the crates. Presently feeling 
an almost ravenous appetite, I be- 
thought myself of the cold mutton, 
some of which I had eaten just before 
going to sleep, and found excellent. 
What was my astonishment in discover- 
ing it to be in a state of absolute putre- 
faction! This circumstance occasioned 
me great disquietude; for, connecting it 
with the disorder of mind I exper- 
ienced upon awakening, I began to sup- 
pose that I must have slept for an in- 
ordinately long period of time. The 
close atmosphere of the hold might 
have something to do with this, and 


444 


might, in the end, be productive of the 
most serious results. My head ached 
excessively; I fancied that I drew every 
breath with difficulty; and, in short, I 
was oppressed with a multitude of 
gloomy feelings. Still I could not 
venture to make any disturbance by 
opening the trap or otherwise, and, hav- 
ing wound up the watch, contented my- 
self as well as possible. 

Throughout the whole of the next 
tedious twenty-four hours no person 
came to my relief, and I could not 
help accusing Augustus of the grossest 
inattention. What alarmed me chiefly 
was, that the water in my jug was re- 
duced to about half a pint, and I was 
suffering much from thirst, having 
eaten freely of the Bologna sausages 
after the loss of my mutton. I became 
very uneasy, and could no longer take 
any interest in my books. I was over- 
powered, too, with a desire to sleep, 
yet trembled at the thought of in- 
dulging it, lest there might exist some 
pernicious influence, like that of burn- 
ing charcoal, in the confined air of the 
hold. In the meantime the roll of the 
brig told me that we were far in the 
main ocean, and a dull humming sound, 
which reached my ears as if from an 
immense distance, convinced me no 
ordinary gale was blowing. I could not 
imagine a reason for the absence of 
Augustus. We were surely far enough 
advanced on our voyage to allow of 
my going up. Some accident might 
have happened to him—but I could 
think of none which would account for 
his suffering me to remain so long a 
prisoner, except, indeed, his having 
suddenly died or fallen overboard, and 
upon this idea I could not dwell with 
any degree of patience. It was possible 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


that we had been baffled by head-winds, 
and were still in the near vicinity of 
Nantucket. This notion, however, I 
was forced to abandon; for such being 
the case, the brig must have frequently 
gone about; and I was entirely satisfied, 
from her continual inclination to the 
larboard, that she had been sailing all 
along with a steady breeze on her star- 
board quarter. Besides, granting that 
we were still in the neighborhood of 
the island, why should not Augustus 
have visited me and informed me of the 
circumstance? Pondering in this man- 
ner upon the difficulties of my solitary 
and cheerless condition, I resolved to 
wait yet another twenty-four hours, 
when, if no relief were obtained, I 
would make my way to the trap, and 
endeavor either to hold a parley with 
my friend, or get at least a little fresh 
air through the opening, and a further 
supply of water from the state-room. 
While occupied with this thought, how- 
ever, I fell, in spite of every exertion 
to the contrary, into a state of pro- 
found sleep, or rather stupor. My 
dreams were of the most terrific de- 
scription. Every species of calamity 
and horror befell me. Among other 
miseries I was smothered to death be- 
tween huge pillows, by demons of the 
most ghastly and ferocious aspect. Im- 
mense serpents held me in their em- 
brace, and looked earnestly in my face 
with their fearfully shining eyes. Then 
deserts, limitless, and of the most for- 
lorn and awe-inspiring character, spread 
themselves out before me. Immensely 
tall trunks of trees, gray and leafless, 
rose up in endless succession as far as 
the eye could reach. Their roots were 
concealed in wide-spreading morasses, 
whose dreary water lay intensely black, 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


still, and altogether terrible, beneath. 
And the strange trees seemed endowed 
with a human vitality, and waving to 
and fro their skeleton arms, were cry- 
ing to the silent waters for mercy, in 
the shrill and piercing accents of the 
most acute agony and despair. The 
scene changed; and I stood, naked and 
alone, amidst the burning sand-plains of 
Sahara. At my feet lay crouched a 
fierce lion of the tropics. Suddenly his 
wild eyes opened and fell upon me. 
With a convulsive bound he sprang to 
his feet, and laid bare his horrible teeth. 
In another instant there burst from his 
red throat a roar like the thunder of 
the firmament, and I fell impetuously 
to the earth. Stifling in a paroxysm of 
terror, I at last found myself partially 
awake. My dream, then, was not ail 
a dream. Now, at least, I was in pos- 
session of my senses. The paws of 
some huge and real monster were pres- 
sing heavily upon my bosom—his hot 
breath was in my ear—and his white 
and ghastly fangs were gleaming upon 
me through the gloom. 

Had a thousand lives hung upon the 
movement of a limb or the utterance 
of a syllable, I could have neither 
stirred nor spoken. The beast, what- 
ever it was, retained his position with- 
out attempting any immediate violence, 
while I lay in an utterly helpless, and, 
I fancied, a dying condition beneath 
him. I felt that my powers of body 
and mind were fast leaving me—in a 
word, that I was perishing, and per- 
ishing of sheer fright. My brain swam 
—I grew deadly sick—-my vision failed 
—even the glaring eyeballs above me 
grew dim. Making a last strong effort, 
I at length breathed a faint ejacula- 
tion to God, and resigned myself to 


445 


die. The sound of my voice seemed to 
arouse all the latent fury of the animal. 
He precipitated himself at full length 
upon my body; but what was my as- 
tonishment, when, with a long and low 
whine, he commenced licking my face 
and hands with the greatest eagerness, 
and with the most extravagant demon- 
stration of affection and joy! I was 
bewildered, utterly lost in amazement 
—but I could not forget the peculiar 
whine of my Newfoundland dog Tiger, 
and the odd manner of his caresses I 
well knew. It was he. I experienced 
a sudden rush of blood to my temples— 
a giddy and overpowering sense of de- 
liverance and reanimation. I rose hur- 
riedly from the mattress upon which 
I had been lying, and, throwing myself 
upon the neck of my faithful follower 
and friend, relieved the long oppression 
of my bosom in a flood of the most 
passionate tears. 

As upon a former occasion my con- 
ceptions were in a state of the great- 
est indistinctness and confusion after 
leaving the mattress. For a long time 
I found it nearly impossible to connect 
any ideas; but, by very slow degrees, 
my thinking faculties returned, and I 
again called to memory the several in- 
cidents of my condition. For the pres- 
ence of Tiger I tried in vain to ac- 
count; and after busying myself with a 
thousand different conjectures respect- 
ing him, was forced to content myself 
with rejoicing that he was with me to 
share my dreary solitude, and render 
me comfort by his caresses. Most peo- 
ple love their dogs, but for Tiger I had 
an affection far more ardent than com- 
mon; and never, certainly, did any 
creature more truly deserve it. For 
seven years he had been my inseparable 


446 


companion, and in a multitude of in- 
stances had given evidence of all the 
noble qualities for which we value the 
animal. I had rescued him, when a 
puppy, from the clutches of a malignant 
little villain in Nantucket who was 
leading him, with a rope around his 
neck, to the water; and the grown dog 
repaid the obligation, about three years 
afterward, by saving me from the 
bludgeon of a street robber. 

Getting now hold of the watch, I 
found, upon applying it to my ear, that 
it had again run down; but at this I 
was not at all surprised, being con- 
vinced, from the peculiar state of my 
feelings, that I had slept, as before, 
for a very long period of time; how 
long, it was of course impossible to 
say. I was burning up with fever, and 
my thirst was almost intolerable. I 
felt about the box for my little remain- 
ing supply of water, for I had no light, 
the taper having burnt to the socket of 
the lantern, and the phosphorus-box not 
coming readily to hand. Upon finding 
the jug, however, I discovered it to be 
empty—tTiger, no doubt, having been 
tempted to drink it, as well as to de- 
vour the remnant of mutton, the bone 
of which lay, well picked, by the open- 
ing of the box. The spoiled meat I 
could well spare, but my heart sank as 
I thought of the water. I was feeble 
in the extreme, so much so that I shook 
all over, as with an ague, at the slight- 
est movement or exertion. To add to 
my troubles, the brig was pitching and 
rolling with great violence, and the oil- 
casks which lay upon my box were in 
momentary danger of falling down, so 
as to block up the only way of ingress 
or egress. I felt, also, terrible suffer- 
ings from sea-sickness. ‘These consid- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


erations determined me to make my 
way, at all hazards, to the trap, and 
obtain immediate relief, before I should 
be incapacitated from doing so alto- 
gether. Having come to this resolve, 
I again felt about for the phosphorus- 
box and tapers. The former I found 
after some little trouble; but, not dis- 
covering the tapers as soon as I had 
expectec (for I remembered very nearly 
the spot in which I had placed them), 
I gave up the search for the present, 
and bidding Tiger lie quiet, began at 
once my journey teward the trap. 

In this attempt my great feebleness 
became more than ever apparent. © It 
was with the utmost difficulty I could 
crawl along at all, and very frequently 
my limbs sank suddenly from beneath 
me; when, falling prostrate on my face, 
I would remain for some minutes in a 
state bordering on insensibility. Still 
I struggled forward by slow degrees, 
dreading every moment that I should 
swoon amid’ the narrow and intricate 
windings of the lumber, in which event 
I had nothing but death to expect as 
the result. At length, upon making a 
push forward with all the energy I 
could command, I struck my forehead 
violently against the sharp corner of 
an iron-bound crate. The accident only 
stunned me for a few moments; but I 
found, to my inexpressible grief, that 
the quick and violent roll of the vessel 
had thrown the crate entirely across 
my path, so as effectually to block up 
the passage. With my utmost exer- 
tions I could not move it a single inch 
from its position, it being closely 
wedged in ainong the surrounding boxes 
and ship-furniture. It became neces- 
sary, therefore, enfeebled as I was, 
either to leave the guidance of the 


| 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


whipcord and seek out a new passage, 
or to climb over the obstacle, and re- 
sume the path on the other side. The 
former alternative presented too many 
difficulties and dangers to be thought 
of without a shudder. In my present 
weak state of both mind and body, I 
should infallibly lose my way if I at- 
tempted it, and perish miserably amid 
the dismal and disgusting labyrinths of 
the hold. I proceeded, therefore, with- 
out hesitation, to summon up all my 
remaining strength and fortitude, and 
endeavor, as I best might, to clamber 
over the crate. 

Upon standing erect, with this end in 
view, I found the undertaking even a 
more serious task than my fears had 
led me to imagine. On each side of 
the narrow passage arose a complete 
wall of various heavy lumber, which the 
Jeast blunder on my part might be the 
means of bringing down upon my head; 
or, if this accident did not occur, the 
path -might be effectually blocked up 
against my return by the descending 
mass, as it was in front by the obstacle 
there. The crate itself was a long and 
unwieldy box, upon which no foothold 
could be obtained. In vain I attempted, 
by every means in my power, to reach 
the top, with the hope of being thus 
enabled to draw myself up. Had I 
succeeded in reaching it, it is certain 
that my strength would have proved 
utterly inadequate to the task of getting 
over, and it was better in every respect 
that I failed. At length, in a desperate 
effort to force the crate from its ground, 
I felt a strong vibration in the side 
next me. I thrust my hand eagerly to 
the edge of the planks, and found that 
a very large one was loose. With my 
pocket-knife, which, luckily, I had with 


447 


me, I succeeded, after great labor, in 
prying it entirely off; and getting 
it through the aperture, discovered, to 
my exceeding joy, that there were no 
boards on the opposite side—in other 
words, that the top was wanting, it 
being the bottom through which I had 
forced my way. I now met with no 
important difficulty in proceeding along 
the line until I finally reached the nail. 
With a beating heart I stood erect, and 
with a gentle touch pressed against the 
cover of the trap. It did not rise as 
soon as I had expected, and I pressed 
it with somewhat more determination, 
still dreading lest some other person 
than Augustus might be in his state- 
room. The door, however, to my aston- 
ishment, remained steady, and I became 
somewhat uneasy, for I knew that it 
had formerly required but little or ne 
effort to remove it. I pushed it 
strongly—it was nevertheless firm; with 
all my strength—it still did not give 
way: with rage, with fury, with de- 
spair—it set at defiance my utmost 
efforts; and it was evident, from the 
unyielding nature of the resistance, that 
the hole had either been discovered and 
effectually nailed up, or that some im- 
mense weight had been placed upon it, 
which it was useless to think of 
removing. 

My sensations were those of extreme 
horror and dismay. In vain I attempted 
to reason on the probable cause of my 
being thus entombed. JI could summon 
up no connected chain of reflection, and, 
sinking on the floor, gave way, unre- 
sistingly, to the most gloomy imagin- 
ings, in which the dreadful deaths of 
thirst, famine, suffocation, and prema- 
ture interment crowded upon me as the 
prominent disasters to be encountered. 


448 


At length there returned to me some 
portion of presence of mind. I arose, 
and felt with my fingers for the seams 
or cracks of the aperture. Having 
found them, I examined them closely 
to ascertain if they emitted any light 
from the -state-room; but none was 
visible. I then forced the blade of my 
pen-knife through them, until I met 
with some hard obstacle. Scraping 
against it, I discovered it to be a solid 
mass of iron, which, from its peculiar 
wavy feel as I passed the blade along 
it, I concluded to be a chain-cable. The 
only course now left me was to retrace 
my way to the box, and there either 
yield to my sad fate, or try so to tran- 
quilize my mind as to admit of my 
arranging some plan of escape. I im- 
mediately set about the attempt, and 
succeeded, after innumerable difficulties, 
in getting back. As I sank, utterly ex- 
hausted, upon the mattress, Tiger threw 
himself at full length by my side, and 
seemed as if desirous, by his caresses, 
of consoling me in my troubles, and 
urging me to bear them with fortrtude. 

The singularity of his behavior at 
length forcibly arrested my attention. 
After licking my face and hands for 
some minutes, he would suddenly cease 
doing so, and utter a low whine. Upon 
reaching out my hand toward him, i 
then invariably found him lying on his 
back, with his paws uplifted. This con- 
duct, so frequently repeated, appeared 
strange, and I could in no manner ac- 
count for it. As the dog seemed dis- 
tressed, I concluded that he had received 
some injury; and, taking his paws in 
my hands, I examined them one by 
one, but found no sign of any hurt. I 
then supposed him hungry, and gave 
him a large piece of ham, which he 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


devoured with avidity—afterward, how: 
ever, resuming his extraordinary ma- 
noeuvres. I now imagined that he was 
suffering, like myself, the torments of 
thirst, and was about adopting this con- 
clusion as the true one, when the idea 
occurred to me that I had as yet only 
examined his paws, and that there might 
possibly be a wound upon some por- 
tion of his body or head. The latter 
I felt carefully over, but found nothing. 
On passing my hand, however, along 
his back, I perceived a slight erection 
of the hair extending completely across 
it. Probing this with my finger, I dis- 
covered a string, and tracing it up, 
found that it encircled the whole body. 
Upon a-closer scrutiny, I came across 
a small slip of what had the feeling of 
letter paper, through which the string 
had been fastened in such a manner as 
to bring it immediately beneath the 
left shoulder of the animal. 


CHAPTER III 


Tue thought instantly occurred to 
me that the paper was a note from 
Augustus, and that some unaccountable 
accident having happened to prevent 
his relieving me from my dungeon, he 
had devised this method of acquainting 
me with the true state of affairs. Trem- 
bling with eagerness, I now commenced 
another search for my phosphorus 
matches and tapers. I had a confused 
recollection of having put them care- 
fully away just before falling asleep; 
and, indeed, previously to my last jour- 
ney to the trap, I had been able to 
remember the exact spot where I had 
deposited them. But now I endeavored 
in vain to call it to mind, and busied 
myself for a full hour in a fruitless and 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


vexatious search for the missing arti- 
cles; never, surely, was there a more 
tantalizing state of anxiety and sus- 
pense. At length, while groping about, 
with my head close to the ballast, near 
the opening the box, and outside of it, 
I perceived a faint glimmering of light 
in the direction of the steerage. Greatly 
surprised, I endeavored to make my 
way toward it, as it appeared to be but 
a few feet from my position. Scarcely 
had I moved with this intention, when 
J lost sight of the glimmer entirely, 
and, before I could bring it into view 
again, was obliged to feel along by the 
box until I had. exactly resumed my 
original situation. Now, moving my 
head with caution to and fro, I found 
that, by proceeding slowly, with great 
care, in an opposite direction to that 
in which I had at first started, I was 
enabled to draw near the light, still 
keeping it in view. Presently I came 
directly upon it (having squeezed my 
way through innumerable narrow wind- 
ings), and found that it proceeded from 
some fragments of my matches lying in 
an empty barrel turned upon its side. 
I was wondering how they came in 
such a place, when my hand fell upon 
two or three pieces of taper-wax, which 
had been evidently mumbled by the 
dog. I concluded at once that he had 
cevoured the whole of my supply of 
candles, and I felt hopeless of being 
ever able to read the note of Augustus. 
The small remnants of the wax were 
so mashed up among other rubbish in 
the barrel, that I despaired of deriving 
any service from them, and left them 
as they were. The phosphorus, of which 
there was only a speck or two, I gath- 
ered up as well as I could, and returned 
with it. after much difficulty, to my 


449 


box, where Tiger had ail the while 
remained. 

What to do next I could not tell. 
The hold was so intensely dark that I 
could not see my hand, however close 
I would hold it to my face. The white 
slip of paper could barely be discerned, 
and not even that when I looked at it 
directly; by turning the exterior por- 
tions of the retina toward it—that is 
to say, by surveying it slightly askance, 
I found that it became in some measure 
perceptible. Thus the gloom of my 
prison may be imagined, and the note 
of my friend, if indeed it were a note 
from him, seemed only likely to throw 
me into further trouble, by disquieting 
to no purpose my already enfeebled 
and agitated mind. In vain I revolved 
in my brain a multitude of absurd ex- 
pedients for procuring light—such expe- 
dients precisely as a man in the perturbed 
sleep occasioned by opium would be 
apt to fall upon for a similar purpose— 
each and all of which appear by turns 
to the dreamer the most reasonable and 
the most preposterous of conceptions, 
just as the reasoning or imaginative 
faculties flicker, alternately, one above 
the other. At last an idea occurred 
to me which seemed rational, and which 
gave me cause to wonder, very justly, 
that I had not entertained it before. 
I placed the slip of paper on the back 
of a book, and, collecting the fragments 
of the phosphorus matches which I 
had brought from the barrel, laid them 
together upon the paper. I then, with 
the palm of my hand, rubbed the whole 
over quickly, yet steadily. A clear light 
diffused itself immediately throughout 
the whole surface; and had there been 
any writing upon it, I should not have 
experienced the least difficulty, I am 


450 


sure, in reading it. Not a syllable was 
there, however—nothing but a dreary 
and unsatisfactory blank; the illumina- 
tion died away in a few seconds, and 
my heart died away within me as it 
went. 

I have before stated more than once 
that my intellect, for some period prior 
to this, had been in a condition nearly 
bordering on idiocy. There were, to be 
sure, momentary intervals of perfect 
sanity, and, now and then, even of 
energy; but these were few. It must 
be remembered that I had been, for 
many days certainly, inhaling the almost 
pestilential atmosphere of a close hold 
in a whaling vessel, and for a long por- 
tion of that time but scantily supplied 
with water. For the last fourteen or 
fifteen hours I had none—nor had I 
slept during that time. Salt provisions 
of the most exciting kind had been my 
chief, and, indeed, since the loss of the 
mutton, my only supply of food, with 
the exception of the sea-biscuit; and 
these latter were utterly useless to me, 
as they were too dry and hard to be 
swallowed in the swollen and parched 
condition of my throat. I was now in 
a high state of fever, and in every 
respect exceedingly ill. This will ac- 
count for the fact that many miserable 
hours of despondency elapsed after my 
last adventure with the phosphorus, 
before the thought suggested itself that 
I had examined only one side of the 
paper. I shall not attempt to describe 
my feelings of rage (for I believe I 
was more angry than any thing else) 
when the egregious oversight I had 
committed flashed suddenly upon my 
perception. The blunder itself would 
have been unimportant, had not my 
own folly and impetuosity rendered it 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


otherwise—in my disappointment at not 
finding some words upon the slip, I had 
childishly torn it in pieces and thrown 
it away, it was impossible to say where. 

From the worst part of this dilemma 
I was relieved by the sagacity of Tiger. 
Having got, after a long search, a small 
piece of the note, I put it to the dog’s 
nose, and endeavored to make him un- 
derstand that he must bring me the 
rest of it. To my astonishment, (for I 
had taught him none of the usual tricks 
for which his breed are famous,) he 
seemed to enter at once into my mean- 
ing, and, rummaging about for a few 
moments, soon found another consider- 
able portion. Bringing me this, he 
paused awhile, and, rubbing his nose 
against my hand, appeared to be wait- 
ing for my approval of what he had 
done. I patted him on the head, when 
he immediately made off again. It was 
now some minutes before he came back 
—but when he did come, he brought 
with him a large slip, which proved to 
be all the paper missing—it having been 
torn, it seems, only into three pieces. 
Luckily, I had no trouble in finding 
what few fragments of the phosphorus 
were left—being guided by the indis- 
tinct glow of one or two of the particles 
still emitted. My difficulties had taught 
me the necessity of caution, and I now 
took time to reflect upon what I was 
about to do. It was very probable, I 
considered, that some words were writ- 
ten upon that side of the paper which 
had not been examined—but which side 
was that? Fitting the pieces together 
gave me no Clue in this respect, although 
it assured me that the words (if there 
were any) would be found all on one 
side, and connected in a proper manner, 
as written. There was the greater 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM A51 


necessity of ascertaining the point in 
question beyond a doubt, as the phos- 
phorus remaining would be altogether 
insufficient for a third attempt, should 
I fail in the one I was now about to 
make. I placed the paper on a book 
as before, and sat for some minutes 
thoughtfully revolving the matter over 
in my mind. At last I thought it barely 
possible that the written side might 
have some unevenness on its surface, 
which a delicate sense of feeling might 
enable me to detect. I determined to 
make the experiment, and passed my 
finger very carefully over the side which 
first presented itself. Nothing, how- 
ever, was perceptible, and I turned the 
paper, adjusting it on the book. I now 
again carried my forefinger cautiously 
along, when I was aware of an exceed- 
ingly slight, but still discernible glow, 
which followed as it proceeded. This, 
I knew, must arise from some very 
minute remaining particles of the phos- 
phorus with which I had covered the 
paper in my previous attempt. The 
other, or under side, then, was that on 
which lay the writing, if writing there 
should finally prove to be. Again I 
turned the note, and went to work as 
I had previously done. Having rubbed 
in the phosphorus, a brilliancy ensued 
as before—but this time several lines 
of MS. in a large hand, and apparently 
in red ink, became distinctly visible. 
The glimmer, although _ sufficiently 
bright, was but momentary. Still, had 
I not been too greatly excited, there 
would have been ample time enough 
for me to peruse the whole three sen- 
tences before me—for I saw there were 
three. In my anxiety, however, to read 
all at once, I succeeded only in reading 
the seven concluding words, which thus 


appeared—“‘blood—your _ life 
upon lying close.” 

Had I been able to ascertain the 
entire contents of the note—the full 
meaning of the admonition which my 
friend had thus attempted to convey, 
that admonition, even although it should 
have revealed a story of disaster the 
most unspeakable, could not, I am 
firmly convinced, have imbued my mind 
with one tithe of the harrowing and yet 
indefinable horror with which I was 
inspired by the fragmentary warning 
thus received. And “blood,” too, that 
word of all words—so rife at all times 
with mystery, and suffering, and terror 
—how trebly full of import did it now 
appear—how chilly and heavily (dis- 
jointed, as it thus was, from any fore- 
going words to qualify or render it dis- 
tinct) did its vague syllables fall, amid 
the deep gloom of my prison, into the 
innermost recesses of my soul! 

Augustus had, undoubtedly, good reas 
sons for wishing me to remain con- 
cealed, and I formed a thousand sur: 
mises as to what they could be—but [I 
think of nothing affording a satisfac. 
tory solution of the mystery. Just 
after returning from my last journey 
to the trap, and before my attention 
had been otherwise directed by the sin 
gular conduct of Tiger, I had come to 
the resolution of making myself heard 
at all events by those on board, or, 
if I could not succeed in this directly, 
of trying to cut my way through the 
orlop deck. The half certainty which 
I felt of being able to accomplish one 
of these two purposes in the last emer- 
gency, had given me courage (which I 
should not otherwise have had) to en- 
dure the evils of my situation. The 
few words I had been able to read, 


depends 


452 


however, had cut me off from these 
final resources, and I now, for the first 
time, felt all the misery of my fate. 
In a paroxysm of despair I threw my- 
self again upon the mattress, where, 
for about the period of a day and night, 
I lay in a kind of stupor, relieved only 
by momentary intervals of reason and 
recollection. 

At length I once more arose, and 
busied myself in reflection upon the 
horrors which encompassed me. For 
another twenty-four hours it was barely 
possible that I might exist without 
water—for a longer time I could not 
do so. During the first portion of my 
imprisonment I had made free use of 
the cordials with which Augustus had 
supplied me, but they only served to 
excite fever, without in the least degree 
assuaging my thirst. I had now only 
about a gill left, and this was of a 
species of strong peach liqueur at which 
my stomach revolted. The sausages 
were entirely consumed; of the ham 
nothing remained but a small piece of 
the skin; and all the biscuit, except a 
few fragments of one, had been eaten 
by Tiger. To add to my troubles, I 
found that my headache was increasing 
momentarily, and with it the species 
of delirium which had distressed me 
more or less since my first falling 
asleep. For some hours past it had 
been with the greatest difficulty I could 
breathe at all, and now each attempt 
at so doing was attended with the most 
depressing spasmodic action of the 
chest. But there was still another and 
very different source of disquietude, and 
one, indeed, whose harassing terrors had 
been the chief means of arousing me 
to exertion from my stupor on the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


mattress. It arose from the demeanor 
of the dog. 

I first observed an alteration in his 
conduct while rubbing in the phos- 
phorus on the paper in my last attempt. 
As I rubbed, he ran his nose against 
my hand with a slight snarl; but I was 
too greatly excited at the time to pay 
much attention to the circumstance. 
Soon afterward, it will be remembered, 
I threw myself on the mattress, and 
fell into a species of lethargy. Pres- 
ently I became aware of a singular 
hissing sound close at my ears, and 
discovered it to proceed from Tiger, 
who was panting and wheezing in a 
state of the greatest apparent excite- 
ment, his eyeballs flashing fiercely 
through the gloom. JI spoke to him, 
when he replied with a low growl, and 
then remained quiet. Presently I re- 
lapsed into my stupor, from which I 
was again awakened in a similar man- 
ner. This was repeated three or four 
times, until finally his behavior inspired 
me with so great a degree of fear, that 
I became fully aroused. He was now 
lying close by the door of the box, 
snarling fearfully, although in a kind 
of undertone, and grinding his teeth as 
if strongly convulsed. I had no doubt 
whatever that the want of water or the 
confined atmosphere of the hold had 
driven him mad, and I was at a loss 
what course to pursue. I could not 
endure the thought of killing him, yet 
it seemed absolutely necessary for my 
own safety. I could distinctly perceive 
his eyes fastened upon me with an ex: 
pression of the most deadly animosity, 
and I expected every instant that he 
would attack me. At last I could en- 
dure my terrible situation no longer, 
and determined to make my way from 


l 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


the box at all hazards, and dispatch 
him, if his opposition should render it 
necessary for me to do so. To get out, 
I had to pass directly over his body, 
and he already seemed to anticipate my 
design—raising himself upon his fore- 
legs (as I perceived by the altered posi- 
tion of his eyes), and displayed the 
whole of his white fangs, which were 
easily discernible. I took the remains 
of the ham-skin, and the bottle con- 
taining the liqueur, and secured them 
about my person, together with a large 
carving-knife which Augustus had left 
me—then, folding my cloak around me 
as closely as possible, I made a move- 
ment toward the mouth of the box. No 
sooner did I do this, than the dog sprang 
with a loud growl toward my throat. 
The whole weight of his body struck 
me on the right shoulder, and I fell 
violently to the left, while the enraged 
animal passed entirely over me. I had 
fallen upon my knees, with my head 
buried among the blankets, and these 
protected me from a second furious 
essault, during which J felt the sharp 
teeth pressing vigorously upon the 
woollen which enveloped my neck—yet, 
luckily, without being able to penetrate 
all the folds. I was now beneath the 
dog, and a few moments would place 
me completely in his power. Despair 
gave me strength, and I rose boldly 
up, shaking him from me by main force, 
and dragging with me the blankets from 
the mattress. These I now threw over 
him, and before he could extricate him- 
self, I had got through the door and 
closed it effectually against his pursuit. 
In this struggle, however, I had been 
forced to drop the morsel of ham-skin, 
and I now found my whole stock of 
provisions reduced to a single gill of 


453 


liqueur. As this reflection crossed my 
mind, I felt myself actuated by one 
of those fits of perverseness which 
might be supposed to influence a spoiled 
child in similar circumstances, and, 
raising the bottle to my lips, I drained 
it to the last drop, and dashed it furi- 
ously upon the floor. 

Scarcely had the echo of the crash 
died away, when I heard my name 
pronounced in an eager but subdued 
voice, issuing from the direction of the 
steerage. So unexpected was any thing 
of the kind, and so intense was the 
emotion excited within me by the 
sound, that I endeavored in vain to 
reply. My powers of speech totally 
failed, and in an agony of terror lest 
my friend should conclude me dead, 
and return without attempting to reach 
me, I stood up between the crates near 
the door of the box, trembling convul- 
sively, and gasping and struggling for 
utterance. Had a thousand words de- 
pended upon a syllable, I could not have 
spoken it. There was a slight move- 
ment now audible among the lumber 
somewhere forward of my station. The 
sound presently grew less distinct, then 
again less so, and still less. Shall I 
ever forget my feelings at this moment? 
He was going—my friend, my com- 
panion, from whom [I had a right to 
expect so much—he was going—he 
would abandon me—he was gone! He 
would leave me to perish miserably, to 
expire in the most horrible and loathe- 
some of dungeons—and one word, one 
little syllable, would save me—yet that 
single syllable I could not utter! I felt, 
I am sure, more than ten thousand 
times the agonies of death itself. My 
brain reeled, and I fell, deadly sick. 
against the end of the box. 


454 


As I fell, the carving-knife was 
shaken out from the waist-band of my 
pantaloons, and dropped with a rattling 
sound to the floor. Never did any 
strain of the richest melody come so 
sweetly to my ears! With the intensest 
anxiety I listened to ascertain the effect 
of the noise upon Augustus—for I knew 
that the person who called my name 
could be no one but himself. All was 
silent for some moments. At length I 
again heard the word “Arthur!” re- 
peated in a low tone, and one full of 
hesitation. Reviving hope loosened at 
once my powers of speech, and I now 
screamed at the top of my _ voice, 
“Augustus! oh, Augustus!” “Hush! 
for God’s sake be silent!” he replied, 
in a voice trembling with agitation; “I 
will be with you immediately—as soon 
as I can make my way through the 
hold.’ For a long time I heard him 
moving among the lumber, and every 
moment seemed to me an age. At 
length I felt his hand upon my shoul- 
der, and he placed, at the same moment, 
a bottle of water to my lips. Those 
only who have been suddenly redeemed 


from the jaws of the tomb, or who. 


have known the insufferable torments 
of thirst under circumstances as aggra- 
vated as those which encompassed me 
in my dreary prison, can form any idea 
of the unutterable transports which that 
one long draught of the richest of ail 
physical luxuries afforded. 

When I had in some degree satisfied 
my thirst, Augustus produced from his 
pocket three or four boiled potatoes, 
which I devoured with the greatest 
avidity. He had brought with him a 
light in a dark lantern, and the grateful 
rays afforded me scarcely less comfort 
than the food and drink. But I was 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


impatient to learn the cause of his pro- 
tracted absence, and he proceeded to 
recount what had happened on board 
during my incarceration. 


CHAPTER IV 


Tue brig put to sea, as I had sup- 
posed, in about an hour after he had 
left the watch. This was on the twen- 
tieth of June. It will be remembered 
that I had then been in the hold for 
three days; and, during this period, 
there was so constant a bustle on board, 
and so much running to and fro, espe- 
cially in the cabin and state-rooms, that 
he had had no chance of visiting me 
without the risk of having the secret 
of the trap discovered. When at length 
he did come, I had assured him that I 
was doing as well as possible; and, 
therefore, for the two next days he felt 
but little uneasiness on my account— 
still, however, watching an opportunity 
of going down. It was not until the 
fourth day that he found one. Several 
times during this interval he had made 
up his mind to let his father know of 
the adventure, and have me come up 
at once; but we were still within reach- 
ing distance of Nantucket, and it was 
doubtful, from some expressions which 
had escaped Captain Barnard, whether 
he would not immediately put back if 
he discovered me to be on board. Be- 
sides, upon thinking the matter over, 
Augustus, so he told me, could not 
imagine that I was in immediate want, 
or that I would hesitate, in such case, 
to make myself heard at the trap. 
When, therefore, he considered every 
thing he concluded to let me stay until 
he could meet with an opportunity of 
visiting me unobserved. This, as I said 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


before, did not occur until the fourth 
day after his bringing me the watch, 
and the seventh since I had first entered 
the hold. He then went down without 
taking with him any water or provi- 
sions, intending in the first place merely 
to call my attention, and get me to 
come from the box to the trap,——when 
he would go up to the state-room and 
thence hand me down a supply. When 
he descended for this purpose he found 
that I was asleep, for it seems that I 
was snoring very loudly. From all the 
calculations I can make on the subject, 
this must have been the slumber into 
which I fell just after my return from 
the trap with the watch, and which, 
consequently, must have lasted for more 
than three entire days and nights at 
the very least. Latterly, I have had 
reason both from my own experience 
and the assurance of others, to be ac- 
quainted with the strong soporific 
effects of the stench arising from old 
fish-oil when closely confined; and when 
I think of the condition of the hold 
in which I was imprisoned, and the 
long period during which the brig had 
been used as a whaling vessel, I am 
more inclined to wonder that I awoke 
at all, after once falling asleep, than 
that I should have slept uninterruptedly 
for the period specified above. 
Augustus called to me at first in a 
low voice and without closing the trap 
—but I made him no reply. He then 
shut the trap, and spoke to me in a 
louder, and finally in a very loud tone— 
still I continued to snore. He was now 
at a loss what to do. It would take 
him some time to make his way through 
the lumber to my box, and in the mean- 
while his absence would be noticed by 
Captain Barnard, who had occasion for 


455 


his services every minute, in arranging 
and copying papers connected with the 
business of the voyage. He determined, 
therefore, upon reflection, to ascend, 
and await another opportunity of visit- 
ing me. He was the more easily in- 
duced to this resolve, as my slumber 
appeared to be of the most tranquil 
nature, and he could not suppose that 
I had undergone any inconvenience 
from my incarceration. He had just 
made up his mind on these points when 
his attention was arrested by an un- 
usual bustle, the sound of which pro- 
ceeded apparently from the cabin. He 
sprang through the trap as quickly as 
possible, closed it, and threw open the 
door of his state-room. No sooner had 
he put his foot over the threshold than 
a pistol flashed in his face, and he was 
knocked down, at the same moment, 
by a blow from a handspike. 

A strong hand he!d him on the cabin 
floor, with a tight grasp upon his throat; 
still he was able to see what was going 
on around him. His father was tied 
hand and foot, and lying along the steps 
of the companion-way, with his head 
down, and a deep wound in the fore- 
head, from which the blood was flowing 
in a continued stream. He spoke not 
a word, and was apparently dying. Over 
him stood the first mate, eyeing him 
with an expression of fiendish derision, 
and deliberately searching his pockets, 
from which he presently drew forth a 
large wallet and a chronometer. Seven 
of the crew (among whom was the cook, 
a negro) were rummaging the state- 
rooms on the larboard for arms, where 
they soon equipped themselves with 
muskets and ammunition. Besides Au- 
gustus and Captain Barnard, there were 
nine men altogether in the cabin, and 


456 


these among the most ruffianly of the 
‘brig’s company. The villains now went 
upon deck, taking my friend with them 
after having secured his arms behind 
his back. They proceeded straight to 
the forecastle, which was fastened down 
—two of the mutineers standing by it 
with axes—two also at the main hatch. 
The mate called out in a loud voice: 
“Do you hear there below? tumble up 
with you, one by one—now, mark that 
—and no grumbling!” It was some 
minutes before any one appeared;—at 
last an Englishman, who had shipped 
as a raw hand, came up, weeping pit- 
eously, and entreating the mate, in the 
most humble manner, to spare his life. 
The only reply was a blow on the fore- 
head from an axe. The poor fellow fell 
to the deck without a groan, and the 
black cook lifted him up in his arms 
as he would a child, and tossed him 
deliberately into the sea. Hearing the 
blow and the plunge of the body, the 
men below could now be induced to 
venture on deck neither by threats nor 
promises, until a proposition was made 
to smoke them out. A general rush 
then ensued, and for a moment it 
seemed possible that the brig might be 
retaken. The mutineers, however, suc- 
ceeded at last in closing the forecastle 
effectually before more than six of their 
opponents could get up. ‘These six, 
finding themselves so greatly outnum- 
bered and without arms, submitted after 
a brief struggle. The mate gave them 
fair words—no doubt with a view of 
inducing those below to yield, for they 
nad no difficulty in hearing all that was 
said on deck. ‘The result proved his 
sagacity, no less than his diabolical vil- 
lainy. All in the forecastle presently 
signified their intention of submitting, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and, ascending one by one, were pin- 
ioned and then thrown on their backs, 
together with the first six—there being, 
in all of the crew who were not con- 
cerned in the mutiny, twenty-seven. 

A scene of the most horrible butchery 
ensued. The bound seamen were 
dragged to the gangway. Here the cook 
stood with an axe, striking each victim 
on the head as he was forced over the 
side of the vessel by the other muti- 
neers. In this manner twenty-two per- 
ished, and Augustus had given himself 
up for lost, expecting every moment 
his own turn to come next. But it 
seemed that the villains were now either 
weary, or in some measure disgusted 
with their bloody labor; for the four 
remaining prisoners, together with my 
friend, who had been thrown on the 
deck with the rest, were respited while 
the mate sent below for rum, and the 
whole murderous party held a drunken 
carouse, which lasted until sunset. They 
now fell to disputing in regard to the 
fate of the survivors, who lay not more 
than four paces off, and could distin- 
guish every word said. Upon some of 
the mutineers the liquor appeared to 
have a softening effect, for several 
voices were heard in favor of releasing 
the captives altogether, on condition of. 
joining the mutiny and sharing the 
profits. The black cook, however (who 
in all respects was a perfect demon, 
and who seemed to exert as much in- 
fluence, if not more, than the mate 
himself), would listen to no proposition 
of the kind, and rose repeatedly for 
the purpose of resuming his work at 
the gangway. Fortunately he was so 
far overcome by intoxication as to be 
easily restrained by the less _blood- 
thirsty of the party, among whom was 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


a line-manager, who went by the name 
of Dirk Peters. This man was the son 
of an Indian woman of the tribe of 
Upsarokas, who lived among the fast- 
nesses of the Black Hills, near the 
source of the Missouri. His father was 
a fur-trader, I believe, or at least con- 
nected in some manner with the Indian 
trading-posts on Lewis river. Peters 
himself was one of the most ferocious- 
looking men I ever beheld. He was 
short in stature, not more than four 
feet eight inches high, but his limbs 
were of Herculean mould. His hands, 
especially, were so enormously thick and 
broad as hardly to retain a human 
shape. His arms, as well as legs, were 
bowed in the most singular manner, 
and appeared to possess no flexibility 
whatever. His head was equally de- 
formed, being of immense size, with an 
indentation on the crown (like that on 
the head of most negroes), and entirely 
bald. To conceal this latter deficiency, 
which did not proceed from. old age, 
he usually wore a wig formed of any 
hair-like material which presented itself 
—occasionally the skin of a Spanish 
dog or American grizzly bear. At the 
time spoken of, he had on a portion 
of one of these bear-skins; and it added 
no little to the natural ferocity of his 
countenance, which betook of the Up- 
saroka character. The mouth extended 
nearly from ear to ear; the lips were 
thin, and seemed, like some other por- 
tions of his frame, to be devoid of 
natural pliancy, so that the ruling ex- 
pression never varied under the influ- 
ence of any emotion whatever. This 
ruling expression may be conceived 
when it is considered that the teeth 
were exceedingly long and protruding, 
and never even partially covered, in 


457 


any instance, by the lips. To pass this 
man with a casual glance, one might 
imagine him to be convulsed with 
laughter; but a second look would in- 
duce a shuddering acknowledgment, that 
if such an expression were indicative 
of merriment, the merriment must be 
that of a demon. Of this singular being 
many anecdotes were prevalent among 
the seafaring men of Nantucket... These 
anecdotes went to prove his prodigious 
strength when under excitement, and 
some of them had given rise to a doubt 
of his sanity. But on board the Gram- 
pus, it seems, he was regarded, at the 
time of the mutiny, with feelings more 
of derision than of any thing else. I 
have been thus particular in speaking 
to Dirk Peters, because, ferocious as 
he appeared, he proved the main instru- 
ment in preserving the life of Augustus, 
and because I shall have frequent occa- 
sion to mention him hereafter in the 
course of my narrative—a narrative, let 
me here say, which, in its later portions, 
will be found to include incidents of a 
nature so entirely out of the range of 
human experience, and for this reason 
so far beyond the limits of human 
credulity, that I proceed in utter hope- 
lessness of obtaining credence for all 
that I shall tell, yet confidently trusting 
in time and progressing science to verify 
some of the most important and most 
improbable of my statements. 

After much indecision and two or 
three violent quarrels, it was deter- 
mined at last that all the prisoners 
(with the exception of Augustus, whom 
Peters insisted in a jocular manner 
upon keeping as his clerk) should be 
set adrift in one of the smallest whale- 
boats. The mate went down into the 
cabin to see if Captain Barnard was 


458 


still living—for, it will be remembered, 
he was left below when the mutineers 
came up. Presently the two made their 
appearance, the captain pale as death, 
but somewhat recovered from the ef- 
fects of his wound. He spoke to the 
men in a voice hardly articulate, en- 
treated them not to set him adrift, but 
to return to their duty, and promising 
to land them wherever they chose, and 
to take no steps for bringing them to 
justice. He might as well have spoken 
to the winds. Two of the ruffians 
seized him by the arms and hurled him 
over the brig’s side into the boat, which 
had been lowered while the mate went 
below. The four men who were lying 
on the deck were then untied and or- 
dered to follow, which they did without 
attempting any  resistance—Augustus 
being still left in his painful position, 
although he struggled and prayed only 
for the poor satisfaction of being per- 
mitted to bid his father farewell. A 
handful of sea-biscuit and a jug of 
water were now handed down; but 
neither mast, sail, oar, nor compass. 
The boat was towed astern for a few 
minutes, during which the mutineers 
held another consultation—it was then 
finally cut adrift. By this time night 
had come on—there were neither moon 
nor stars visible—and a short and ugly 
sea was running, although there was no 
great deal of wind. The boat was 
instantly out of sight, and little hope 
could be entertained for the unfortunate 
sufferers who were in it. This event 
happened, however, in latitude 35° 30’ 
north, longitude 61° 20’ west, and con- 
sequently at no very great distance 
from the Bermuda Islands. Augustus 
therefore endeavored to console himself 
with the idea that the boat might either 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


succeed in reaching the land, or come 
sufficiently near to be fallen in with by 
vessels off the coast. 

All sail was now put upon the brig, 
and she continued her original course 
to the southwest—the mutineers being 
bent upon some piratical expedition, in 
which, from all that could be under- 
stood, a ship was to be intercepted on 
her way from the Cape Verd Islands 
to Porto Rico. No attention was paid 
to Augustus, who was untied and suf- 
fered to go about anywhere forward 
of the cabin companion-way. Dirk 
Peters treated him with some degree of 
kindness, and on one occasion saved him 
from the brutality of the cook. His 
situation was still one of the most pre- 
carious, as the men were continually 
intoxicated, and there was no relying 
upon their continued good-humor or 
carelessness in regard to himself. His 
anxiety on my account he represented, 
however, as the most distressing result 
of his condition; and, indeed, I had 
never reason to doubt the sincerity of 
his friendship. More than once he had 
resolved to acquaint the mutineers with 
the secret of my being on board, but 
was restrained from so doing, partly 
through recollection of the atrocities he 
had already beheld, and partly through 
a hope of being able soon to bring me 
relief. For the latter purpose he was 
constantly on the watch; but, in spite 
of the most constant vigilance, three 
days elapsed after the boat was cut 
adrift before any chance occurred. At 
length, on the night of the third day, 
there came on a heavy blow from the 
eastward, and all hands were called up 
to take in sail. During the confusion 
which ensued, he made his way below 
unobserved, and into the state-room. 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


What was his grief and horror in dis- 
covering that the latter had been ren- 
dered a place of deposit for a variety 
of sea-stores and ship-furniture, and 
that several fathoms of old chain-cable, 
which had been stowed away beneath 
the companion-ladder, had been dragged 
thence to make room for a chest, and 
were now lying immediately upon the 
trap! To remove it without discovery 
was impossible, and he returned on 
deck as quickly as he could. As he 
came up, the mate seized him by the 
throat, and demanding what he had 
been doing in the cabin, was about 
flinging him over the larboard bulwark, 
when his life was again preserved 
through the interference of Dirk Peters. 
Augustus was now put in handcuffs (of 
which there were several pairs on 
board), and his feet lashed tightly 
together. He was then taken into the 
steerage, and thrown into a lower berth 
next to the forecastle bulkheads, with 
the assurance that he should never put 
his foot on deck again “until the brig 
was no longer a brig.” ‘This was the 
expression of the cook, who threw him 
into the berth—it is hardly possible to 
say what precise meaning was intended 
by the phrase. The whole affair, how- 
ever, proved the ultimate means of my 
relief, as will presently appear. 


CHAPTER V 


For some minutes after the cook had 
left the forecastle, Augustus abandoned 
himself to despair, never hoping to 
leave the berth alive. He now came 
to the resolution of acquainting the 
first of the men who should come down 
with my situation, thinking it better 
to let me take my chance with the 


459 


mutineers than perish of thirst in the 
hold,—for it had been ten days since 
L was first imprisoned, and my jug of 
water was not a plentiful supply even 
for four. As he was thinking on this 
subject, the idea came all at once into 
his head that it might be possible to 
communicate with me by the way of 
the main hold. In any other circum- 
stances, the difficulty and hazard of the 
undertaking would have prevented him 
from attempting it; but now he had, 
at all events, little prospect of life, and 
consequently little to lose; he bent his 
whole mind, therefore, upon the task. 
His handcuffs were the first consider- 
ation. At first he saw no method of 
removing them, and feared that he 
should thus be baffled in the very out- 
set; but upon a closer scrutiny he dis- 
covered that the irons could be slipped 
off and on at pleasure, with very little 
effort or inconvenience, merely by 
squeezing his hands through them,— 
this species of manacle being alto- 
gether ineffectual in confining young 
persons, in whom the smaller bones 
readily yield to pressure. He now un- 
tied his feet, and, leaving the cord in 
such a manner that it could easily be 
readjusted in the event of any person’s 
coming down, proceeded to examine the 
bulkhead where it joined the berth. 
The partition here was of soft pine 
board, an inch thick, and he saw that 
he should have little trouble in cutting 
his way through. A voice was now 
heard at the forecastle companicn-way 
and he had just time to put his right 
hand into its handcuff (the left had not 
been removed) and to draw the rope 
in a slipknot around his ankle, when 
Dirk Peters came below, followed by 
Tiger, who immediately leaped into the 


460 


berth and lay down. The dog had 
been brought on board by Augustus, 
who knew my attachment to the ani- 
mal, and thought it would give me 
pleasure to have him with me during 
the voyage. He went up to our house 
for him immediately after first taking 
me into the hold, but did not think of 
mentioning the circumstance upon his 
bringing the watch. Since the mutiny, 
Augustus had not seen him before his 
appearance with Dirk Peters, and had 
given him up for lost, supposing him 
to have been thrown overboard by some 
of the malignant villains belonging to 
the mate’s gang. It appeared after- 
ward that he had crawled into a hole 
beneath a whale-boat, from which, not 
having room to turn round, he could 
not extricate himself. Peters at last 
let him out, and, with a species of good 
feeling which my friend knew well how 
to appreciate, had now brought him to 
him in the forecastle as a companion, 
leaving at the same time some salt junk 
and potatoes, with a can of water; he 
then went on deck, promising to come 
down with something more to eat on 
the next day. 

When he had gone, Augustus freed 
both hands from the manacles and un- 
fastened his feet. He then turned down 
the head of the mattress on which he 
had been lying, and with his penknife 
(for the ruffians had not thought it 
worth while to search him) commenced 
cutting vigorously across one of the 
partition planks, as closely as possible 
to the floor of the berth. He chose 
to cut here, because, if suddenly inter- 
rupted, he would be able to conceal 
what had been done by letting the head 
of the mattress fall into its proper posi- 
tion. For the remainder of the day, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


however, no disturbance occurred, and 
by night he had completely divided the 
plank. It should here by observed 
that none of the crew occupied the 
forecastle as a_ sleeping-place, living 
altogether in the cabin since the mutiny, 
drinking the wines and feasting on the 
sea-stores of Captain Barnard, and giv- 
ing no more heed than was absolutely 
necessary to the navigation of the brig. 
These circumstances proved fortunate 
both for myself and Augustus; for, had 
matters been otherwise, he would have 
found it impossible to reach me. As 
it was, he proceeded with confidence in 
his design. It was near daybreak, how- 
ever, before he completed the second 
division of the board (which was about 
a foot above the first cut), thus mak- 
ing an aperture quite large enough to 
admit his passage through with facility 
to the main orlop deck. Having got 
here, he made his way with but little 
trouble to the lower main hatch, al- 
though in so doing he had to scramble 
over tiers of oil-casks piled nearly as 
high as the upper deck, there being 
barely room enough left for his body. 
Upon reaching the hatch he found that 
Tiger had followed him below, squeez- 
ing between two rows of the casks. It 
was now too late, however, to attempt 
getting to me before dawn, as the chief 
difficulty lay in passing through the 
close stowage in the lower hold. He 
therefore resolved to return, and wait 
till the next night. With this design, 
he proceeded to loosen the hatch, so 
that he might have as little detentior 
as possible when he should come again. 
No sooner had he loosened it than 
Tiger sprang eagerly to the small open- 
ing produced, snuffed for a moment, 
and then uttered a long whine, scratch- 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


ing at the same time, as if anxious to 
remove the covering with his paws. 
There could be no doubt, from his be- 
havior, that he was aware of my being 
in the hold, and Augustus thought it 
possible that he would be able to get 
to me if he put him down. He now 
hit upon the expedient of sending the 
note, as it was especially desirable that 
I should make no attempt at forcing 
my way ovt, at least under existing 
circumstances, and there could be no 
certainty of his getting to me himself 
on the morrow as he intended. After- 
events proved how fortunate it was that 
the idea occurred to him as it did; 
for, had it not been for the receipt 
of the note, I should undoubtedly have 
fallen upon some plan, however desper- 
ate, of alarming the crew, and both 
our lives would most probably have 
been sacrificed in consequence. 
Having concluded to write, the dif- 
ficulty was now to procure the mate- 
rials for so doing. An old toothpick 
was soon made into a pen; and this 
by means of feeling altogether, for the 
between-decks was as dark as pitch. 
Paper enough was obtained from the 
back of a letter—a duplicate of the 
forged letter from Mr. Ross. This had 
been the original draught; but the hand- 
writing not being sufficiently well imi- 
tated, Augustus had written another, 
thrusting the first, by good fortune, 
into his coat-pocket, where it was now 
most opportunely discovered. Ink 
alone was thus wanting, and a substi- 
tute was immediately found for this 
by means of a slight incision with the 
penknife on the back of a finger just 
above the nail—a copious flow of blood 
ensuing, as usual, from wounds in that 
vicinity. The note was now written, 


461 


as well as it could be in the dark and 
under the circumstances. It briefly ex- 
plained that a mutiny had taken place; 
that Captain Barnard was set adrift; 
and that I might expect immediate 
relief as far as provisions were con- 
cerned, but must not venture upon 
making any disturbance. It concluded 
with these words: “TZ have scrawled 
this with blood—your life depends upon 
lying close.” 

This slip of paper being tied upon 
the dog, he was now put down the 
hatchway, and Augustus made the best 
of his way back to the forecastle, where 
he found no reason to believe that any 
of the crew had been in his absence. 
To conceal the hole in the partition, 
he drove his knife in just above it, and 
hung up a pea-jacket which he found 
in the berth. His handcuffs were then 
replaced, and also the rope around his 
ankles. 

These arrangements were scarcely 
completed when Dirk Peters came be- 
low, very drunk, but in excellent humor, 
and bringing with him my friend’s al- 
lowance of provision for the day. This 
consisted of a dozen large Irish pota- 
toes roasted, and a pitcher of water. 
He sat for some time on a chest by the 
berth, and talked freely about the mate 
and the general concerns of the brig. 
His demeanor was exceedingly capri- 
cious, and even grotesque. At one time 
Augustus was much alarmed by his odd 
conduct. At last, however, he went on 
deck, muttering a promise to bring his 
prisoner a good dinner on the morrow. 
During the day two of the crew (har- 
pooners) came down, accompanied by 
the cook, all three in nearly the last 
stage of intoxication. Like Peters, they 
made no scruple of talking unreservedly 


462 


about their plans. It appeared that 
they were much divided among them- 
selves as to their ultimate course, agree- 
ing in no point, except the attack on 
the ship from the Cape Verd Islands, 
with which they were in hourly expecta- 
tion of meeting. As far as could be 
ascertained, the mutiny had not been 
brought about altogether for the sake 
of booty; a private pique of the chief 
mate’s against Captain Barnard having 
been the main instigation. There now 
seemed to be two principal factions 
among the crew—one headed by the 
mate, the other by the cook. The for- 
mer party were for seizing the first 
suitable vessel which should present 
itself, and equipping it at some of the 
West India Islands for a_ piratical 
cruise. The latter division, however, 
which was the stronger, and included 
Dirk Peters among its partisans, were 
bent upon pursuing the course originally 
laid out for the brig into the South 
Pacific; there either to take whale, or 
act otherwise, as circumstances should 
suggest. The representations of Peters, 
who had frequently visited these re- 
gions, had great weight, apparently, with 
the mutineers, wavering, as they were, 
between half-engendered notions of 
profit and pleasure. He dwelt on the 
world of novelty and amusement to 
be found among the innumerable islands 
of the Pacific, on the perfect security 
and freedom from all restraint to be 
enjoyed, but, more particularly, on the 
deliciousness of the climatc, on the 
abundant means of good living, and on 
the voluptuous beauty of the women. 
As yet, nothing had been absolutely 
determined upon; but the pictures of 
the hybrid line-manager were taking 
strong hold upon the ardent imagina- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tions of the seamen, and there was 
every probability that his intentions 
would be finally carried into effect. 
The three men went away in about 
an hour, and no one else entered the 
forecastle all day. Augustus lay quiet 
until nearly night. He then freed him- 
self from the rope and irons, and pre- 
pared for his attempt. A bottle was 
found in one of the berths, and this 
he filled with water from the pitcher 
left by Peters, storing his pockets at 
the same time with cold potatoes. To 
his great joy he also came across a 
lantern, with a small piece of tallow 
candle in it. This he could light at 
any moment, as he had in his posses- 
sion a box of phosphorus matches. 
When it was quite dark, he got through 
the hole in the bulkhead, having taken 
the precaution to arrange the bedclothes 
in the berth so as to convey the idea 
of a person covered up. When through, 
he hung up the pea-jacket on his knife, 
as before, to conceal the aperture—: 
this manceuvre being easily effected, as 
he did not readjust the piece of plank 
taken out until afterward. He was now 
on the main orlop deck, and proceeded 
to make his way, as before, between 
the upper deck and the oil-casks to the 
main hatchway. Having reached this, 
he lit the piece of candle, and de- 
scended, groping with extreme difficulty 
among the compact stowage of the hold. 
In a few moments he became alarmed 
at the insufferable stench and the close- 
ness of the atmosphere. He could not 
think it possible that I had survived 
my confinement for so long a period 
breathing so oppressive an air. He 
called my name repeatedly, but I made 
him no reply, and his apprehensions 
seemed thus to be confirmed. The brig 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


was rolling violently, and there was so 
much noise in consequence, that it was 
useless to listen for any weak sound, 
such as those of my breathing or snor- 
ing. He threw open the lantern, and 
held it as high as possible, whenever 
an opportunity occurred, in order that, 
by observing the light, I might, if alive, 
be aware that succor was approaching. 
Still nothing was heard from me, and 
the supposition of my death began to 
assume the character of certainty. He 
determined, nevertheless, to force a 
passage, if possible, to the box, and at 
least ascertain beyond a doubt the 
truth of his surmises. He pushed on 
for some time in a most pitiable state 
of anxiety, until, at length, he found 
the pathway utterly blocked up, and 
that there was no possibility of making 
any farther way by the course in which 
he had set out. Overcome now by his 
feelings, he threw himself among the 
lumber in despair, and wept like a 
child. It was at this period that he 
heard the crash occasioned by the bottle 
which I had thrown down. Fortunate, 
indeed, was it that the incident oc- 
curred—for, upon this incident, trivial 
as it appears, the thread of my destiny 
depended. Many years elapsed, how- 
ever, before I was aware of this fact. 
A natural shame and regret for his 
weakness and indecision prevented Au- 
gustus from confiding to me at once 
what a more intimate and unreserved 
communion afterward induced him to 
reveal. Upon finding his further prog- 
ress in the hold impeded by obstacles 
which he could not overcome, he had 
resolved to abandon his attempt at 
reaching me, and return at once to the 
forecastle. Before condemning him en- 
tirely on this head, the harassing cir- 


463 


cumstances which embarrassed him 
should be taken into consideration. 
The night was fast wearing away, and 
his absence from the forecastle might 
be so, if he should fail to get back to 
the berth by daybreak. MHis candle 
was expiring in the socket, and there 
would be the greatest difficulty in re- 
tracing his way to the hatchway in the 
dark. It must be allowed, too, that 
he had every good reason to believe me 
dead; in which event no benefit could 
result to me from his reaching the box, 
and a world of danger would be en- 
countered to no purpose by himself. 
He had repeatedly called, and I had 
made him no answer. I had been now 
eleven days and nights with no more 
water than that contained in the jug 
which he had left with me—a supply 
which it was not at all probable I had 
hoarded in the beginning of my con- 
finement, as I had every cause to expect 
a speedy release. The atmosphere of 
the hold, too, must have appeared to 
him, coming from the comparatively 
open air of the steerage, of a nature 
absolutely poisonous, and by far more 
intolerable than it had seemed to me 
upon my first taking up my quarters 
in the box—the hatchway at that time 
having been constantly open for many 
months previous. Add to these con- 
siderations that of the scene of blood- 
shed and terror so lately witnessed by 
my friend; his confinement, privations, 
and narrow escapes from death, to- 
gether with the frail and equivocal 
tenure by which he still existed—cir- 
cumstances all so well calculated to 
prostrate every energy of mind—and 
the reader will be easily brought, as I 
have been, to regard his apparent fall- 


464 


ing off in friendship and in faith with 
sentiments rather of sorrow than of 
anger. 

The crash of the bottle was distinctly 
heard, yet Augustus was not sure that 
it proceeded from the hold. The doubt, 
however, was sufficient inducement to 
persevere. He clambered up nearly to 
the orlop deck by means of the stow- 
age, and then, watching for a lull in the 
pitchings of the vessel, he called out 
to me in as loud a tone as he could 
command, regardless, for the moment, 
of being overheard by the crew. It 
will be remembered that on this occa- 
sion the voice reached me, but I was 
so entirely overcome by violent agita- 
tion as to be incapable of reply. Con- 
fident, now, that his worst apprehen- 
sions were well founded, he descended, 
with a view of getting back to the fore- 
castle without loss of time. In his 
haste some small boxes were thrown 
down, the noise occasioned by which I 
heard, as will be recollected. He had 
made considerable progress on his re- 
turn when the fall of the knife again 
caused him to hesitate. He retraced 
his steps immediately, and, clambering 
up the stowage a second time, called 
out my name, loudly as before, having 
watched for a lull. This time I found 
voice to answer. Overjoyed at discov- 
ering me to be still alive, he now re- 
solved to brave every difficulty and 
danger in reaching me. Having extri- 
cated himself as quickly as possible 
from the labyrinth of lumber by which 
he was hemmed in, he at length struck 
into an opening which promised better, 
and finally, after a series of struggles, 
arrived at the box in a state of utter 
exhaustion. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


CHAPTER VI 


Tue leading particulars of this nar- 
ration were all that Augustus communi- 
cated to me while we remained near 
the box. It was not until afterward 
that he entered fully into all the de- 
tails. He was apprehensive of being 
missed, and I was wild with impatience 
to leave my detested place of confine- 
ment. We resolved to make our way 
at once to the hole in the bulkhead, 
near which I was to remain for the 
present, while he went through to recon- 
noitre. To leave Tiger in the box wus 
what neither of us could endure to 
think of; yet, how to act otherwise was 
the question. He now seemed to be 
perfectly quiet, and we could not even 
distinguish the sound of his breathing 
upon applying our ears closely to the 
box. I was convinced that he was 
dead, and determined to open the door. 
We found him lying at full length, ap- 
parently in a deep stupor, yet still alive. 
No time was to be lost, yet I could not 
bring myself to abandon an animal who 
had now been twice instrumental in 
saving my life, without some attempt 
at preserving him. We _ therefore 
dragged him along with us as well as 
we could, although with the greatest 
difficulty and fatigue; Augustus, during 
part of the time, being forced to clam- 
ber over the impediments in our way 
with the huge dog in his arms—a feat 
to which the feebleness of my frame 
rendered me totally inadequate. At 
length we succeeded in reaching the 
hole, when Augustus got through, and 
Tiger was pushed in afterward. All 
was found to be safe, and we did not 
fail to return sincere thanks to God for 
our deliverance from the imminent dan- 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


ger we had escaped. For the present, 
it was agreed that I should remain 
near the opening, through which my 
companion could readily supply me 
with a part of his daily provision, and 
where I could have the advantages of 
breathing an atmosphere comparatively 
pure. 

In explanation of some portions of 
this narrative, wherein I have spoken 
of the stowage of the brig, and which 
may appear ambiguous to some of my 
readers who may have seen a proper 
or regular stowage, I must here state 
that the manner in which this most 
important duty had been performed on 
board the Grampus was a most shame- 
ful piece of neglect on the part of 
Captain Barnard, who was by no means 
as careful or as experienced a seaman 
as the hazardous nature of the service 
on which he was employed would seem 
necessarily to demand. A proper stow- 
age cannot be accomplished in a care- 
less manner, and many most disastrous 
accidents, even within the limits of my 
own experience, have arisen from neg- 
lect or ignorance in this particular. 
Coasting vessels, in the frequent hurry 
and bustle attendant upon taking in or 
discharging cargo, are the most liable 
to mishap from the want of a proper 
attention to stowage. The great point 
is to allow no possibility of the cargo 
or ballast shifting position even in the 
-most violent rollings of the vessel. 
With this end, great attention must be 
paid, not only to the bulk taken in, 
but to the nature of the bulk, and 
whether there be a full or only a partial 
cargo. In most kinds of freight the 
stowage is accomplished by means of a 
screw. ‘Thus, in a load of tobacco or 
flour, the whole is screwed so tightly 


465 


into the hold of the vessel that the 
barrels or hogsheads, upon discharging, 
are found to be completely flattened, 
and take some time to regain their 
original shape. This screwing, however, 
is resorted to principally with a view 
of obtaining more room in the hold; 
for in a full load of any such com- 
modities as flour or tobacco, there can 
be no danger of any shifting whatever, 
at least none from which inconveni- 
ence can result. There have been in- 
stances, indeed, where this method of 
screwing has resulted in the most 
lamentable consequences, arising from 
a cause altogether distinct from the 
danger attendant upon a shifting of 
cargo. A load of cotton, for example, 
tightly screwed while in certain condi- 
tions, has been known,, through the 
expansion of its bulk, to rend a vessel 
asunder at sea. There can be no doubt, 
either that the same result would ensue 
in the case of tobacco, while under- 
going its usual course of fermentation, 
were it not for the interstices conse- 
quent upon the rotundity of the hogs- 
heads. 

It is when a partial cargo is received 
that danger is chiefly to be apprehended 
from shifting, and that precautions 
should be always taken to guard against 
such misfortune. Only those who have 
encountered a violent gale of wind, or 
rather who have experienced the rolling 
of a vessel in a sudden calm after the 
gale, can form an idea of the tremen- 
dous force of the plunges, and of the 
consequent terrible impetus given to all 
loose articles in the vessel. It is then 
that the necessity of a cautious stow- 
age, when there is a partial cargo, be- 
comes obvious. When lying-to (espe- 
cially with a small head-sail), a vessel 


466 


which is not properly modelled in the 
bows is frequently thrown upon her 
beam-ends; this occurring even every 
fifteen or twenty minutes upon an aver- 
age, yet without any serious conse- 
quences resulting, provided there be a 
proper stowage. If this, however, has 
not been strictly attended to, in the 
first of these heavy lurches the whole 
of the cargo tumbles ‘over to the side 
of the vessel which lies upon the water, 
and, being thus prevented from regain- 
ing her equilibrium, as she would other- 
wise necessarily do, she is certain to 
fill in a few seconds and go down. It 
is not too much to say that at least 
one-half of the instances in which ves- 
sels have foundered in heavy gales at 
sea may be attributed to a shifting of 
cargo or of ballast. 

When a partial cargo of any kind is 
taken on board, the whole, after being 
first stowed as compactly as may be, 
should be covered with a layer of stout 
shifting-boards, extending completely 
across the vessel. Upon these boards 
strong temporary stanchions should be 
erected, reaching to the timbers above, 
and thus securing every thing in its 
place. In cargoes consisting of grain, 
or any similar matter, additional pre- 
cautions are requisite. A hold filled 
entirely with grain upon leaving port 
will be found not more than three- 
fourths full upon reaching its destina- 
tion—this, too, although the freight, 
when measured bushel by bushel by 
the consignee, will overrun by a vast 
deal (on account of the swelling of the 
grain) the quantity consigned. This 
result is occasioned by settling during 
the voyage, and is the more perceptible 
in proportion to the roughness of the 
weather experienced. If grain loosely 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thrown in a vessel, then, is ever so well 
secured by shifting-boards and stan- 
chions, it will be liable to shift in a 
long passage so greatly as to bring 
about the most distressing calamities. 
To prevent these, every method should 
be employed before leaving port to 
settle the cargo as much as possible; 
and for this there are many contriv- 
ances, among which may be mentioned 
the driving of wedges into the grain. 
Even after all this is done, and unusual 
pains taken to secure the shifting- 
boards, no seaman who knows what he 
is about will feel altogether secure in 
a gale of any violence with a cargo of 
grain on board, and, least of all, with 
a partial cargo. Yet there are hundreds 
of our coasting vessels, and, it is likely, 
many more from the ports of Europe, 
which sail daily with partial cargoes, 
even of the most dangerous species, 
and without any precaution whatever. 
The wonder is that no more accidents 
occur than do actually happen. A la- 
mentable instance of this heedlessness 
occurred to my knowledge in the case 
of Captain Joel. Rice of the schooner 
Firefly, which sailed from Richmond, 
Virginia, to Madeira, with a cargo of 
corn, in the year 1825. ‘The captain 
had gone many voyages without serious 
accident, although he was in the habit 
of paying no attention whatever to his 
stowage, more than to secure it in the 
ordinary manner. He had never before... 
sailed with a cargo of grain, and on this 
occasion had the corn thrown on board 
loosely, when it did not much more 
than half fill the vessel. For the first 
portion of the voyage he met with 
nothing more than light breezes; but 
when within a day’s sail of Madeira 
there came on a strong gale from the 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


N. N. E. which forced him to lie-to. 
He brought the schooner to the wind 
under a double-reefed foresail alone; 
when she rode as well as any vessel 
could be expected to do, and shipped 
not a drop of water. Toward night 
the gale somewhat abated, and she 
rolled with more unsteadiness than be- 
fore, but still did very well, until a 
heavy lurch threw her upon her beam- 
ends to starboard. The corn was then 
heard to shift bodily, the force of the 
movement bursting open the main 
hatchway. The vessel went down like 
a shot. This happened within hail of 
a small sloop from Madeira, which 
picked up one of the crew (the only 
person saved), and which rode out the 
gale in perfect security, as indeed a 
jolly-boat might have done under proper 
management. 

The stowage on board the Grampus 
was most clumsily done, if stowage that 
could be called which was little better 
than a promiscuous huddling together 
of oil-casks* and ship furniture. I have 
already spoken of the condition of arti- 
cles in the hold. On the orlop deck 
there was space enough for my body 
(as I have stated) between the oil- 
casks and the upper deck; a space was 
left open around the main hatchway; 
and several other large spaces were 
left in the stowage. Near the hole cut 
through the bulkhead by Augustus there 
was room enough for an entire cask, 
and in this space I found myself com- 
fortably situated for the present. 

By the time my friend had got safely 


* Whaling vessels are usually fitted 
with iren oil-tanks—why the Grampus 
was not I have never been able to 
ascertain, 


467 


into the berth, and readjusted his hand- 
cuffs and the rope, it was broad day- 
light. We had made a narrow escape 
indeed; for scarcely had he arranged 
all matters, when the mate came below 
with Dirk Peters and the cook. They 
talked for some time about the vessel 
from the Cape Verds, and seemed to 
be excessively anxious for her appear- 
ance. At length the cook came to the 
berth in which Augustus was lying, and 
seated himself in it near the head. I 
could see and hear every thing from 
my hiding-place, for the piece cut out 
had not been put back, and I was in 
momentary expectation that the negro 
would fall against the pea-jacket, which 
was hung up to conceal the aperture, 
in which case all would have been dis- 
covered, and our lives would, no doubt, 
have been instantly sacrificed. Our 
good fortune prevailed, however; and 
although he frequently touched it as 
the vessel rolled, he never pressed 
against it sufficiently to bring about a 
discovery. The bottom of the jacket 
had been carefully fastened to the bulk- 
head, so that the hole might not be 
seen by its swinging to one side. All 
this time Tiger was lying in the foot 
of the berth, and appeared to have 
recovered in some measure his facul- 
ties, for I could see him occasionally 
open his eyes and draw a long breath. 

After a few minutes the mate and 
cook went above, leaving Dirk Peters 
behind, who, as soon as they were gone, 
came and sat himself down in the place 
just occupied by the mate. He began 
to talk very sociably with Augustus, 
and we could now see that the greater 
part of his apparent intoxication, while 
the two others were with him, was a 
feint. He answered all my companion’s 


468 


questions with perfect freedom; told 
him that he had no doubt of his father’s 
having been picked up, as there were 
no less than five sail in sight just before 
sundown on the day he was cut adrift; 
and used other language of a consola- 
tory nature, which occasioned me no 
less surprise than pleasure. Indeed, I 
began to entertain hopes, that through 
the instrumentality of Peters we might 
be finally enabled to regain possession 
of the brig, and this idea I mentioned 
to Augustus as soon as I found an 
opportunity. He thought the matter 
possible, but urged the necessity of the 
sreatest caution in making the attempt, 
as the conduct of the hybrid appeared 
to be instigated by the most arbitrary 
caprice alone; and, indeed, it was diffi- 
cult to say if he was at any moment 
of sound mind. Peters went upon deck 
in about an hour, and did not return 
again until noon, when he brought Au- 
gustus a plentiful supply of junk beef 
and pudding. Of this, when we were 
left alone, I partook heartily, without 
returning through the hole. No one 
else came down into the forecastle dur- 
ing the day, and at night, I got into 
Augustus’ berth, where I slept soundiy 
and sweetly until nearly daybreak, when 
he awakened me upon hearing a stir 
upon deck, and I regained my hiding- 
place as quickly as possible. When the 
day was fully broke, we found that 
Tiger had recovered his strength almost 
entirely, and gave no indications of 
hydrophobia, drinking a little water 
that was offered him with great appar- 
ent eagerness. During the day he re- 
gained all his former vigor and appetite. 
His strange conduct had been brought 
on, no doubt, by the deleterious quality 
of the air of the hold, and had no con- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE | 


nection with canine madness. I could — 
not sufficiently rejoice that I had per- 
sisted in bringing him with me from 
the box. This day was the thirtieth of 
June, and the thirteenth since the 
Grampus made sail from Nantucket. 

On the second of July the mate came 
below drunk as usual, and in an exces- 
sively good-humor. He came to Au- 
gustus’ berth, and, giving him a slap on 
the back, asked him if he thought he 
could behave himself if he let him loose, 
and whether he would promise not to 
be going into the cabin again. To this, 
of course, my friend answered in the 
affirmative, when the ruffian set him at 
liberty, after making him drink from a 
flask of rum which he drew from his 
coat-pocket. Both now went on deck, 
and I did not see Augustus for about 
three hours. He then came below with 
the good news that he had obtained 
permission to go about the brig as he 
pleased anywhere forward of the main- 
mast, and that he had been ordered to 
sleep, as usual, in the forecastle. He 
brought me, too, a good dinner, and a 
plentiful supply of water. The brig 
was still cruising for the vessel from 
the Cape Verds, and a sail was now 
in sight, which was thought to be the 
one in question. As the events of the 
ensuing eight days were of little impor- 
tance, and had no direct bearing upon 
the main incidents of my narrative, I 
will here throw them into the form of 
a journal, as I do not wish to omit 
them altogether. 

July 3d—Augustus furnished me with 
three blankets, with which I contrived 
a comfortable bed in my hiding-place. 
No one came below, except my com- 
panion, during the day. Tiger took his 
station in the berth just by the aper- 


| 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


ture, and slept heavily, as if not yet 
entirely recovered from the effects of 
his sickness. Toward night a flaw of 
wind struck the brig before sail could 
be taken in, and very nearly capsized 
her. The pull died away immediately, 
however, and no damage was done be- 
yond the splitting of the foretopsail. 
Dirk Peters treated Augustus all this 
day with great kindness and entered 
into a long conversation with him re- 
specting the Pacific Ocean, and the 
islands he had visited in that region. 
He asked him whether he would not 
like to go with the mutineers on a kind 
of exploring’ and pleasure voyage in 
those quarters, and said that the men 
were gradually coming over to the 
mate’s views. To this Augustus thought 
it best to reply that he would be glad 
to go on such an adventure, since noth- 
ing better could be done, and that any 
thing was preferable to a piratical life. 

July 4th—The vessel in sight proved 
to be a small brig from Liverpool, and 
was allowed to pass unmolested. Au- 
gustus spent most of his time on 
deck, with a view of obtaining all the 
information in his power respecting the 
intentions of the mutineers. They had 
frequent and violent quarrels among 
themselves, in one of which a harpooner, 
Jim Bonner, was thrown overboard. 
The party of the mate was gaining 
ground. Jim Bonner belonged to the 
cook’s gang, of which Peters was a 
partisan. 

July 5th-—About daybreak there 
came on a stiff breeze from the west, 
which at noon freshened into a gale, 
so that the brig could carry nothing 
more than her trysail and foresail. In 
taking in the foretopsail, Simms, one of 
the common hands, and belonging also 


469 


to the cook’s gang, fell overboard, being 
very much in liquor, and was drowned 
—no attempt being made to save him. 
The whole number of persons on board 
was now thirteen, to wit: Dirk Peters; 
Seymour, the black cook; Jones; 
—— Greely; Hartman Rogers; and 
William Allen, of the cook’s party; the 
mate, whose name I never learned; 
Absalom Hicks; Wilson; John 
Hunt; and Richard Parker, of the 
mate’s party;—besides Augustus and 
myself, 

July 6th—tThe gale lasted all this 
day, blowing in heavy squalls, accom- 
panied with rain. The brig took in a 
good deal of water through her seams, 
and one of the pumps was kept con- 
tinually going, Augustus being forced to 
take his turn. Just at twilight a large 
ship passed close by us, without having 
been discovered until within hail. The 
ship was supposed to be the one for 
which the mutineers were on the look- 
out. The mate hailed her, but the reply 
was drowned in the roaring of the gale. 
At eleven, a sea was shipped amidships, 
which tore away a great portion of the 
larboard bulwarks, and did some other 
slight damage. Toward morning the 
weather moderated, and at sunrise there 
was very little wind. 

July 7th—There was a heavy swell 
running all this day, during which the 
brig, being light, rolled excessively, and 
many articles broke loose in the hold, 
as I could hear distinctly from my 
hiding-place. I suffered a great deat 
from sea-sickness. Peters had a long 
conversation this day with Augustus, 
and told him that two of his gang, 
Greely and Allen, had gone over to the 
mate, and were resolved to turn pirates. 








470 


He put several questions to Augustus - 


which he did not then exactly under- 
stand. During a part of this evening 
the leak gained upon the vessel; and 
little could be done to remedy it, as it 
was occasioned by the brig’s straining, 
and taking in the water through her 
seams. A sail was thrummed, and got 
under the bows, which aided us in some 
measure, so that we began to gain upon 
the leak. 

July 8th—A light breeze sprang up 
at sunrise from the eastward, when the 
mate headed the brig to the southwest, 
with the intention of making some of 
the West India islands in pursuance of 
his piratical designs. No opposition 
was made by Peters or the cook—at 
least none in the hearing of Augustus. 
All idea of taking the vessel from the 
Cape Verds was abandoned. The leak 
was now easily kept under by one pump 
going every three quarters of an hour. 
The sail was drawn from beneath the 
bows. Spoke two small schooners dur- 
ing the day. 

July 9th.—Fine weather. All hands 
employed in repairing bulwarks. Peters 
had again a long conversation with Au- 
gustus, and spoke more plainly than 
he had done heretofore. He said noth- 
ing should induce him to come into the 
mate’s views, and even hinted his inten- 
tion of taking the brig out of his hands. 
He asked my friend if he could depend 
upon his aid in such case, to which 
Augustus said, “Yes,” without hesita- 
tion. Peters then said he would sound 
the others of his party upon the sub- 
ject, and went away. During the re- 
mainder of the day Augustus had no 
opportunity of speaking with him pri- 
vately. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


CuaptTer VII 


Jury 10tTuH.—Spoke a brig from Rio, 
bound to Norfolk. Weather hazy, with 
a light baffling wind from the eastward. 
To-day Hartn.an Rogers died, having 
been attacked on the eighth with spasms 
after drinking a glass of grog. This 
man was of the cook’s party, and one 
upon whom Peters placed his main reli- 
ance. He told Augustus that he be- 
lieved the mate had poisoned him, and 
that he expected, if he did not be on 
the look-out, his own turn would come 
shortly. There were now only himself, 
Jones, and the cook belonging to his 
own gang—on the other side there were 
five. He had spoken to Jones about 
taking the command from the mate; 
but the project having been coolly re- 
ceived, he had been deterred from 
pressing the matter any further, or from 
saying any thing to the cook. It was 
well, as it happened, that he was so 
prudent, for in the afternoon the cook 
expressed his determination of siding 
with the mate, and went over formally 
to that party; while Jones took an 
opportunity of quarrelling with Peters, 
and hinted that he would let the mate 
know of the plan in agitation. There 
was now, evidently, no time to be lost, 
and Peters expressed his determination 
of attempting to take the vessel at all 
hazards, provided Augustus would lend 
him his aid. My friend at once assured 
him of his willingness to enter into 
any plan for that purpose, and, think- 
ing the opportunity a favorable one, 
made known the fact of my being on 
board. At this the hybrid was not 
more astonished than delighted, as he 
had no reliance whatever upon Jones, 
whom he already considered as belong: 


ing to the party of the mate. 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


They 
went below immediately, when Augus- 
tus called to me by name, and Peters 


and myself were soon made acquainted. 


It was agreed that we should attempt 
to retake the vessel upon the first good 
opportunity, leaving Jones altogether 
out of our councils. In the event of 
success, we were to run the brig into 
the first port that offered, and deliver 
her up. The desertion of his party 
had frustrated Peters’ design of going 
into the Pacific—an adventure which 
could not be accomplished without a 
crew, and he depended upon either get- 
ting acquitted upon trial, on the score 
of insanity (which he solemnly averred 
had actuated him in lending his aid 
to the mutiny), or upon obtaining a 
pardon, if found guilty, through the 
representations of Augustus and my- 
self. Our deliberations were interrupted 
for the present by the cry of, “All 
hands take in sail,” and Peters and 
Augustus ran up on deck. 

As usual, the crew were nearly all 
drunk; and, before sail could be prop- 
erly taken in, a violent squall laid the 
brig on her beam-ends. By keeping 
her away, however, she righted, having 
shipped a good deal of water. Scarcely 
was every thing secure, when another 
squall took the vessel, and immediately 
afterward another—no damage being 
done. There was every appearance of 
a gale of wind, which, indeed, shortly 
came on, with great fury, from the 
northward and westward. All was 
made as snug as possible, and we laid-to, 
as usual, under a close-reefed foresail. 
As night drew on, the wind increased 
in violencé, with a remarkably heavy 
sea. Peters now came into the fore- 


471 


castle with Augustus, and we resumed 
our deliberations. 

We agreed that no opportunity could 
be more favorable than the present for 
carrying our designs into effect, as an 
attempt at such a moment would never 
be anticipated. As the brig was snugly 
laid-to, there would be no necessity of 
manoeuvring her until good weather, 
when, if we succeeded in our attempt, 
we might liberate one, or perhaps two 
of the men, to aid us in taking her into 
port. The main difficulty was the great 
disproportion in our forces. There were 
only three of us, and in the cabin there 
were nine. All the arms on board, too, 
were in their possession, with the excep- 
tion of a pair of small pistols which 
Peters had concealed about his person, 
and the large seaman’s knife which he 
always wore in the waistband of his 
pantaloons. From certain indications, 
too—such, for example, as there being 
no such thing as an axe or a handspike 
lying in their customary places—we 
began to fear that the mate had his 
suspicions, at least in regard to Peters, 
and that he would let slip no oppor- 
tunity of getting rid of him. It was 
clear, indeed, that what we should de- 
termine to do could not be done too 
soon. Still the odds were too much 
against us to allow of our proceeding 
without the greatest caution. 

Peters proposed that he should go up 
en deck, and enter into conversation 
with the watch (Allen), when he would 
be able to throw him into the sea 
without trouble, and without making 
any disturbance, by seizing a good op- 
portunity; that Augustus and myself 
should then come up, and endeavor to 
provide ourselves with some kind of 
weapons from the deck; and that we 


472 


should then make a rush together, and 
secure the companion-way before any 
opposition could be offered. I objected 
to this, because I could not believe that 
the mate (who was a cunning fellow 
in all matters which did not affect his 
superstitious prejudices) would suffer 
himself to be so easily entrapped. The 
very fact of there being a watch on 
deck at all was sufficient proof that he 
was upon the alert,—it not being usual, 
except in vessels where discipline is 
most rigidly enforced, to station a watch 
on deck when a vessel is lying-to in a 
gale of wind. As I address myself 
principally, if not altogether, to persons 
who have never been to sea, it may be 
as well to state the exact condition of 
a vessel under such _ circumstances. 
Lying-to, or, in sea-parlance, “laying-to,” 
is a measure resorted to for various 
purposes, and effected in various man- 
ners. In moderate weather it is fre- 
quently done with a view of merely 
bringing the vessel to a standstill, to 
wait for another vessel, or any similar 
object. If the vessel which lies-to is 
under full sail, the manceuvre is usually 
accomplished by throwing round some 
portion of her sails, so as to let the 
wind take them aback, when she be- 
comes stationary. But we are now 
speaking of lying-to in a gale of wind. 
This is done when the wind is ahead, 
and too violent to admit of carrying 
sail without danger of capsizing; and 
sometimes even when the wind is fair, 
but the sea too heavy for the vessel 
to be put before it. If a vessel be 
suffered to scud before the wind in a 
very heavy sea, much damage is usually 
done her by the shipping of water over 
her stern, and sometimes by the violent 
plunges she makes forward. This ma- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


noeuvre, then, is seldom resorted to in 
such case, unless through necessity. 
When the vessel is in a leaky condition 
she is often put before the wind even 
in the heaviest seas; for, when lying-to, 
her seams are sure to be greatly opened 
by her violent straining, and it is not 
so much the case when scudding. Often, 
too, it becomes necessary to scud a 
vessel, either when the blast is so ex- 
ceedingly furious as to tear in pieces 
the sail which is employed with a view 
of bringing her head to the wind, or 
when, through the false modelling of 
the frame or other causes, this main 
object cannot be effected. 

Vessels in a gale of wind are laid-te 
in different manners, according to their 
peculiar construction. Some lie-to best 
under a foresail, and this, I believe, is 
the sail most usually employed. Large 
square-rigged vessels have sails for the 
express purpose, called storm-staysails. 
But the jib is occasionally employed by 
itself—sometimes the jib and foresail, 
or a double-reefed foresail, and not 
unfrequently the after-sails, are made 
use of. Foretopsails are very often 
found to answer the purpose better than 
any other species of sail. The Grampus 
was generally laid-to under a close- 
reefed foresail. 

When a vessel is to be laid-to, her 
head is brought up to the wind just so 
nearly as to fill the sail under which 
she lies when hauled flat aft,—that is, 
when brought diagonally across the ves- 
sel. This being done, the bows point 
within a few degrees of the direction 
from which the wind issues, and the 
windward bow of course receives the 
shock of the waves. In this situation 
a good vessel will ride out a very heavy 
gale of wind without shipping a drop 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


of water, and without any further atten- 
tion being requisite on the part of the 
crew. The helm is usually lashed down, 
out this is altogether unnecessary 
(except on account of the noise it 
makes when loose), for the rudder has 
no effect upon the vessel when lying-to. 
Indeed, the helm hed far better be 
left loose than lashed very fast, for the 
rudder is apt to be torn off by heavy 
seas if there be no room for the helm 
to play. As long as the sail holds, a 
well modelled vessel will maintain her 
situation, and ride every sea, as if 
instinct with life and reason. If the 
violence of the wind, however, should 
tear the sail into pieces (a feat which 
it requires a perfect hurricane to accom- 
plish under ordinary circumstances), 
there is then imminent danger. The 
vessel falls off from the wind, and, 
coming broadside to the sea, is com- 
pletely at its mercy: the only resource 
in this case is to put her quietly before 
the wind, letting her scud until some 
other sail can be set. Some vessels will 
lie-to under no sail whatever, but such 
are not to be trusted at sea. 

But to return from this digression. 
It had never been customary with the 
mate to have any watch on deck when 
lying-to in a gale of wind, and the fact 
that he had now one, coupled with the 
circumstance of the missing axes and 
hand-spikes, fully convinced us that the 
crew were too well on the watch to be 
taken by surprise in the manner Peters 
had suggested. Something, however, 
was to be done, and that with as little 
delay as practicable, for there could be 
no doubt that a suspicion having been 
once entertained against Peters, he 
would be sacrificed upon the earliest 
occasion, and one would certainly be 


473 


either found or made upon the breaking 
of the gale. 

Augustus now suggested that if Peters 
could contrive to remove, under any 
pretext, the piece of chain-cable which 
lay over the trap in the state-room, 
we might possibly be able to come 
upon them unawares by means of the 
hold; but a little reflection convinced 
us that the vessel rolled and pitched 
too violently for any attempt of that 
nature. 

By good fortune I at length hit upon 
the idea of working upon the super- 
stitious terrors and guilty conscience of 
the mate. It will be remembered that 
one of the crew, Hartman Rogers, had 
died during the morning, having been 
attacked two days before with spasms 
after drinking some spirits and water. 
Peters had expressed to us his opinion 
that this man had been poisoned by the 
mate, and for this belief he had rea- 
sons, so he said, which were incontro- 
vertible, but which he could not be 
prevailed upon to explain to us—this 
wayward refusal being only in keeping 
with other points of his singular charac- 
ter. But whether or not he had any 
better grounds for suspecting the mate 
than we had ourselves, we were easily 
led to fall in with his suspicion, and 
determined to act accordingly. 

Rogers had died about eleven in the 
forenoon, in violent convulsions; and 
the corpse presented in a few minutes 
after death one of the most horrid and 
loathsome spectacles I ever remember 
to have seen. The stomach was swol- 
len immensely, like that of a man who 
has been drowned and lain under water 
for many weeks. The hands were in 
the same condition, while the face was. 
shrunken, shrivelled, and of a chalky 


474 


whiteness, except where relieved by two 
or three glaring red blotches like those 
occasioned by the erysipelas: one of 
these blotches extended diagonally 
across the face, completely covering up 
an eye as if with a band of red velvet. 
In this disgusting condition the body 
had been brought up from the cabin 
at noon to be thrown overboard, when 
the mate getting a glimpse of it (for 
he now saw it for the first time), and 
being either touched with remorse for 
his crime or struck with terror at so 
horrible a sight, ordered the men to 
sew the body up in its hammock, and 
allow it the usual rites of sea-burial. 
Having given these directions, he went 
below, as if to avoid any further sight 
of his victim. While preparations were 
making to obey his orders, the gale 
came on with great fury, and the design 
was abandoned for the present. The 
corpse, left to itself, was washed into 
the larboard scuppers, where it still 
lay at the time of which I speak, floun- 
dering abeut with the furious lurches of 
the brig. 

Having arranged our plan, we set 
about putting it in execution as speedily 
as possible. Peters went upon deck, 
and, as he had anticipated, was imme- 
diately accosted by Allen, who appeared 
to be stationed more as a watch upon 
the forecastle than for any other pur- 
pose. The fate of this villain, however, 
was speedily and silently decided; for 
Peters, approaching him in a careless 
manner, as if about to address him, 
seized him by the throat, and, before 
he could utter a single cry, tossed him 
over the bulwarks. He then called to 
us, and we came up. Our first precau- 
tion was to look about for something 
with which to arm ourselves, and in 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


doing this we had to proceed with great 
care, for it was impossible to stand on 
deck an instant without holding fast, 
and violent seas broke over the vessel 
at every plunge forward. It was indis- 
pensable, too, that we should be quick 
in our operations, for every minute we 
expected the mate to be up to set the 
pumps going, as it was evident the 
brig must be taking in water very fast. 
After searching about for some time, 
we could find nothing more fit for our 
purpose than the two pumphandles, one 
of which Augustus took, and I the other. 
Having secured these, we stripped off 
the shirt of the corpse and dropped 
the body overboard. Peters and myself 
then went below, leaving Augustus to 
watch upon deck, where he took his 
station just where Allen had been 
placed, and with his back to the cabin 
companionway, so that, if any of the 
mate’s gang should come up, he might 
suppose it was the watch. 

As soon as I got below I commenced 
disguising myself so as to represent the 
corpse of Rogers. The shirt which we 
had taken from the body aided us very 
much, for it was of singular form and 
character, and easily recognizable—a 
kind of smock, which the deceased 
wore over his other clothing. It was 
a blue stockinett, with large white 
stripes running across. Having put this 
on, I proceeded to equip myself with 
a false stomach, in imitation of the 
horrible deformity of the swollen 
corpse. This was soon effected by 
means of stuffing with some bedclothes. 
I then gave the same appearance to my 
hands by drawing on a pair of white 
woollen mittens, and filling them in with 
any kind of rags that offered them- 
selves. Peters then arranged my face, 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


first rubbing it well over with white 
chalk, and afterward blotching it with 
blood, which he took from a cut in his 
finger. The streak across the eye was 
not forgotten and presented a most 
shocking appearance. 


CuaptTer VIII 


As I viewed myself in a fragment of 
looking-glass which hung up in the 
cabin, and by the dim light of a kind 
of battle-lantern, I was so impressed 
with a sense of vague awe at my ap- 
pearance, and at the recollection of the 
terrific reality which I was thus repre- 
senting, that I was seized with a violent 
tremor, and could scarcely summon 
resolution to go on with my part. It 
was necessary, however, to act with 
decision, and Peters and myself went 
upon deck. 

We there found every thing safe, and, 
keeping close to the bulwarks, the three 
of us crept to the cabin companionway. 
It was only partially closed, precau- 
tions having been taken to prevent its 
being suddenly pushed to from without, 
by means of placing billets of wood on 
the upper step so as to interfere with 
the shutting. We found no difficulty 
in getting a full view of the interior 
of the cabin through the cracks where 
the hinges were placed. It now proved 
to have been very fortunate for us that 
we had not attempted to take them by 
surprise, for they were evidently on 
the alert. Only one was asleep, and he 
lying just at the foot of the companion- 
ladder, with a musket by his side. The 
rest were seated on several mattresses, 
which had been taken from the berths 
and throwns on the floor. They were 
engaged in earnest conversation; and 


475 


although they had been carousing, as 
appeared from two empty jugs, with 
some tin tumblers which lay about, they 
were not as much intoxicated as usual. 
All had knives, one or two of them 
pistols, and a great many muskets were 
lying in a berth close at hand. 

We listened to their conversation for 
some time before we could make up 
our minds how to act, having as yet 
resolved on nothing determinate, except 
that we would attempt to paralyze their 
exertions, when we should attack them, 
by means of the apparition of Rogers. 
They were discussing their piratical 
plans, in which all we could hear dis- 
tinctly was, that they would unite with 
the crew of a schooner Hornet, and, if 
possible, get the schooner herself into 
their possession preparatory to some 
attempt on a large scale, the particu- 
lars of which could not be made out 
by either of us. 

One of the men spoke of Peters, 
when the mate replied to him in a low 
voice which could not be distinguished, 
and afterward added more loudly, that 
“he could not understand his being so 
much forward with the captain’s brat 
in the forecastle, and he thought the 
sooner both of them were overboard 
the better.’ To this no answer was 
made, but we could easily perceive that 
the hint was well received by the whole 
party, and more particularly by Jones. 
At this period I was excessively agi- 
tated, the more so as I could see that 
neither Augustus nor Peters could de- 
termine how to act. I made up my 
mind, however, to sell my life as dearly 
as possible, and not to suffer myself 
to be overcome by any feelings of 
trepidation. 

The tremendous noise made by the 


476 


roaring of the wind in the rigging, and 
the washing of the sea over the deck, 
prevented us from hearing what was 
said, except during momentary lulls. In 
one of these, we all distinctly heard 
the mate tell one of the men to “go 
forward, and order the d—d lubbers to 
come into the cabin,’ where he could 
have an eye upon them, for he wanted 
no such secret doings on board the 
brig. It was well for us that the pitch- 
ing of the vessel at this moment was 
so violent as to prevent this order from 
being carried into instant execution. 
The cook got up from his mattress to 
go for us, when a tremendous lurch, 
which I thought would carry away the 
masts, threw him headlong against one 
of the larboard state-room doors, burst- 
ing it open, and creating a good deal 
of other confusion. Luckily, neither of 
our party was thrown from his position, 
and we had time to make a precipitate 
retreat to the forecastle, and arrange a 
hurried plan of action before the mes- 
senger made his appearance, or rather 
before he put his head out of the com- 
panion-hatch, for he did not come on 
deck. From this station he could not 
notice the absence of Allen, and he 
accordingly bawled out, as if to him, 
repeating the orders of the mate. 
Peters criecd| out, “Ay, ay,” in a dis- 
guised voice, and the cook immediately 
went below, without entertaining a sus- 
picion that all was not right. 

My two companions now proceeded 
boldly aft and down into the cabin, 
Peters closing the door after him in the 
same manner he had found it. The 
mate received them with feigned cor- 
diality, and told Augustus that, since 
he had behaved himself so well of late, 
he might take up his quarters in the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


cabin and be one of them for the future. 
He then poured him out a tumbler half 
full of rum, and made him drink it. 
All this I saw and heard, for I followed 
my friends to the cabin as soon as the 
door was shut, and took up my old 
point of observation. I had brought 
with me the two pump-handles, one of 
which I secured near the companion- 
way, to be ready for use when required. 

I now steadied myself as well as 
possible so as to have a good view of 
all that was passing within, and en- 
deavored to nerve myself to the task 
of descending among the mutineers 
when Peters should make a signal to 
me, as agreed upon. Presently he con- 
trived to turn the conversation upon 
the bloody deeds of the mutiny, and 
by degrees led the men to talk of the 
thousand superstitions which are so 
universally current among seamen. If 
could not make out all that was said, 
but I could plainly see the effects of 
the conversation in the countenances 
of those present. The mate was evi- 
dently much agitated, and presently, 
when some one mentioned the terrific 
appearance of Rogers’ corpse, I thought. 
he was upon the point of swooning. 
Peters now asked him if he did not 
think it would be better to have the 
body thrown overboard at once as it 
was too horrible a sight to see it floun- 
dering about in the scuppers. At this 
the villain absolutely gasped for breath, 
and turned his head slowly round upon 
his companions, as if imploring some 
one to go up and perform the task. 
No one, however, stirred, and it was 
quite evident that the whole party were 
wound up to the highest pitch of ner- 
vous excitement. Peters now made me 
the signal. I immediately threw oper 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


the door of the companion-way, and, ' 


descending, without uttering a syllable, 
stood erect in the midst of the party. 

The intense effect produced by this 
sudden apparition is not at all to be 
wondered at when the various circum- 
stances are taken into consideration. 
Usually, in cases of a similar nature, 
there is left in the mind of the spec- 
tator some glimmering of doubt as to 
the reality of the vision before his 
eyes; a degree of hope, however feeble, 
that he is the victim of chicanery, and 
that the apparition is not actually a 
visitant from the old world of shadows. 
It is not too much to say that such 
remnants of doubt have been at the 
bottom of almost. every such visitation, 
and that the appalling horror which has 
sometimes been brought about, is to be 
attributed, even in the cases most in 
point, and where most suffering has 
been experienced, more to a kind of 
anticipative horror, lest the apparition 
might possibly be real, than to an un- 
wavering belief in its reality. But, in 
the present instance, it will be seen 
immediately, that in the minds of the 
mutineers there was not even the 
shadow of a basis upon which to rest 
a doubt that the apparition of Rogers 
was indeed a revivification of his dis- 
gusting corpse, or at least its spiritual 
image. The isolated situation of the 
brig, with its entire inaccessibility on 
account of the gale, confined the appar- 
ently possible means of deception within 
such narrow and definite limits, that 
they must have thought themselves 
enabled to survey them all at a glance. 
They had now been at sea twenty-four 
days, without holding more than a 
speaking communication with any ves- 
sel whatever. The whole of the crew, 


477 


too—at least all whom they had the 
mast remote reason for suspecting to 
be on board—were assembled in the 
cabin, with the exception of Allen, the 
watch; and his gigantic stature (he was 
six feet six inches high) was too fami- 
liar in their eyes to permit the notion 
that he was the apparition before them 
to enter their minds even for an instant. 
Add to these considerations the awe- 
inspiring nature of the tempest, and 
that of the conversation brought about 
by Peters; the deep impression which 
the loathsomeness of the actual corpse 
had made in the morning upon the 
imaginations of the men; the excellence 
of the imitation in my person, and the 
uncertain and wavering light in which 
they beheld me, as the glare of the 
cabin lantern, swinging violently to and 
fro, fell dubiously and fitfully upon my 
figure, and there will be no reason to 
wonder that the deception had even 
more than the entire effect which we 
had anticipated. The mate sprang up 
from the mattress on which he was 
lying, and, without uttering a syllable, 
fell back, stone dead, upon the cabin 
floor, and was hurled to the leeward 
like a log by a heavy roll of the brig. 
Of the remaining seven, there were but 
three who had at first any degree of 
presence of mind. The four others 
sat for some time rooted apparently 
to the floor—the most pitiable objects 
of horror and utter despair my eyes 
ever encountered. The only opposition 
we experienced at all was from the 
cook, John Hunt, and Richard Parker; 
but they made but a feeble and irreso- 
lute defense. The two former were 
shot instantly by Peters, and I felled 
Parker with a blow on the head from 
the pump-handle which I had brought 


478 


with me. In the mean time, Augustus 
seized one of the muskets lying on 
the floor and shot another mutineer 
( Wilson) through the breast. 
There were now but three remaining; 
but by this time they had become 
aroused from their lethargy, and per- 
haps began to see that a deception had 
been practised upon them, for they 
fought with great resolution and fury, 
and, but for the immense muscular 
strength of Peters, might have ulti- 
mately got the better of us. These 
three men were Jones, Greely, 
and Absalom Hicks. Jones had thrown 
Augustus on the floor, stabbed him in 
several places along the right arm, and 
would no doubt have soon dispatched 
him (as neither Peters nor myself could 
immediately get rid of our own antag- 
onists) had it not been for the timely 
aid of a friend, upon whose assistance 
we, surely, had never depended. This 
friend was no other than Tiger. With 
a low growl, he bounded into the cabin, 
at a most critical moment for Augus- 
tus, and throwing himself upon Jones, 
pinned him to the floor in an instant. 
My friend, however, was now too much 
injured to render us any aid whatever, 
and I was so encumbered with my dis- 
guise that I could do but little. The 
dog would not leave his hold upon the 
throat of Jones—Peters, nevertheless, 
was far more than a match for the 
two men who remained, and would, no 
doubt, have dispatched them sooner, 
had it not been for the narrow space 
in which he had to act, and the tre- 
mendous lurches of the vessel. Pres- 
ently he was enabled to get hold of a 
heavy stool, several of which lay about 
the floor. With this he beat out the 
brains of Greely as he was in the act 











WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of discharging a musket at me, and 


immediately afterward a roll of the 
brig throwing him in contact with 
Hicks, he seized him by the throat, 
and, by dint of sheer strength, strangled 
him instantaneously. Thus, in far less 
time than I have taken to tell it, we 
found ourselves masters of the brig. 

The only person of our opponents 
who was left alive was Richard Parker. 
This man, it will be remembered, I had 
knocked down with a blow from the 
pump-handle at the commencement of 
the attack. He now lay motionless by 
the door of the shattered state-room; 
but, upon Peters touching him with his 
foot, he spoke, and entreated for mercy. 
His head was only ‘slightly cut, and 
otherwise he had received no injury, 
having been merely stunned by the 
blow. He now got up, and, for the 
present, we secured his hands behind 
his back. The dog was still growling 
over Jones; but, upon examination, we 
found him completely dead, the blood 
issuing in a stream from a deep wound 
in the throat, inflicted, no doubt, by 
the sharp teeth of the animal. 

It was now about one o’clock in the 
morning, and the wind was still blowing 
tremendously. ‘The brig evidently la- 
bored much more than usual, and it 
became absolutely necessary that some- 
thing should be done with a view of 
easing her in some measure. At almost 
every roll to leeward she shipped a sea, 
several of which came partially down 
into the cabin during our scuffle, the 
hatchway having been left open by 
myself when I descended. ‘The entire 
range of bulwarks to larboard had been 
swept away, as well as the caboose, 
together with the jolly-boat from the 
counter, The creaking and working of 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


the mainmast, too, gave indication that 
it was nearly sprung. To make room 
for more stowage in the after-hold, the 
heel of this mast had been stepped 
between decks (a very reprehensible 
practice, occasionally resorted to by 
ignorant ship-builders), so that it was 
in imminent danger of working from 
its step. But, to crown all our diffi- 
culties, we plummed the well, and found 
no less than seven feet of water. 

Leaving the bodies of the crew lying 
in the cabin, we got to work immedi- 
ately at the pumps—Parker, of course, 
being set at liberty to assist us in the 
labor. Augustus’ arm was bound up 
as well as we could effect it, and he 
did what he could, but that was not 
much. However, we found that we 
could just manage to keep the leak from 
gaining upon us by having one pump 
constantly going. As there were only 
four of us, this was severe labor; but 
we endeavored to keep up our spirits, 
and looked anxiously for daybreak, 
when we hoped to lighten the brig by 
cutting away the mainmast. 

In this manner we passed a night of 
_terrible anxiety and fatigue, and, when 
the day at length broke, the gale had 
neither abated in the least, nor were 
there any signs of its abating. We 
now dragged the bodies on deck and 
threw them overboard. Our next care 
was to get rid of the mainmast. The 
necessary preparations having been 
made, Peters cut away at the mast 
(having found axes in the cabin), while 
the rest of us stood by the stays and 
lanyards. As the brig gave a tremen- 
dous lee-lurch, the word was given to 
cut away the weather-lanyards, which 
being done, the whole mass of wood 
and rigging plunged into the sea, clear 


479 


of the brig, and without doing any ma- 
terial injury. We now found that the 
vessel did not labor quite as much as 
before, but our situation was still ex- 
ceedingly precarious, and in spite of 
the utmost exertions, we could not gain 
upon the leak without the aid of both 
pumps. The little assistance which Au- 
gustus could render us was not really 
of any importance. To add to our dis- 
tress, a heavy sea, striking the brig to 
the windward, threw her off several 
points from the wind, and, before she 
could regain her position, another broke 
completely over her, and hurled her full 
upon her beam-ends. The ballast now 
shifted in a mass to leeward (the stow- 
age had been knocking about perfectly 
at random for some time), and for a 
few moments we thought nothing could 
save us from capsizing. Presently, how- 


ever, we partially righted; but the bal- 


last still retaining its place to larboard, 
we lay so much along that it was use- 
less to think of working the pumps, 
which indeed we could not have done 
much longer in any case, as our hands 
were entirely raw with the excessive 
labor we had undergone, and were 
bleeding in the most horrible manner! 

Contrary to Parker’s advice, we now 
proceeded to cut away the foremast, 
and at length accomplished it after 
much difficulty, owing to the position 
in which we lay. In going overboard 
the wreck took with it the bowsprit, 
and left us a complete hulk. 

So far we had had reason to rejoice 
in the escape of our long-boat, which 
had received no damage from any of 
the huge seas which had come on board. 
But we had not long to congratulate 
ourselves; for the foremast having gone, 
and, of course, the foresail with it, by 


480 


which the brig had been steadied, every 
sea now made a complete breach over 
us, and in five minutes our deck was 
swept from stem to stern, the long-boat 
and starboard bulwarks torn off, and 
even the windlass shattered into frag- 
ments. It was, indeed, hardly possible 
for us to be in a more pitiable con- 
dition. 

At noon there seemed to be some 
slight appearance of the gale’s abating, 
but in this we were sadly disappointed, 
for it only lulled for a few minutes 
to blow with redoubled fury. About 
four in the afternoon it was utterly 
impossible to stand up against the vio- 
lence of the blast; and, as the night 
closed in upon us, I had not a shadow 
of hope that the vessel would hold 
together until morning. 

By midnight we had settled very deep 
in the water, which was now up to the 
orlop deck. The rudder went soon 
afterward, the sea which tore it away 
lifting the after-portion of the brig 
entirely from the water, against which 
she thumped in her descent with such 
a concussion as would be occasioned 
by going ashore. We had all calculated 
that the rudder would hold its own to 
the last, as it was unusually strong, 
being rigged as I have never seen one 
rigged either before or since. Down 
its main timber there ran a succession 
of stout iron hooks, and others in the 
same manner down the stern-post. 
Through these hooks there extended a 
very thick wrought-iron rod, the rudder 
being thus held to the stern-post and 
swinging freely on the rod. The tre- 
mendous force of the sea which tore it 
off may be estimated by the fact, that 
the hooks in the stern-post, which ran 
entirely through it, being clinched on 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the inside, were drawn every one of 
them completely out of the solid wood. 

We had scarcely time to draw breath 
after the violence of this shock, when 
one of the most tremendous waves I 
had then ever known broke right on 
board of us, sweeping the companion- 
way clear off, bursting in the hatch- 
ways, and filling every inch of the 
vessel with water. 


CHAPTER IX 


LucKILy, just before night, all four 
of us had lashed ourselves firmly to 
the fragments of the windlass. lying in 
this manner as flat upon the deck as 
possible. This precaution alone saved 
us from destruction. As it was, we 
were all more or less stunned by the 
immense weight of water which tumhled 
upon us, and which did not roll from 
above us until we were nearly ex- 
hausted. As soon as I could recover 
breath, I called aloud to my compan- 
ions. Augustus alone replied, saying: 
“Tt is all over with us, and may God 
have mercy upon our souls!” By and 
by both the others were enabled to 
speak, when they exhorted us to take 
courage, as there was still hope; it being 
impossible, from the nature of the 
cargo, that the brig could go down, and 
there being every chance that the gale 
would blow over by the morning. 
These words inspired me with new life; 
for, strange as it may seem, although 
it was obvious that a vessel with a 
cargo of empty oil-casks would not 
sink, I had been hitherto so confused 
in mind as to have overlooked this 
consideration altogether; and the dan- 
ger which I had for some time regarded 
as the most imminent was that of 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


foundering. As hope revived within me, 
I made use of every opportunity to 
strengthen the lashings which held me 
to the remains of the windlass, and in 
this occupation I soon discovered that 
my companions were also busy. The 
night was as dark as it could possibly 
be, and the horrible shrieking din and 


confusion which surrounded us it is - 


useless to attempt describing. Our deck 
lay level with the sea, or rather we 
were encircled with a towering ridge 
of foam, a portion of which swept over 
us every instant. It is not too much 
to say that our heads were not fairly 
out of the water more than one second 
in three. Although we lay close to- 
gether, no one of us could see the 
other, or, indeed, any portion of the 
brig itself, upon which we were so tem- 
pestuously hurled about. At intervals 
we called one to the other, thus endeav- 
oring to keep alive hope, and render 
consolation and encouragement to such 
of us as stood most in need of it. The 
feeble condition of Augustus made him 
an object of solicitude with us all; and 
as, from the lacerated condition of his 
right arm, it must have been impossi- 
ble for him to secure his lashings with 
any degree of firmness, we were in 
momentary expectation of finding that 
he had gone overboard—yet to render 
him aid was a thing altogether out of 
the question. Fortunately, his station 
was more secure than that of any of 
the rest of us; for the upper part of his 
body lying just beneath a portion of 
the shattered windlass, the seas, as they 
tumbled in upon him, were greatly 
broken in their violence. In any other 
situation than this (into which he had 
been accidentally thrown after having 
lashed himself in a very exposed spot) 


481 


he must inevitably have perished before: 
morning. Owing to the brig’s lying so 
much along, we were all less liable to 
be washed off than otherwise would 
have been the case. The heel, as I have 
before stated, was to larboard, about 
one-half of the deck being constantly 
under water. The seas, therefore, which 
struck us to starboard were much 
broken, by the vessel’s side, only reach- 
ing us in fragments as we lay flat on 
our faces; while those which came from 
larboard being what are called back- 
water seas, and obtaining little hold 
upon us on account of our posture, had 
not sufficient force to drag us from our 
fastenings. 

In this frightful situation we lay until 
the day broke so as to show us more 
fully the horrors which surrounded us. 
The brig was a mere log, rolling about 
at the mercy of every wave; the gale 
was upon the increase, if any thing, 
blowing indeed a complete hurricane, 
and there appeared to us no earthly 
prospect of deliverance. For several 
hours we held on in silence, expecting 
every moment that our lashings would 
either give way, that the remains of 
the windlass would go by the board, 
or that some of the huge seas, which 
roared in every direction around us and 
above us, would drive the hulk so far 
beneath the water that we should be 
drowned before it could regain the sur- 
face. By the mercy of God, however, 
we were preserved from these imminent 
dangers, and about midday were cheered 
by the light of the blessed sun. Shortly 
afterward we could perceive a sensible 
diminution in the force of the wind, 
when, now for the first time since the 
latter part of the evening before, Au- 
eustus spoke, asking Peters, who lay 


482 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


closest to him, if he thought there was 
any possibility of our being saved. As 
no reply was at first made to this 
question, we all concluded that the 
hybrid had been drowned where he lay; 
but presently, to our great joy, he 
spoke, although very feebly, saying that 
he was in great pain, being so cut by 
the tightness of his lashings across the 
stomach, that he must either find means 
of loosening them or perish, as it was 
impossible that he could endure his 
misery much longer. This occasioned 
us great distress, as it was altogether 
useless to think of aiding him in any 
manner while the sea continued wash- 
ing over us as it did. We exhorted him 
to bear his sufferings with fortitude, 
and promised to seize the first oppor- 
tunity which should offer itself to re- 
lieve him. He replied that it would 
soon be too late; that it would be all 
over with him before we could help 
him; and then, after moaning for some 
minutes, lay silent, when we concluded 
that he had perished. 

As the evening drew on, the sea had 
fallen so much that scarcely more than 
one wave broke over the hulk from 
windward in the course of five minutes, 
and the wind had abated a great deal, 
although still blowing a severe gale. I 
had not heard any of my companions 
speak for hours, and now called to Au- 
gustus. He replied, although very 
feebly, so that I could not distinguish 
what he said. I then spoke to Peters 
and to Parker, neither of whom returned 
any answer. 

Shortly after this period I fell into 
a state of partial insensibility, during 
which the most pleasing images floated 
in my imagination; such as green trees, 
waving meadows of ripe grain, proces- 


sions of dancing girls, troops of cavalry, 
and other phantasies. I now remember 
that, in all which passed before my 
mind’s eye, motion was a predominant 
idea. ‘Thus, I never fancied any sta- 
tionary object, such as a house, a moun- 
tain, or any thing of that kind; but 
windmills, ships, large birds, balloons, 
people on horseback, carriages driving 
furiously, and similar moving objects, 
presented themselves in endless succes- 
sion. When I recovered from this state, 
the sun was, as near as I could guess, 
an hour high. I had the greatest diffi- 
culty in bringing to recollection the 
various circumstances connected with 
my situation, and for some time re- 
mained firmly convinced that I was 
still in the hold of the brig, near the 
box, and that the body of Parker was 
that of Tiger. 

When I at length completely came 
to my senses, I found that the wind 
blew no more than a moderate breeze, 
and that the sea was comparatively 
calm; so much so that it only washed 
over the brig amidships. My left arm 
had broken loose from its lashings, and 
was much cut about the elbow; my 
right was entirely benumbed, and the 
hand and wrist swollen prodigiously by 
the pressure of the rope, which had 
worked from the shoulder downward. 
I was also in great pain from another 
rope which went about my waist, and 
had been drawn to an insufferable de- 
gree of tightness. Looking round upon 
my companions, I saw that Peters still 
lived, although a thick line was pulled 
so forcibly around his loins as to give 
him the appearance of being cut nearly 
in two; as I stirred, he made a feeble 
motion to me with his hand, pointing 
to the rope. Augustus gave no indica- 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM . 


tion of life whatever, and was bent 
nearly double across a splinter of the 
windlass. Parker spoke to me when he 
saw me moving, and asked me if I had 
not sufficient strength to release him 
from his situation, saying, that if I 
would summon up what spirits I could, 
and contrive to untie him, we might 
yet save our lives; but that otherwise 
we must all perish. I told him to take 
courage, and I would endeavor to free 
him. Feeling in my pantaloons’ pocket, 
I got hold of my. penknife, and, after 
several ineffectual attempts, at length 
succeeded in opening it. I then, with 
my left hand, managed to free my right 
from its fastenings, and afterward cut 
the other ropes which held me. Upon 
attempting, however, to move from my 
position, I found that my legs failed 
me altogether, and that I could not 
get up; neither could I move my right 
arm in any direction. Upon mention- 
ing this to Parker, he advised me to 
lie quiet for a few minutes, holding on 
to the windlass with my left hand, so as 
to allow time for the blood to circulate. 
Doing this, the numbness presently 
began to die away so that I could move 
first one of my legs, and then the other, 
and, shortly afterward I regained the 
partial use of my right arm. I now 
crawled with great caution toward Par- 
ker, without getting on my legs, and 
soon cut loose all the lashings about 
him, when, after a short delay, he also 
recovered the partial use of his limbs. 
We now lost no.time in getting loose 
the rope from Peters. It had cut a 
deep gash through the waist-band of 
his woollen pantaloons, and through two 
shirts, and made its way into his groin, 
from which the blood flowed out copi- 
ously as we removed the cordage. No 


433 


sooner had we removed it, however, 
than he spoke, and seemed to experi- 
ence instant relief, being able te move 
with much greater ease than either 
Parker or myself—this was no doubt 
owing to the discharge of blood. 

We had little hopes that Augustus 
would recover, as he evinced no signs 
of life; but, upon getting to him, we 
discovered that he had merely swooned 
from the loss of blood, the bandages 
we had placed around his wounded arm 
having been torn off by the water; 
none of the ropes which held him to 
the windlass were drawn sufficiently 
tight to occasion his death. Having 
relieved him from the fastenings, and 
got him clear of the broken wood about 
the windlass, we secured him in a dry 
place to windward, with his head some- 
what lower than his body, and all three 


of us busied ourselves in chafing his 


limbs. In about half an hour he came 
to himself, although it was not until 
the next morning that he gave signs of 
recognizing any of us, or had sufficient 
strength to speak. By the time we 
had thus got clear of our lashings it 
was quite dark, and it began to cloud 
up, so that we were again in the great- 
est agony lest it should come on to 
blow hard, in which event nothing 
could have saved us from perishing, 
exhausted as we were. By good for- 
tune it continued very moderate during 
the night, the sea subsiding every min- 
ute, which gave us great hopes of ulti- 
mate preservation. A gentle breeze still 
blew from the N. W., but the weather 
was not at all cold. Augustus was 
lashed carefully to windward in such 
a manner as to prevent him from slip- 
ping overboard with the rolls of the 
vessel, as he was still too weak to hold 


434 


on at all. For ourselves there was no 
such necessity. We sat close together, 
supporting each other with the aid of 
the broken ropes about the windlass, 
and devising methods of escape from 
our frightful sityation. We derived 
much comfort from taking off our 
clothes and wringing the water from 
them. When we put them on after 
this, they felt remarkably warm and 
pleasant, and served to invigorate us 
in no little degree. We helped Augus- 
tus off with his, and wrung them for 
him, when he experienced the same 
comfort. 

Our chief sufferings were now those 
of hunger and thirst, and when we 
looked forward to the means of relief 
in this respect, our hearts sunk within 
us, and we were induced to regret that 
we had escaped the less dreadful perils 
of the sea. We endeavored, however, 
to console ourselves with the hope of 
being speedily picked up by some ves- 
sel, and encouraged each other to bear 
with fortitude the evils that might 
happen. 

The morning of the fourteenth at 
length dawned, and the weather still 
continued clear and pleasant, with a 
steady but very light breeze from the 
N. W. The sea was now quite smooth, 
and as, from some cause which we 
could not determine, the brig did not 
lie so much along as she had done 
before, the deck was comparatively dry, 
and we could move about with freedom. 
We had now been better than three 
entire days and nights without either 
food or drink, and it became absolutely 
necessary that we should make an 
attempt to get up something from 
below. As the brig was completely 
full of water, we went to this work 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


despondingly, and with but little ex- 
pectation of being able to obtain any 
thing. We made a kind of drag by 
driving some nails which we broke out 
from the remains of the companion- 
hatch into two pieces of wood. Tying 
these across each other, and fastening 
them to the end of a rope, we threw 
them into the cabin, and dragged them 
to and fro, in the faint hope of being 
thus able to entangle some article which 
might be of use to us for food, or 
which might at least render us assist- 
ance in getting it. We spent the 
greater part of the morning in this 
labor without effect, fishing up nothing 
more than a few bedclothes, which 
were readily caught by the nails. In- 
deed, our contrivance was so very 
clumsy that any greater success was 
hardly to be anticipated. 

We now tried the forecastle, but 
equally in vain, and were upon the 
brink of despair, when Peters proposed 
that we should fasten a rope to his 
body, and let him make an attempt 
to get up something by diving into the 
cabin. This proposition we hailed with 
all the delight which reviving hope could 
inspire. He proceeded immediately to 
strip off his clothes with the exception 
of his pantaloons; and a stronge rope 
was then carefully fastened around his 
middle, being brought up over his 
shoulders in such a manner that there 
was no possibility of its slipping. The 
undertaking was one of great difficulty 
and danger; for, as we could hardly 
expect to find much, if any, provision 
in the cabin itself, it was necessary 
that the diver, after letting himself 
down, should make a turn to the right, 
and proceed under water a distance of 
ten or twelve feet, in a narrow passage, 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


to the store-room, and return, without 
drawing breath. 

Every thing being ready, Peters now 
descended in the cabin, going down the 
companion-ladder until the water 
reached his chin. He then plunged in, 
head first, turning to the right as he 
plunged, and endeavoring to make his 
way to the store-room. In his first 
attempt, however, he was altogether un- 
successful. In less than half a minute 
after his going down we felt the rope 
jerked violently (the signal we had 
agreed upon when he desired to be 
drawn up). We accordingly drew him 
up instantly, but so incautiously as 
to bruise him badly against the ladder. 
He had brought nothing with him, and 
had been unable to penetrate more than 
a very little way into the passage, owing 
to the constant exertions he found it 
necessary to make in order to keep 
himself from floating up against the 
deck. Upon getting out he was very 
much exhausted, and had to rest full 
fifteen minutes before he could again 
venture to descend. 

The second attempt met with even 
worse success; for he remained so long 
under water without giving the signal, 
that, becoming alarmed for his safety, 
we drew him out without it, and found 
that he was almost at the last gasp, 
having, as he said, repeatedly jerked at 
the rope without our feeling it. This 
was probably owing to a portion of it 
having become entangled in the balus- 
trade at the foot of the ladder. This 
balustrade was, indeed, so much in the 
way, that we determined to remove it, 
if possible, before proceeding with our 
design. As we had no means of getting 
it away except by main force, we all 


485 


descended into the water as far as we 
could on the ladder, and giving a pull 
against it with our united strength, suc- 
ceeded in breaking it down. 

The third attempt was equally un: 
successful with the two first, and it now 
became evident that nothing could be 
done in this manner without the aid 
of some weight with which the diver 
might steady himself, and keep to the 
floor of the cabin while making his 
search. For a long time we looked 
about in vain for something which 
might answer this purpose; but at 
length, to our great joy, we discovered 
one of the weather-forechains so loose 
that we had not the least difficulty in 
wrenching it off. Having fastened this 
securely to one of his ankles, Peters 
now made his fourth descent into the 
cabin, and this time succeeded in mak- 
ing his way to the door of the steward’s 
room. To his inexpressible grief, how- 
ever, he found it locked, and was 
obliged to return without effecting an 
entrance, as, with the greatest exertion, 
he could remain under water not more, 
at the utmost extent, than a single min- 
ute. Our affairs now looked gloomy in- 
deed, and neither Augustus nor myself 
could refrain from bursting into tears, 
as we thought of the host of difficulties 
which encompassed us, and the slight 
probability which existed of our finally 
making an escape. But this weakness 
was not of long duration. Throwing 
ourselves on our knees to God, we im- 
plored His aid in the many dangers 
which beset us; and arose with renewed 
hope and vigor to think what could yet 
be done by mortal means toward ac- 
complishing our deliverance. 


486 
CHAPTER X 


SworTLY afterward an incident occur- 
red which I am induced to look upon 
as more intensely productive of emo- 
tion, as far more replete with the ex- 
tremes first of delight and then of 
horror, than even any of the thousand 
chances which afterward befell me in 
nine long years, crowded with events 
of the most startling and, in many 
cases, of the most unconceived and un- 
conceivable character. We were lying 
on the deck near the companion-way, and 
debating the possibility of yet making 
our way into the storeroom, when, look- 
ing toward Augustus, who lay fronting 
myself, I perceived that he had become 
all at once deadly pale, and that his lips 
were quivering in the most singular and 
unaccountable manner. Greatly alarmed, 
I spoke to him, but he made me no reply, 
and I was beginning to think that he was 
suddenly taken ill, when I took notice of 
his eyes, which were glaring. apparently 
at some object behind me. I turned my 
head, and shall never forget the ecstatic 
joy which thrilled through every particle 
of my frame, when I perceived a large 
brig bearing down upon us, and not 
more than a couple of miles off. I 
sprung to my feet as if a musket bullet 
had suddenly struck me to the heart; 
and, stretching out my arms in the 
direction of the vessel, stood in this 
manner, motionless, and unable to ar- 
ticulate a syllable. Peters and Parker 
were equally affected, although in dif- 
ferent ways. The former danced 
about the deck like a madman, utter- 
ing the’ most extravagant rhodomonta- 
des, intermingled with howls and im- 
precations, while the latter burst into 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tears, and continued for many minutes 
weeping like a child. 

The vessel in sight was a large her; 
maphrodite brig, of a Dutch build, and 
painted black, with a tawdry gilt 
figure-head. She had evidently seen a 
good deal of rough weather, and, we 
supposed, had suffered much in the gale 
which had proved so disastrous to our- 
selves; for her fore-topmast was gone, 
and some of her starboard bulwarks. 
When we first saw her, she was, as I 
have already said, about two miles off 
and to windward, bearing down upon 
us. The breeze was very gentle, and 
what astonished us chiefly was, that 
she had no other sails set than her fore- 
sail and mainsail, with a flying jib— 
of course she came down but slowly, 
and our impatience amounted nearly to 
frenzy. The awkward manner in which 
she steered, too, was remarked by all 
of us, even excited, as we were. She 
yawed about so considerably, that once 
or twice we thought it impossible she 
could see us, or imagined that, having 
seen us, and discovered no person on 
board, she was about to tack and make 
off in another direction. Upon each 
of these occasions we screamed and 
shouted at the top of our voices, when 
the stranger would appear to change 
for a moment her intention, and again 
hold on toward us—this singular con- 
duct being repeated two or three times, 
so that at last we could think of no 
other manner of accounting for it than 
by supposing the helmsman to be in 
liquor. 

No person was seen upon her decks 
until she arrived within about a quarter 
of a mile of us. We then saw three 
seamen, whom by their dress we took 
to be Hollanders Two of these were 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


lying on some old sails near the fore- 
castle, and the third, who appeared to 
be looking at us with great curiosity, 
was leaning over the starboard bow 
near the bowsprit. This last was a 
stout and tall man, with a very dark 
skin. He seemed by his manner to be 
encouraging us to have patience, nod- 
ding to us in a cheerful although rather 
odd way, and smiling constantly, so as 
to display a set of the most brilliantly 
white teeth. As his vessel drew nearer, 
we saw a red flannel cap which he had 
on fall from his head into the water; 
but of this he took little or no notice, 
continuing his odd smiles and gesticu- 
lations. I relate these things and cir- 
cumstances minutely, and I relate them, 
it must be understood, precisely as they 
appeared to us. 

The brig came on slowly, and now 
more steadily than before, and—I can- 
not speak calmly of this event—our 
hearts leaped up wildly within us, and 
we poured out our whole souls in shouts 
and thanksgiving to God for the com- 
plete, unexpected, and glorious deliver- 
ance that was so palpably at hand. Of 
a sudden, and all at once, there came 
wafted over the -ocean from the 
strange vessel (which was now close 
upon us) a smell, a stench, such as 
the whole world has no name for—no 
conception of—hellish—utterly suffocat- 
ing — insufferable, inconceivable. I 
gasped for breath, and turning to my 
companions, perceived that they were 
paler than marble. But we had now 
no time left for question or surmise— 
the brig was within fifty feet of us, and 
it seemed to be her intention to run 
under our counter, that we might board 
her without putting out a boat. We 
rushed aft, when, suddenly, a wide yaw 


487 


threw her off full five or six points from 
the course she had been running, and, 
as she passed under our stern at the 
distance of about twenty feet, we had a 
full view of her decks. Shall I ever 
forget the triple horror of that spec- 
tacle? Twenty-five or thirty human 
bodies, among whom were several fe- 
males, lay scattered about between the 
counter and the galley in the last and 
most loathsome state of putrefaction. 
We plainly saw that not a soul lived in 
that fated vessel! Yet we could not 
help shouting to the dead for help! 
Yes, long and loudly did we beg, in the 
agony of the moment, that those silent 
and disgusting images would stay for 
us, would not abandon us to become 
like them, would receive us among their 
goodly company! We were raving with 
horror and despair—thoroughly mad 
through the anguish of our grievous 
disappointment. 

As our first loud yell of terror broke 
forth, it was replied to by something, 
from near the bowsprit of the stranger, 
so closely resembling the scream of a 
human voice that the nicest ear might 
have been startled and deceived. At 
this instant another sudden yaw brought 
the region of the forecastle for a mo- 
ment into view, and we beheld at once 
the origin of the sound. We saw the 
tall stout figure still leaning on the bul- 
wark, and still nodding his head to and 
fro, but his face was now turned from 
us so that we could not behold it. His 
arms were extended over the rail, and 
the palms of his hands fell outward. 
His knees were lodged upon a stout 
rope, tightly stretched, and reaching 
from the heel of the bowsprit to a cat- 
head. On his back, from which a por- 
tion of the shirt had been torn, leaving 


488 


it bare, there sat a huge sea-gull, busily 
gorging itself with the horrible flesh, 
its bill and talons deep buried, and its 
white plumage spattered all over with 
blood. As the brig moved farther round 
so as to bring us close in view, the bird, 
with much apparent difficulty, drew out 
its crimsoned head, and, after eyeing 
us for a moment as if stupefied, arose 
lazily from the body upon which it had 
been feasting, and, flying directly above 
our deck, hovered there a while with a 
portion of clotted and liver-like sub- 
stance in its beak. The horrid morsel 
dropped at length with a sullen splash 
immediately at the feet of Parker. 
May God forgive me, but now, for the 
first time, there flashed through my 
mind a thought, a thought which I will 
not mention, and I felt myself making 
a step toward the ensanguined spot. I 
looked upward, and the eyes of Augus- 
tus met my own with a degree of in- 
tense and eager meaning which imme- 
diately brought me to my senses. I 
sprang forward quickly, and, with a 
deep shudder, threw the frightful thing 
into the sea. 

The body from which it had been 
taken, resting as it did upon the rope, 
had been easily swayed to and fro by 
the exertions of the carnivorous bird, 
and it was this motion which had at 
first impressed us with the belief of its 
being alive. As the gull relieved it of 
its weight, it swung round and fell 
partially over, so that the face was fully 
discovered. Never, surely, was any ob- 
ject so terribly full of awe! The eyes 
were gone, and the whole flesh around 
the mouth, leaving the teeth utterly 
naked. This, then, was the smile which 
had cheered us on to hope! this the— 
but I forbear. The brig, as I have al- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ready told, passed under our stern, and 
made its way slowly but steadily to 
leeward. With her and with her ter- 
rible crew went all our gay visions of 
deliverance and joy. Deliberately as 
she went by, we might possibly have 
found means of boarding her, had not 
our sudden disappointment, and the 
appalling nature of the discovery 
which accompanied it, laid entirely. 
prostrate every active faculty of mind 
and body. We had seen and felt, but 
we could neither think nor act, until, 
alas! too late. How much our intellects 
had been weakened by this incident 
may be estimated by the fact, that when 
the vessel had proceeded so far that we 
could perceive no more than the half of 
her hull, the proposition was seriously 
entertained of attempting to overtake 
her by swimming! 

I have, since this period, vainly en- 
deavored to obtain some clew to the 
hideous uncertainty which enveloped 
the fate of the stranger. Her build 
and general appearance, as I have be- 
fore stated, led us to the belief that 
she was a Dutch trader, and the dresses 
of the crew also sustained this opinion. 
We might have easily seen the name 
upon her stern, and, indeed, taken other 
observations, which would have guided 
us in making out her character; but the 
intense excitement of the moment 
blinded us to every thing of that na- 
ture. From the saffron-like hue of 
such of the corpses as were not entirely 
decayed, we concluded that the whole 
of her company had perished by the 
yellow fever, or some other virulent 
disease of the same fearful kind. If 
such were the case (and I know not what 
else to imagine), death, to judge from 
the positions of the bodies, must have 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


come upon them in a manner awfully 
sudden and overwhelming,—in a way 
totally distinct from that which gen- 
erally characterizes even the most dead- 
ly pestilences with which mankind are 
acquainted. It is possible, indeed, that 
poison, accidentally introduced into 
some of their sea-stores, may have 
brought about the disaster; or that the 
eating some unknown venomous species 
of fish, or other marine animal, or 
oceanic bird, might have induced it,— 
but it is utterly useless to form conjec- 
tures where all is involved, and will, no 
doubt, remain for ever involved, in the 
most appalling and unfathomable mys- 
tery. 


CHAPTER XI 


WE spent the remainder of the day 
in a condition of stupid lethargy, gazing 
after the retreating vessel until the 
darkness, hiding her from our sight, 
recalled us in some measure to our 
senses. The pangs of hunger and thirst 
then returned, absorbing all other cares 
and considerations. Nothing, however, 
could be done until the morning, and, 
securing ourselves as well as possible, 
we endeavored to snatch a little repose. 
In this I succeeded beyond my expecta- 
tions, sleeping until my companions, 
who had not been so fortunate, aroused 
me at daybreak to renew our attempts 
at getting up provisions for the hull. 

It was now a dead calm, with the sea 
as smooth as I have ever known it,— 
the weather warm and pleasant. The 
brig was out of sight. We commenced 
our operations by wrenching off, with 
some trouble, another of the forechains; 
and having fastened both to Peters’ 
feet, he again made an endeavor to 


489 


reach the door of the store-room, think- 
ing it possible that he might be able to 
force it open, provided he could get 
at it in sufficient time; and this he 
hoped to do, as the hulk lay much more 
steadily than before. 

He succeeded very quickly in reach. 
ing the door, when, loosening one of the 
chains from his ankle, he made every 
exertion to force the passage with it, 
but in vain, the frame-work of the room 
being far stronger than was anticipated. 
He was quite exhausted with his long 
stay under water, and it became ab- 
solutely necessary that some other 
one of us should take his place. For 
this service Parker immediately volun- 
teered; but, after making three inef- 
fectual efforts, found that he could 
never even succeed in getting near the 
door. The condition of Augustus’s 
wounded arm rendered it useless for 
him to attempt going down, as he would 
be unable to force the room open 
should he reach it, and it accordingly 
now devolved upon me to exert myself 
for our common deliverance. 

Peters had left one of the chains in 
the passage, and I found, upon plung- 
ing in, that I had not sufficient balance 
to keep me firmly down. I determined, 
therefore, to attempt no more, in my 
first effort, than merely to recover the 
other chain. In groping along the floor 
of the passage for this, I felt a hard 
substance, which I immediately grasped, 
not having time to ascertain what it 
was, but returning and ascending in- 
stantly to the surface. The prize proved 
to be a bottle, and our joy may be con- 
ceived when I say that it was found to 
be full of port-wine. Giving thanks to 
God for this timely and cheering as- 
sistance, we immediately drew the cork 


490 


with my penknife, and, each taking a 
moderate sup, felt the most inde- 
scribable comfort, from the warmth, 
strength, and spirits with which it in- 
spired us. We then carefully recorked 
the bottle, and, by means of a hand- 
kerchief, swung it in such a manner 
that there was no possibility of its get- 
ting broken. 

Having rested a while after this for- 
tunate discovery, I again descended, and 
now recovered the chain, with which I 
instantly came up. I then fastened it 
on and went down for the third time, 
when I became fully satisfied that no 
exertions whatever, in that situation, 
would enable me to force open the door 
of the store-room. I therefore returned 
in despair. 

There seemed now to be no longer 
any room for hope, and I could per- 
ceive in the countenances of my com- 
panions that they had made up their 
minds to perish. ‘The wine had evi- 
dently produced in them a species of 
delirium, which, perhaps, I had been 
prevented from feeling by the immer- 
sion I had undergone since drinking it. 
They talked incoherently, and about 
matters unconnected with our condi- 
tion, Peters repeatedly asking me ques- 
tions about Nantucket. Augustus, too, 
I remember, approached me with a 
serious air, and requested me to lend 
him a pocket-comb, as his hair was full 
of fish-scales, and he wished to get 
them out before going on shore. Par- 
ker appeared somewhat less affected, 
and urged me to dive at random into 
the cabin, and bring up any article which 
might come to hand. ‘To this I con- 
sented, and, in the first attempt, after 
staying under a full minute, brought 
up a small leather trunk belonging to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Captain Barnard. This was imme- 
diately opened in the faint hope that it 
might contain something to eat or 
drink. We found nothing, however, 
except a box of razors and two linen 
shirts. I now went down again, and 
returned without any success. As my 
head came above water I heard a crash 
on deck, and, upon getting up, saw that 
my companions had ungratefully taken 
advantage of my absence to drink the 
remainder of the wine, having let the 
bottle fall in the endeavor to replace it 
before I saw them. I remonstrated 
with them on the heartlessness of their 
conduct, when Augustus burst into 
tears. The other two endeavored to 
laugh the matter off as a joke, but I 
hope never again to behold laughter of 
such a species: the distortion of counte- 
nance was absolutely frightful. Indeed, 
it was apparent that the stimulus, in 
the empty state of their stomachs, had 
taken instant and violent effect, and 
that they were all exceedingly intoxi- 
cated. With great difficulty I prevailed 
upon them to lie down, when they fell 
very soon into a heavy slumber, accom- 
panied with loud stertorous breathing. 
I now found myself, as it were, alone 
in the brig, and my reflections, to be 
sure, were of the most fearful and 
gloomy nature. No prospect offered 
itself to my view but a lingering death 
by famine, or, at the best, by being 
overwhelmed in the first gale which 
should spring up, for in our present 
exhausted condition we could have no 
hope of living through another. | 

The gnawing hunger which I now ex- 
perienced was nearly insupportable, and 
I felt myself capable of going to any 
lengths in order to appease it. With 
my knife I cut off a small portion of 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


the leather trunk, and endeavored to 
eat it, but found it utterly impossible 
to swallow a single morsel, although I 
fancied that some little alleviation of 
my suffering was obtained by chewing 
small pieces of it and spitting them out. 
‘Toward night my companions awoke, 
one by one, each in an indescribable 
state of weakness and horror, brought 
on by the wine, whose fumes had now 
evaporated. They shook as if with a 
‘violent ague, and uttered the most la- 
mentable cries for water. Their condi- 
tion affected me in the most lively 
degree, at the same time causing me to 
rejoice in the fortunate train of circum- 
stances which had prevented me from 
indulging in the wine, and consequently 
from sharing their melancholy and most 
distressing sensations. Their conduct, 
however, gave me great uneasiness and 
alarm; for it was evident that, unless 
some favorable change took place, they 
could afford me no assistance in pro- 
viding for our common safety. I had 
not yet abandoned all idea of being 
able to get up something from below; 
but the attempt could not possibly be 
resumed until some one of them was 
sufficiently master of himself to aid me 
by holding the end of the rope while I 
went down. Parker appeared to be 
somewhat more in possession of his 
senses than the others, and I en- 
deavored, by every means in my power, 
to rouse him. Thinking that a plunge 
in the sea-water might have a beneficial 
effect, I contrived to fasten the end of 
a rope around his body, and then, 
leading him to the companion-way (he 
remaining quite passive all the while), 
pushed him in, and immediately drew 
him out. I had good reason to congrat- 
ulate myself upon having made this 


401 


experiment; for he appeared much re- 
vived and invigorated, and, upon, get- 
ting out, asked me, in a rational man- 
ner, why I had so served him. Having 
explained my object, he expressed him- 
self indebted to me, and said that he 
felt greatly better from the immersion, 
afterward conversing sensibly upon our 
situation. We then resolved to treat 
Augustus and Peters in the same way, 
which we immediately did, when they 
both experienced much benefit from the 
shock. This idea of sudden immersion 
had been suggested to me by reading in 
some medical work the good effect of 
the shower-bath in a case where the 
patient was suffering from mania a potu. 

Finding that I could now trust my 
companions to hold the end of the rope, 
I again made three or four plunges into 
the cabin, although it was now quite 


dark, and a gentle but long swell from 


the northward rendered the hulk some- 
what unsteady. In the course of these 
attempts I succeeded in bringing up two 
case-knives, a three-gallon jug—empty— 
and a blanket, but nothing which could 
serve us for food. I continued my 
efforts, after getting these articles, un- 
til I was completely exhausted, but 
brought up nothing else. During the 
night Parker and Peters occupied them- 
selves by turns in the same manner; 
but nothing coming to hand, we now 
gave up this attempt in despair, con- 
cluding that we were exhausting our- 
selves in vain. 

We passed the remainder of this night 
in a state of the most intense menial 
and bodily anguish that can possibly be 
imagined. The morning of the sixteenth 
at length dawned, and we Jooked ea- 
gerly around the horizon for relief, bat 
to no purpose. The sea was still 


492 


smooth, with only a long swell from the 
northward, as on yesterday. This was 
the sixth day since we had tasted either 
food or drink, with the exception of 
the bottle of port-wine, and it was clear 
that we could hold out but a very little 
while longer unless something could be 
obtained. I never saw before, nor wish 
to see again, human beings so utterly 
emaciated as Peters and Augustus. Had 
I met them on shore in their present 
condition I should not have had the 
slightest suspicion that I had ever be- 
held them. Their countenances were 
totally changed in character, so that I 
could not bring myself to believe them 
really the same individuals with whom 
I had been in company but a few days 
before. Parker, although sadly re- 
duced, and so feeble that he could not 
raise his head from his bosom, was not 
so far gone as the other two. He suf- 
fered with great patience, making no 
complaint, and endeavoring to inspire 
us with hope in every manner he could 
devise. For myself, although at the 
commencement of the voyage I had 
been in bad health, and was at all times 
of a delicate constitution, I suffered 
less than any of us, being much less re- 
duced in frame, and retaining my pow- 
ers of mind in a surprising degree, while 
the rest were completely prostrated in 
intellect, and seemed to be brought to 
a species of second childhood, generally 
simpering in their expressions, with 
idiotic smiles, and uttering the most 
absurd platitudes. At intervals, how- 
ever, they would appear to revive sud- 
denly, as if inspired all at once with a 
consciousness of their condition, when 
they would spring upon their feet in a 
momentary flash of vigor, and speak, 
for a short period, of their prospects, in 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


a manner altogether rational, although 
full of the most intense despair. It is 
possible, however, that my companions 
may have entertained the same opinion 
of their own condition as I did of mine, 
and that I may have unwittingly been 
guilty of the same extravagances and 
imbecilities as themselves—this is a 
matter which cannot be determined. 

About noon Parker declared that he 
saw land off the larboard quarter, and 
it was with the utmost difficulty I could 
restrain him from plunging into the sea 
with the view of swimming toward it. 
Peters and Augustus took little notice 
of what he said, being apparently 
wrapped up in moody contemplation. 
Upon looking in the direction pointed 
out, I could not percieve the faintest 
appearance of the shore—indeed, I was 
too well aware that we were far from 
any land to indulge in a hope of that 
nature. It was a long time, neverthe- 
less, before I could convince Parker 
of his mistake. He then burst into a 
flood of tears, weeping like a child, 
with loud cries and sobs, for two or 
three hours, when becoming exhausted, 
he fell asleep. 

Peters and Augustus now made sev- 
eral ineffectual efforts to swallow por- 
tions of the leather. I advised them 
to chew it and spit it out; but they 
were too excessively debilitated to be 
able to follow my advice. I continued 
to chew pieces of it at intervals, and 
found some relief from so doing; my 
chief distress was for water, and I was 
only prevented from taking a draught 
from the sea by remembering the hor- 
rible consequences which thus have re- 
sulted to others who were similarly 
situated with ourselves. 

The day wore on in this manner, 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


when I suddenly discovered a sail to 
the eastward, and on our larboard bow. 
She appeared to be a large ship, and 
was coming nearly athwart us, being 
probably twelve or fifteen miles distant. 
None of my companions had as yet dis- 
covered her, and I forbore to tell them 
of her for the present, lest we might 
again be disappointed of relief. At 
length upon her getting nearer, I saw 
distinctly that she was heading imme- 
diately for us, with her light sails filled. 
I could now contain myself no longer, 
and pointed her out to my fellow-suf- 
ferers. They immediately sprang to 
their feet, again indulging in the most 
extravagant demonstrations of joy, 
weeping, laughing in an idiotic manner, 
jumping, stamping upon the deck, tear- 
ing their hair, and praying and cursing 
by turns. I was so affected by their 
conduct, as well as by what I now con- 
sidered a sure prospect of deliverance, 
that I could not refrain from joining in 
with their madness, and gave way to 
the impulses of my gratitude and ecstacy 
by lying and rolling on the deck, clap- 
ping my hands, shouting, and other 
similar acts, until I was suddenly called 
to my recollection, and once more to 
the extreme human misery and despair, 
by perceiving the ship all at once with 
her stern fully presented toward us, and 
steering in a direction nearly opposite 
to that in which I had at first perceived 
her. 

It was some time before I could in- 
duce my poor companions to believe 
that this sad reverse in our prospects 
had actually taken place. They replied 
to all my assertions with a stare and a 
gesture implying that they were not to 
be deceived by such misrepresentations. 
The conduct of Augustus most sensibly 


493 


affected me. In spite of all I could say. 
or do to the contrary, he persisted in 
saying that the ship was rapidly nearing 
us, and in making preparations to go 
on board of her. Some sea-weed float- 
ing by the brig, he maintained that it 
was the ship’s boat, and endeavored to 
throw himself upon it, howling and 
shrieking in the most heart-rending 
manner, when I forcibly restrained him 
from thus casting himself into the sea. 

Having become in some degree paci- 
fied, we continued to watch the ship 
until we finally lost sight of her, the 
weather becoming hazy, with a light 
breeze springing up. As soon as she 
was entirely gone, Parker turned sud- 
denly toward me with an expression of 
countenance which made me shudder. 
There was about him ar air of self- 
possession which I had not noticed in 
him until now, and before he opened his 
lips my heart told me what he would 
say. He proposed, in a few words, that 
one of us should die to preserve the 
existence of the othcrs. 


CHAPTER XII 


I wApD for some time past, dwelt upon 
the prospect of our being reduced to 
this last horrible extremity, and had 
secretly made up my mind to suffer 
death in any shape or under any cir- 
cumstances rather than resort to such 
a course. Nor was this resolution in 
any degree weakened by the present 
intensity of hunger under which [I la- 
bored. The proposition had not been 
heard by either Peters or Augustus. I 
therefore took Parker aside; and men- 
tally praying to God for power to dis- 
suade him from the horrible purpose he 
entertained, I expostulated with him 


494 


for a long time, and in the most sup- 
plicating manner, begging him in the 
name of every thing which he held 
sacred, and urging him by every species 
of argument which the extremity of the 
case suggested, to abandon the idea, 
and not to mention it to either of the 
other two. 

He heard ali I said without attempt- 
ing to controvert any of my arguments, 
and I had begun to hope that he would 
be prevailed upon to do as I desired. 
But when I had ceased speaking, he 
said that he knew very well all I had 
said was true, and that to resort to such 
a course was the most horrible alterna- 
tive which could enter into the mind of 
man; but that he had now held out as 
long as human nature could be sus- 
tained; that it was unnecessary for all 
to perish, when, by the death of one, 
it was possible, and even probable, that 
the rest might be finally preserved; 
adding that I might save myself the 
trouble of trying to turn him from his 
purpose, his mind having been thor- 
oughly made up on the subject even 
before the appearance of the ship, and 
that only her heaving in sight had pre- 
vented him from mentioning his inten- 
tion at an earlier period. 

I now begged him, if he would not 
be prevailed upon to abandon his de- 
sign, at least to defer it for another 
day, when some vessel might come to 
our relief; again reiterating every argu- 
ment I could devise, and which I 
thought likely to have influence with 
one of his rough nature. He said, in 
reply, that he had not spoken until the 
very last possible moment, that he could 
exist no longer without sustenance of 
some kind, and that therefore in another 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


day his suggestion would be too late, as 
regarded himself at least. 

Finding that he was not to be moved 
by any thing I could say in a mild 
tone, I now assumed a different de- 
meanor, and told him that he must be 
aware I had suffered less than any of 
us from our calamities; that my health 
and strength, consequently, were at that 
moment far better than his own, or than 
that either of Peters or Augustus; in 
short, that I was in a condition to have 
my own way by force if I found it 
necessary; and that if he attempted in 
any manner to acquaint the others with 
his bloody and cannibal designs, I would 
not hesitate to throw him into the sea. 
Upon this he immediately seized me by 
the throat, and drawing a knife, made 
several ineffectual efforts to stab me in 
the stomach; an atrocity which his ex- 
cessive debility alone prevented him 
from accomplishing. In the meantime, 
being roused to a high pitch of anger, 
I forced him to the vessel’s side, with 
the full intention of throwing him over- 
board. He was saved from his fate, 
however, by the interference of Peters, 
who now approached and separated us, 
asking the cause of the disturbance. 
This Parker told before I could find 
means in any manner to prevent him. 

The effect of his words was even 
more terrible than what I had antici- 
pated. Both Augustus and Peters, who, 
it seems, had long secretly entertained 
the same fearful idea which Parker had 
been merely the first to broach, joined 
with him in his design and insisted upon 
its immediately being carried into effect. 
I had calculated that one at least of the 
two former would be found still pos- 
sessed of sufficient strength of mind to 
side with myself in resisting any at- 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


tempt to execute so dreadful a purpose; 
and, with the aid of either one of them, 
I had no fear of being able to prevent 
its accomplishment. Being disappointed 
in this expectation, it became absolutely 
necessary that I should attend to my 
own safety, as a further resistance on 
my part might possibly be considered 
by men in their frightful condition a 
sufficient excuse for refusing me fair 
play in the tragedy that I knew would 
speedily be enacted. 

I now told them I was willing to sub- 
mit to the proposal, merely requesting 
a delay of about one hour, in order that 
the fog which had gathered around us 
might have an opportunity of lifting, 
when it was possible that the ship we 
had seen might be again in sight. After 
great difficulty I obtained from them a 
promise to wait thus long; and, as I 
had anticipated (a breeze rapidly com- 
ing in), the fog lifted before the hour 
had expired, when, no vessel appearing 
in sight, we prepared to draw lots. 

It is with extreme reluctance that I 
dwell upon the appalling scene which 
ensued; a scene which, with its minutest 
details, no after-events have been able 
to efface in the slightest degree from 
my memory, and whose stern recollec- 
tion will embitter every future moment 
of my existence. Let me run over this 
portion of my narrative with as much 
haste as the nature of the events to be 
spoken of will permit. The only 
method we could devise for the terrific 
lottery, in which we were to take each 
a chance, was that of drawing straws. 
Small splinters of wood were made to 
answer our purpose, and it was agreed 
that I should be the holder. I retired 
to one end of the hulk, while my pcor 
companions silently took up their sta- 


495 


tion in the other with their backs 
turned toward me. The _ bitterest 
anxiety which I endured at any period 
of this fearful drama was while I oc- 
cupied myself in the arrangement of 
the lots. There are few conditions into 
which man can possibly fall where he 
will not feel a deep interest in the 
preservation of his existence; an inter- 
est momentarily increasing with the 
frailness of the tenure by which that 
existence may be held. But now that 
the silent, definite, and stern nature of 
the business in which I was engaged 
(so different from the tumultuous dan- 
gers of the storm or the gradually ap- 
proaching horrors of famine) allowed 
me to reflect on the few chances I had 
of escaping the most appalling of 
deaths—a death for the most appalling 
of purposes—every particle of that 
energy which had so long buoyed me up 
departed like feathers before the wind, 
leaving me a helpless prey to the most 
abject and pitiable terror. I could not, 
at first, even summon up sufficient 
strength to tear and fit together the 
small splinters of wood, my fingers ab- 
solutely refusing their office, and my 
knees knocking violently against each 
other. My mind ran over rapidly a 
thousand absurd projects by which to 
avoid becoming a partner in the awful 
speculation. I thought of falling on my 
knees to my companions, and entreat- 
ing them to let me escape this neces- 
sity; of suddenly rushing upon them, 
and, by putting one of them to death, 
of rendering the decision by lot use- 
less—in short, of every thing but of 
going through with the matter I had in 
hand. At last, after wasting a long 
time in this imbecile conduct, I was 
recalled to my senses by the voice of 


496 


Parker, who urged me to relieve them 
at once from the terrible anxiety they 
were enduring. Even then I could not 
bring myself to arrange the splinters 
upon the spot, but thought over every 
species of finesse by which I could trick 
some one of my fellow-sufferers to draw 
the short straw, as it had been agreed 
that whoever drew the shortest of four 
splinters from my hand was to die for 
the preservation of the rest. Before 
any one condemn me for this apparent 
heartlessness, let him be placed in a 
situation precisely similar to my own. 
At length delay was no longer possible, 
and, with a heart almost bursting from 
my bosom, I advanced to the region of 
the forecastle, where my companions 
were awaiting me. I held out’my hand 
with the splinters, and Peters imme- 
diately drew. He was free—/is, at 
least, was not the shortest; and there 
was now another chance against my 
escape. I summoned up all my 
strength, and passed the lots to Augus- 
tus. He also drew immediately, and 
he also was free; and now, whether I 
should live or die, the chances were no 
more than precisely even. At this mo- 
ment all the fierceness of the tiger 
possessed my bosom, and I felt toward 
my poor fellow-creature, Parker, the 
most intense, the most diabolical hatred. 
But the feeling did not last; and, at 
length, with a convulsive shudder and 
closed eyes, I held out the two re- 
maining splinters toward him. It was 
fully five minutes before he could 
summon resolution to draw, during 
which period of heart-rending suspense 
I never once opened my eyes. Present- 
ly one of the two lots was quickly 
drawn from my hand. The decision 
was then over, yet I knew not whether 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


it was for me or against me. No one 
spoke, and still I dared not satisfy 
myself by looking at the splinter I held. 
Peters at length took me by the hand, 
and I forced myself to look up, when 
I immediately saw by the countenance 
of Parker that I was safe, and that he 
it was who had been doomed to suffer. 
Gasping for breath, I fell senseless to 
the deck. 

I recovered from my swoon in time 
to behold the consummation of the 
tragedy in the death of him who had 
been chiefly instrumental in bringing it 
about. He made no resistance what- 
ever, and was stabbed in the back by 
Peters, when he fell instantly dead. I 
must not dwell upon the fearful repast 
which immediately ensued. Such things 
may be imagined, but words have ne 
power to impress the mind with the 


' exquisite horror of their reality. Let 


it suffice to say that, having in some 
measure appeased the raging thirst 
which consumed us by the blood of the 
victim, and having by common consent 
taken off the hands, feet, and head, 
throwing them together with the en- 
trails, into the sea, we’ devoured the rest 
of the body, piecemeal, during the four 
ever memorable days of the seventeenth, 
eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth of 
the month. 

On the nineteenth, there coming on 
a smart shower which lasted fifteen or 
twenty minutes, we contrived to catch 
some water by means of a sheet which 
had been fished up from the cabin by 
our drag just after the gale. The quan- 
tity we took in all did not amount to 
more than half a gallon; but even this 
scanty allowance supplied us with com- 
parative strength and hope. 

On the twenty-first we were again re- 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


duced to the last necessity. The 
weather still remained warm and pleas- 
ant, with occasional fogs and _ light 
breezes, most usually from N. to W. 

On the twenty-second, as we were 
sitting close huddled together, gloomily 
revolving over our lamentable condi- 
tion, there flashed through my mind all 
at once an idea which inspired me with 
a bright gleam of hope. I remembered 
that, when the foremast had been cut 
away, Peters, being in the windward 
chains, passed one of the axes into 
my hand, requesting me to put it, if 
possible, in a place of security, and that 
a few minutes before the last heavy sea 
struck the brig and filled her I had 
taken this axe into the forecastle and 
laid it in one of the larboard berths. 
I now thought it possible that, by get- 
ting at this axe, we might cut through 
the deck over the store-room, and thus 
readily supply ourselves with pro- 
visions. 

When I communicated this object to 
my companions, they uttered a feeble 
shout of joy, and we all proceeded 
forthwith to the forecastle. The diffi- 
culty of descending here was greater 
than that of going down in the cabin, 
the opening being much smaller, for 
it will be remembered that the whole 
framework about the cabin companion- 
hatch had been carried away, whereas 
the forecastle-way, being a simple hatch 
of only about three feet square, had 
remained uninjured. I did not hesitate, 
however, to attempt the descent; and 
a rope being fastened round my body 


-as before, I plunged boldly in, feet 
foremost, made my way quickly to the 


| 


berth, and at the first attempt brought 
up the axe. It was hailed with the most 


ecstatic joy and triumph, and the ease 


497 


with which it had been obtained was 
regarded as an omen of our ultimate 
preservation. 

We now commenced cutting at the 
deck with all the energy of rekindled 
hope, Peters and myself taking the axe 
by turns, Augustus’ wounded arm not 
permitting him to aid us in any degree. 
As we were still so feeble as to be 
scarcely able to stand unsupported, and 
could consequently work but a minute 
or two without resting, it soon became 
evident that many long hours would be 
necessary to accomplish our task—that 
is, to cut an opening sufficiently large 
to admit of a free access to the store- 
room. This consideration, however, did 
not discourage us; and, working all 
night by the light of the moon, we 
succeeded in effecting our purpose by 
daybreak on the morning of the twenty- 
third. 

Peters now volunteered to go down; 
and, having made all arrangements as 
before, he descended, and soon re- 
turned bringing up with him a small 
jar, which, to our great joy, proved 
to be full of olives. Having shared 
these among us, and devoured them 
with the greatest avidity, we proceeded 
to let him down again. This time he 
succeeded beyond our utmost expecta- 
tions, returning instantly with a large 
ham and a bottle of Madeira wine. Of 
the latter we each took a moderate 
sup, having learned by experience the 
pernicious consequences of indulging 
too freely. The ham, except about two 
pounds near the bone, was not in a 
condition to be eaten, having been en- 
tirely spoiled by the salt water. The 
sound part was divided among us. Pet- 
ers and Augustus, not being able to 
restrain their appetite, swallowed theirs 


498 


upon the instant; but I was more cau- 
tious, and ate but a small portion of 
mine, dreading the thirst which I knew 
would ensue. We now rested a while 
from our labors. which had been intol- 
erably severe. 

By noon, feeling somewhat strength- 
ened and refreshed, we again renewed 
‘our attempt at getting up provisions, 
Peters and myself going down alter- 
nately, and always with more or less 
success, until sundown. During this in- 
terval we had the good fortune to bring 
up, altogether, four more small jars of 
olives, another ham, a carboy contain- 
ing nearly three gallons of excellent 
Cape Madeira wine, and, what gave 
us still more delight, a small tortoise 
of the Gallipago breed, several of which 
had been taken on board by Captain 
Barnard, as the Grampus was leaving 
port, from the schooner Mary Pitts, 
just returned from a sealing voyage in 
the Pacific. 

In a subsequent portion of this nar- 
rative I shall have frequent occasion to 
mention this species of tortoise. It is 
found principally, as most of my read- 
ers may know, in the group of islands 
called the Gallipagos, which, indeed, de- 
rive their name from the animal—the 
Spanish word Gallipago meaning a 
fresh-water terrapin. From the pecu- 
liarity of their shape and action they 
have been sometimes called the ele- 
phant tortoise. They are frequently 
found of an enormous size. I have my- 
self seen several which would weigh 
from twelve to fifteen hundred pounds, 
although I do not remember that any 
navigator speaks of having seen them 
weighing more than eight hundred. 
Their appearance is singular, and even 
disgusting. Their steps are very slow, 


. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


measured, and heavy, their bodies being. 
carried about a foot from the ground. 
Their neck is long, and exceedingly 
slender; from eighteen inches to two 
feet is a very common length, and I 
killed one, where the distance from the 
shoulder to the extremity of the head 
was no less than three feet ten inchees. 
The head has a striking resemblance to 
that of a serpent. They can exist with- 
out food for an almost incredible length 
of time, instances having been known 
where they have been thrown into the 
hold of a vessel and lain two years 
without nourishment of any kind— 
being as fat, and, in every respect, in 
as good order at the expiration of the 
time as when they were first put in. 
In one particular these extraordinary 
animals bear a resemblance to the 
dromedary, or camel of the desert. In 
a bag at the root of the neck they 
carry with them a constant supply of 
water. In some instances, upon killing 
them after a full year’s deprivation of 
all nourishment, as much as three gal- 
lons of perfectly sweet and fresh water 
have been found in their bags. Their 
food is chiefly wild parsley and celery, 
with purslain, sea-kelp, and_prickly- 
pears, upon which latter vegetable they 
thrive wonderfully, a great quantity of 
it being usually found on the hillsides 
near the shore wherever the animal 
itself is discovered. They are excellent 
and highiy nutritious food, and have, 
no doubt, been the means of preserving 
the lives of thousands of seamen em- 
ployed in the whale-fishery and other 
pursuits in the Pacific. 

The one which we had the good for- 
tune to bring up from the store-room 
was not of a large size, weighing prob- 
ably sixty-five or seventy pounds. It 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


was a female, and in excellent condi- 
tion, being exceedingly fat, and having 
more than a quart of limpid and sweet 
water in its bag. This was indeed a 
treasure; and, falling on our knees with 
one accord, we returned fervent thanks 
to God for so seasonable a relief. 

We had great difficulty in getting 
the animal up through the opening, as 
its struggles were fierce and its strength 
prodigious. It was upon the point of 
making its escape from Peter’s grasp, 
and slipping back into the water, when 
Augustus, throwing a rope with a slip- 
knot around its throat, held it up in 
this manner until I jumped into the 
hole by the side of Peters, and assisted 
him in lifting it out. 

The water we drew carefully from 
the bag into the jug, which, it will be 
remembered, had been brought up be- 
fore from the cabin. Having done this, 
we broke off the neck of a bottle so as 
to form, with the cork, a kind of glass, 
holding not quite half a gill. We then 
each drank one of these measures full, 
and resolved to limit ourselves to this 
quantity per day as long as it should 
hold out. 

During the last two or three days, 
the weather having been dry and pleas- 
ant, the bedding we had obtained from 
the cabin, as well as our clothing, had 
become thoroughly dry, so that we 
passed this night (that of the twenty- 
third) in comparative comfort, enjoy- 
ing a tranquil repose, after having 
supped plentifully on olives and ham, 
with a small allowance of the wine. 
Being afraid of losing some of our 
stores overboard during the night, in 
the event of a breeze springing up, we 
secured them as well as possible with 
cordage to the fragments of the wind- 


499 


lass. . Our tortoise, which we were 
anxious to preserve alive as long as we 
could, we threw on its back, and other- 
wise carefully fastened. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Jury 24tTH.—This morning saw us 
wonderfully recruited in spirits and 
strength. Notwithstanding the perilous 
situation in which we were still placed, 
ignorant of our position, although cer- 
tainly at a great distance from land, 
without more food than would last us 
for a fortnight even with great care, 
almost entirely without water, and 
floating about at the mercy of every 
wind and wave on the merest wreck 
in the world, still the infinitely more 
terrible distresses and dangers from 
which we had so lately and so provi- 
dentially been delivered caused us to 
regard what we now endured as but 
little more than an ordinary evil—so 
strictly comparative is either good or 
ill. 

At sunrise we were preparing to re- 
new our attempts at getting up some- 
thing from the store-room, when, a 
smart shower coming on, with some 
lightning, we turned our attention to 
the catching of water by means of the 
sheet we had used before for this pur- 
pose. We had no other means of col- 
lecting the rain than by: holding the 
sheet spread out with one of the fore- 
chain-plates in the middle of it. The 
water, thus conducted to the centre, 
was drained through into our jug. We 
had nearly filled it in this manner, 
when, a heavy squall coming on from 
the northward, obliged us to desist, as 
the hulk began once more to roll so 
violently that we could no longer keep 


500 


our feet. We now went forward, and, 
lashing ourselves securely to the rem- 
nant of the windlass as before, awaited 
the event with far more calmness than 
could have been anticipated or would 
have been imagined possible under the 
circumstances. At noon the wind had 
freshened into a two-reef breeze, and 
by night into a stiff gale, accompanied 
with a tremendously heavy swell. Ex- 
perience having taught us, however, the 
best method of arranging our lashings, 
we weathered this dreary night in toler- 
able security, although thoroughly 
drenched at almost every instant by 
the sea, and in momentary dread of 
being washed off. Fortunately, the 
weather was so warm as to render the 
water rather grateful than otherwise. 
July 25th—This morning the gale 
had diminished to a mere _ ten-knot 
breeze, and the sea had gone down with 
it so considerably that we were able to 
keep ourselves dry upon the deck. To 
our great grief, however, we found that 
two jars of our olives, as well as the 
whole of our ham, had been washed 
overboard, in spite of the careful man- 
ner in which they had been fastened. 
We determined not to kill the tortoise 
as yet, and contented ourselves for the 
present with a breakfast on a few of 
the olives, and a measure of water each, 
which latter we mixed half and half, 
with wine, finding great relief and 
strength from the mixture, without the 
distressing intoxication which had ensued 
upon drinking the port. The sea was 
still far too rough for the renewal of 
our efforts at getting up provision from 
the store-room. Several articles, of no 
importance to us in our present situa- 
tion, floated up through the opening 
during the day, and were immediately 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


washed overboard. We also now ob- 
served that the hulk lay more along 
than ever, so that we could not stand 
an instant without lashing ourselves. 
On this account we passed a gloomy 
and uncomfortable day. At noon the 
sun appeared to be nearly vertical, and 
we had no doubt that we had been 
driven down by the long succession of 
northward and northwesterly winds into 
the near vicinity of the equator. To- 
ward evening saw several sharks, and 
were somewhat alarmed by the au- 
dacious manner in which an enormously 
large one approached us. At one time, 
a lurch throwing the deck very far be- 
neath the water, the monster actually 
swam in upon us, floundering for some 
moments just over the companion- 
hatch, and striking Peters violently with 
his tail. A heavy sea at length hurled 
him overboard, much to our relief. In 
moderate weather we might have easily 
captured him. 

July 26th—This morning, the wind 
having greatly abated, and the sea not 
being very rough, we determined to re- 
new our exertions in the store-room. 
After a great deal of hard labor during 
the whole day, we found that nothing 
further was to be expected from this 
quarter, the partitions of the room hav- 
ing been stove during the night, and its 
contents swept into the hold. This 
discovery, as may be supposed, filled © 
us with despair. | 

July 27th—The sea nearly smooth, | 
with a light wind, and still from the — 
northward and westward. The sun | 
coming out hotly in the afternoon, we © 
occupied ourselves in drying our clothes. | 
Found great relief from thirst, and 
much comfort otherwise, by bathing 
in the sea; in this, however, we were © 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


forced to use great caution, being afraid 


of sharks, several of which were seen 
swimming around the brig during the 
day. 

July 28th—Good weather still. The 
brig now began to lie along so alarm- 
ingly that we feared she would even- 
tually roll bottom up. Prepared our- 
selves as well as we could for this 
emergency, lashing our tortoise, water- 
jug, and two remaining jars of olives as 
far as possible over to the windward, 
placing them outside the hull, below 
the main-chains. The sea very smooth 
all day, with little or no wind. 

July 29th—A continuance of the 
same weather. Augustus’ wounded arm 
began to evince symptoms of mortifi- 
cation. He complained of drowsiness 
and excessive thirst, but no acute pain. 
Nothing could be done for his relief 
beyond rubbing his wounds with a 
little of the vinegar from the olives, 
and from this no benefit seemed to be 
experienced. We did every thing in 
our power for his comfort, and trebled 
his allowance of water. 

July 30th—An excessively hot day, 
with no wind. An enormous shark kept 
close by the hulk during the whole of 
the forenoon. We made several un- 
successful attempts to capture him by 
means of a noose. Augustus much 
worse, and evidently sinking as much 
from want of proper nourishment as 
from the effect of his wounds. He con- 
stantly prayed to be relieved from his 
sufferings, wishing for nothing but 
death. This evening we ate the last 
of our olives, and found the water in 
our jug so putrid that we could not 
swallow it at all without the addition 
of wine. Determined to kill our tor- 
toise in the morning. 


501 


July 31st—After a night of exces- 
sive anxiety and fatigue, owing to the 
position of the hulk, we set about kill- 
ang and cutting up our tortoise. He 
proved to be much smaller than we 
had supposed, although in good condi- 
tion,—the whole meat about him not 
amounting to more than ten pounds. 
With a view of preserving a portion of 
this as long as possible, we cut it into 
fine pieces, and filled with them our 
three remaining olive-jars and the wine- 
bottle (all of which had been kept), 
pouring in afterward the vinegar from 
the olives. In this manner we put away 
about three pounds of the tortoise, 
intending not to touch it until we had 
consumed the rest. We concluded to 
restrict ourselves to about four ounces 
of the meat per day; the whole would 
thus last us thirteen days. A _ brisk 
shower, with severe thunder and light- 
ning, came on about dusk, but lasted 
so short a time that we only succeeded 
in catching about half a pint of water. 
The whole of this, by common consent, 
was given to Augustus, who now ap- 
peared to be in the last extremity. He 
drank the water from the sheet as we 
caught it (we holding it above him as 
he lay so as to let it run into his 
mouth), for we had now nothing left 
capable of holding water, unless we had 
chosen to empty out our wine from the 
carboy, or the stale water from the 
jug. Either of these expedients would 
have been resorted to had the shower 
lasted. 

The sufferer seemed to derive but 
little benefit from the draught. His 
arm was completely black from the 
wrist to the shoulder, and his feet were 
like ice. We expected every moment 
to see him breathe his last. He was 


502 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


frightfully emaciated; so much so that, 
although he weighed a hundred and 
twenty-seven pounds upon his leaving 
Nantucket, he now did not weight more 
than forty or fifty at the farthest. His 
eyes were sunk far in his head, being 
scarcely perceptible, and the skin of 
his cheeks hung so loosely as to pre- 
vent his masticating any food, or even 
swallowing any liquid, without great 
difficulty. 

August 1st—A continuance of the 
same calm weather, with an oppres- 
sively hot sun. Suffered exceedingly 
from thirst, the water in the jug being 
absolutely putrid and swarming with 
vermin. We contrived, nevertheless, to 
swallow a portion of it by mixing it 
with wine; our thirst, however, was but 
little abated. We found more relief by 
bathing in the sea, but could not avail 
ourselves of this expedient except at 
long intervals, on account of the con- 
tinual presence of sharks. We now 
saw clearly that Augustus could not be 
saved,—that he was evidently dying. 
We could do nothing to relieve his suf- 
ferings, which appeared to be great. 
About twelve o’clock he expired in 
strong convulsions, and without having 
spoken for several hours. His death 
filled us with the most gloomy forebod- 
ings, and had so great an effect upon 
our spirits that we sat motionless by 
the corpse during the whole day, and 
never addressed each other except in a 
whisper. It was not until some time 
after dark that we took courage to get 
up and throw the body overboard. It 
was then loathsome beyond expression, 
and so far decayed that, as Peters at- 
tempted to lift it, an entire leg came 
off in his grasp. As the mass of putre- 
faction slipped over the vessel’s side 


into the water, the glare of phosphoric 
light with which it was surrounded 
plainly discovered to us seven or eight 
large sharks, the clashing of whose hor- 
rible teeth, as their prey was torn to 
pieces among them, might have been 
heard at the distance of a mile. We 
shrunk within ourselves in the extrem- 
ity of horror at the sound. 

August 2d—The same fearfully calm 
and hot weather. The dawn found us 


‘in a state of pitiable dejection as well 


as bodily exhaustion. The water in the 
jug was now absolutely useless, being a 
thick gelatinous mass,—nothing but 
frightful-looking worms mingled with 
slime. We threw it out, and washed 
the jug well in the sea, afterward pour- 
ing a little vinegar in it from our bot- 
tles of pickled tortoise. Our thirst 
could now scarcely be endured, and we 
tried in vain to relieve it by wine, which 
seemed only to add fuel to the flame, 
and excited us to a high degree of in- 
toxication. We afterward endeavored 
to relieve our sufferings by mixing the 
wine with sea-water; but this instantly 
brought about the most violent retch- 
ings, so that we never again attempted 
it. During the whole day we anxiously 
sought an opportunity of bathing, but 
to no purpose; for the hulk was now 
entirely besieged on all sides with 
sharks—no doubt the identical monsters 
who had devoured our poor companion 
on the evening before, and who were in 
momentary expectation of another sim- 
ilar feast. This circumstance occa- 
sioned us the most bitter regret and 
filled us with the most depressing and 
melancholy forebodings. We had ex- 
perienced indescribable relief in bath- 
ing, and to have this resource cut off in 
so frightful a manner was more than 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


we could bear. Nor, indeed, were we 
altogether free from the apprehension 
of immediate danger, for the least slip 
or false movement would have thrown 
us at once within reach of those vorac- 
ious fish, who frequently thrust them- 
selves directly upon us, swimming up 
to leeward. No shouts or exertions on 
our part seemed to alarm them. Even 
when one of the largest was struck 
with an axe by Peters and much 
wounded, he persisted in his attempts 
to push in where we were. A cloud 
came up at dusk, but, to our extreme 
anguish, passed over without discharg- 
ing itself. It is quite impossible to 
conceive our sufferings from thirst at 
this period. We passed a sleepless 
night, both on this account and through 
dread of the sharks. 

August 3d—No prospect of relief, 
and the brig lying still more and more 
along, so that now we could not main- 
tain a footing upon deck at all. Busied 
ourselves in securing our wine and tor- 
toise-meat, so that we might not lose 
them in the event of our rolling over. 
Got out two stout spikes from the fore- 
chains, and, by means of the axe, drove 
them into the hull to windward within 
a couple of feet of the water; this not 
being very far from the keel, as we 
were nearly upon our beam-ends. To 
these spikes we now lashed our pro- 
visions, as being more secure than their 
former position beneath the chains. 
Suffered great agony from thirst during 
the whole day—no chance of bathing 
on account of the sharks, which never 
left us for a moment. Found it im- 
possible to sleep. 

August 4th—A little before day- 
break we perceived that the hulk was 
heeling over, and aroused ourselves to 


503 


prevent being thrown off by the move- 
ment. At first the roll was slow and 
gradual, and we contrived to clamber 
over to windward very well, having 
taken the precaution to leave ropes 
hanging from the spikes we had driven 
in for the provision. But we had not 
calculated sufficiently upon the acceler- 
ation of the impetus; for, presently the 
heel became too violent to allow of our 
keeping pace with it; and, before either 
of us knew what was to happen, we 
found ourselves hurled furiously into 
the sea, and struggling several fathoms 
beneath the surface, with the huge hull 
immediately above us. 

In going under the water I had been 
obliged to let go my hold upon the 
rope; and finding that I was completely 
beneath the vessel, and my strength 
nearly exhausted, I scarcely made a 
struggle for life, and resigned myself, in 
a few seconds, to die. But here again 
I was deceived, not having taken into 
consideration the natural rebound of 
the hull to windward. The whirl of the 
water upward, which the vessel occa- 
sioned in rolling partially back, brought 
me to the surface still more violently 
than I had been plunged beneath. Upon 
coming up I found myself about twenty 
yards from the hulk, as near as I could 
judge. She was lying keel up, rocking 
furiously from side to side, and the 
sea in all directions around was much — 
agitated, and full of strong whirlpools. 
I could see nothing of Peters. An oil- 
cask was floating within a few feet of 
me, and various other articles from the 
brig were scattered about. 

My principal terror was now on ac- 
count of the sharks, which I knew to be 
in my vicinity. In order to deter these, 
if possible, from approaching me, I 


504 


splashed the water vigorously with both 
hands and feet as I swam towards the 
hulk, creating a body of foam. I have 
no doubt that to this expedient, simple 
as it was, I was indebted for my pres- 
ervation; for the sea all round the brig, 
just before her rolling over, was so 
crowded with these monsters, that I 
must have been, and really was, in 
actual contact with some of them dur- 
ing my progress. By great good for- 
tune, however, I reached the side of the 
vessel in safety, although so utterly 
weakened by the violent exertion I had 
used that I should never have been 
able to get upon it but for the timely 
assistance of Peters, who, now, to my 
great joy, made his appearance (hav- 
ing scrambled up to the keel from the 
opposite side of the hull), and threw 
me the end of a rope—one of those 
which had been attached to the spikes. 

Having barely escaped this danger, 
our attention was now directed to the 
dreadful imminency of anotner—that 
of absolute starvation. Our whole stock 
of provision had been swept overboard 
in spite of all our care in securing it; 
and seeing no longer the remotest pos- 
sibility of obtaining more, we gave way 
both of us to despair, weeping aloud 
like children, and neither of us at- 
tempting to offer consolation to the 
other. Such weakness can scarcely be 
conceived, and to those who have never 
been similarly situated will, no doubt, 
appear unnatural; but it must be re- 
membered that our intellects were so 
entirely disordered by the long course 
of privation and terror to which we 
had been subjected, that we could not 
justly be considered, at that period, in 
the light of rational beings. In subse- 
quent perils, nearly as great, if not 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


greater, I bore up with fortitude against 
all the evils of my situation, and Peters, 
it will be seen, evinced a stoical phi- 
losophy nearly as incredible as his pres- 
ent childlike supineness and imbecility 
—the mental condition made the differ- 
ence. 

The overturning of the brig, even 
with the consequent loss of the wine 
and turtle, would not, in fact, have ren- 
dered our situation more deplorable 
than before, except for the disappear- 
ance of the bedclothes by which we had 
been hitherto enabled to catch rain- 
water, and of the jug in which we had 
kept it when caught; for we found the 
whole bottom, from within two or three 
feet of the bends as far as the keel, to- 
gether with the keel itself, thickly cov- 
ered with large barnacles, which proved 
to be excellent and highly nutritious 
food. Thus, in two important respects, 
the accident we had so greatly dreaded 
proved to be a benefit rather than an 
injury; it had opened to us a supply 
of provisions which we could not have 
exhausted, using it moderately, in a 
month; and it had greatly contributed 
to our comfort as regards position, we 
being much more at ease, and in infi- 
nitely less danger, than before. 

The difficulty, however, of now ob- 
taining water blinded us. to all the 
benefits of the change in our condition. 
That we might be ready to avail our- 
selves, as far as possible, of any shower 
which might fall, we took off our shirts, 
to make use of them as we had of the 
sheets—not hoping, of course, to get 
more in this way, even under the most 
favorable circumstances, than half a 
gill at a time. No signs of a cloud ap- 
peared during the day, and the agonies 
of our thirst were nearly intolerable. 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


At night, Peters obtained about an 
hour’s disturbed sleep, but my intense 
sufferings would not permit me to close 
my eyes for a single moment. 


August 5th.—To-day, a gentle breeze: 


springing up carried us through a vast 
quantity of sea-weed, among which we 
were so fortunate as to find eleven 
small crabs, which afforded us several 
delicious meals. Their shells being 
quite soft, we ate them entire, and 
found that they irritated our thirst far 
less than the barnacles. Seeing no trace 
of sharks among the sea-weed, we also 
ventured to bathe, and remained in the 
water for four or five hours, during 
which we experienced a very sensible 
diminution of our thirst. Were greatly 
refreshed, and spent the night some- 
what more comfortably than before, 
both of us snatching a little sleep. 

August 6th—This day we _ were 
blessed by a brisk and continual rain, 
lasting from about noon until after 
dark. Bitterly did we now regret the 
loss of our jug and carboy; for, in spite 
of the little means we had of catching 
the water, we might have filled one, if 
not both of them. As it was, we con- 
trived to satisfy the cravings of thirst 
by suffering the shirts to become satur- 
ated, and then wringing them so as 
to let the grateful fluid trickle into our 
mouths. ' In this occupation we passed 
the entire day. 

August 7th—Just at daybreak we 
both at the same instant descried a 
sail to the eastward, and evidently com- 
ing towards us! We hailed the glorious 
sight with a long, although feeble shout 
of rapture; and began instantly to 
make every signal in our power, by 
flaring the shirts in the air, leaping as 
high as our weak condition would per- 


505 


mit, and even by hallooing with all the 
strength of our lungs, although the ves- 
sel could not have been less than fifteen 
miles distant. However, she still con- 
tinued to near our hulk, and we felt 
that, if she but held her present course, 
she must eventually come so close as to 
perceive us. In about an hour after 
we first discovered her, we could clearly 
see the people on her decks. She was 
a long, low, and rakish-looking topsail 
schooner, with a black ball in her fore- 
topsail, and had, apparently, a full 
crew. We now became alarmed, for 
we could hardly imagine it possible that 
she did not observe us, and were appre- 
hensive that she meant to leave us to 
perish as we were—an act of fiendish 
barbarity, which, however incredible it 
may appear, has been repeatedly per- 


‘petuated at sea, under circumstances 


very nearly similar, and by beings whe 
were regarded as belonging to the 
human species.* In this instance, how-~ 





* The case of the brig Polly, of Bos- 
ton, is one so much in point, and her 
fate, in many respects, so remarkably 
similar to our own, that I cannot for: 
bear alluding to it here. This vessel, 
of one hundred and thirty tons burden, 
sailed from Boston, with a cargo of 
lumber and provisions, for Santa Croix, 
on the 12th of December, 1811, under 
the command of Captain Casneau. 
There were eight souls on board besides 
the captain—the mate, four seamen, 
and the cook, together with a Mr. 
Hunt, and a negro girl belonging to him. 
On the fifteenth, having cleared the 
shoal of Georges, she sprung a leak in 
a gale of wind from the south-east, and 
was finally capsized; but, the masts 
going by the board, she afterward 


506 


ever, by the mercy of God, we were 
destined to be most happily deceived; 
for, presently we were aware of a sud- 
den commotion on the deck of the 
stranger, who immediately afterward 
ran up a British flag, and, hauling her 
wind, bore up directly upon us. In 
half an hour more we found ourselves 
in her cabin. She proved to be the 


righted. They remained in this situa- 
tion, without fire, and with very little 
provision, for the period of one hundred 
and ninety-one days (from December 
the fifteenth to June the twentieth), 
when Captain Casneau and Samuel 
Badger, the only survivors, were taken 
off the wreck by the Fame, of Hull, 
Captain Featherstone, bound home 
from Rio Janeiro. When picked up, 
they were in latitude 28° N., longitude 
13° W., having drifted above two thou- 
sand miles! On the ninth of July the 
Fame fell in with the brig Dromero, 
Captain Perkins, who landed the two 
sufferers in Kennebeck. The narrative 
from which we gather these details 
ends in the following words: 

“Tt is natural to inquire how they 
could float such a vast distance, upon 
the most frequented part of the At- 
lantic, and not be discovered all this 
time. They were passed by more than 
a dozen sail, one of which came so 
nigh them that they could distinctly 
see the people on deck and on the rig- 
ging looking at them; but, to the 
inexpressible disappointment of the 
starving and freezing men, they stifled 
the dictates of compassion, hoisted sail, 
and cruelly abandoned them to their 
[ave. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Jane Guy, of Liverpool, Captain Guy, 
bound on a sealing and trading voyage 
to the South Seas and Pacific. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE Jane Guy was a fine-looking 
topsail schooner of a hundred and 
eighty tons burden. She was unusually 
sharp in the bows, and on a wind, in 
moderate weather, the fastest sailer I 
have ever seen. Her qualities, how- 
ever, aS a rough sea-boat, were not so 
good, and her draught of water was by 
far too great for the trade to which 
she was destined. For this peculiar 
service, a larger vessel, and one of a 
light proportionate draught, is desir- 
able—say a vessel of from three hun- 
dred to three hundred and fifty tons. 
She should be bark-rigged, and in other 
respects of a different construction 
from the usual South Sea ships. It is 
absolutely necessary that she should 
be well armed. She should have, say 
ten or twelve twelve-pound carronades, 
and two or three long twelves, with 
brass blunderbusses, and water-tight 
arm-chests for each top. Her anchors 
and cables should be of far greater 
strength than is required for any other 
species of trade, and, above all, her 
crew should be numerous and efficient 
—not less, for such a vessel as I have 
described, than fifty or sixty able-bod- 
ied men. The Jane Guy had a crew 
of thirty-five, all able seamen, besides 
the captain and mate, but she was not 
altogether as well armed or otherwise 
equipped, as a navigator acquainted 
with the difficulties and dangers: of the 
trade could have desired. 

Captain Guy was a gentleman of 
great urbanity of manner, and of con. 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


siderable experience in the southern 
traffic, to which “he had devoted the 
greater portion of his life. He was 
deficient, however, in energy, and, con- 
sequently, in that spirit of enterprise 
which is here so absolutely requisite. 
He was part owner of the vessel in 
which he sailed, and was invested with 
discretionary powers to cruise in the 
South Seas for any cargo which might 
come most readily to hand. He had 
on board, as usual in such voyages, 
beads, looking-glasses, tinder-works, 
axes, hatchets, saws, adzes, planes, 
chisels, gouges, gimlets, files, spoke- 
shaves, rasps, hammers, nails, knives, 
scissors, razors, needles, thread, crock- 
ery-ware, calico, trinkets, and other 
similar articles. 

The schooner sailed from Liverpool 
on the tenth of July, crossed the tropic 
of Cancer on the twenty-fifth, in longi- 
tude twenty degrees west, and reached 
Sal, one of the Cape Verd islands, on 
the twenty-ninth, where she took in 
salt and other necessaries for the voy- 
age. On the third of August, she left 
the Cape Verds and steered southwest, 
stretching over toward the coast of 
Brazil, so as to cross the equator be- 
tween the meridians of twenty-eight 
and thirty degrees west longitude. This 
is the course usually taken by vessels 
bound from Europe to the Cape of 
Good Hope, or by that route to the 
East Indies. By proceeding thus they 

avoid the calms and strong contrary 
currents which continually prevail on 
the coast of Guinea, while, in the end, 
it is found to be the shortest track, as 
westerly winds are never wanting after- 
ward by which to reach the Cape. It 
was Captain Guy’s intention to make 
his first stoppage at Kerguelen’s Land— 


507 


I hardly know for what reason. On 
the day we were picked up the schooner 
was off Cape St. Roque, in longitude 
thirty-one degrees west; so that, when 
found, we had drifted probably, from 
north to south, not less than five-and- 
twenty degrees! 

On board the Jane Guy we were 
treated with all the kindness our dis- 
tressed situation demanded. In about 
a fortnight, during which time we con- 
tinued steering to the southeast, with 
gentle breezes and fine weather, both 
Peters and myself recovered entirely 
from the effects of our late privation 
and dreadful sufferings, and we began 
to remember what had passed rather 
as a frightful dream from which we 
had been happily awakened, than as 
events which had taken place in sober 
and naked reality. I have since found 
that this species of partial oblivion is 
usually brought about by sudden tran- 
sition, whether from joy to sorrow or 
from sorrow to joy—the degree of for- 
getfulness being proportioned to the 
degree of difference in the exchange. 
Thus, in my own case, I now feel it 
impossible to realize the full extent of 
the misery which I endured during the 
days spent upon the hulk. The inci- 
dents are remembered, but not the feel- 
ings which the incidents elicited at the 
time of their occurrence. I only know, 
that when they did occur, I then 
thought human nature could sustain 
nothing more of agony. 

We continued our voyage for some 
weeks without any incidents of greater 
moment than the occosional meeting 
with whaling-ships, and more frequently 
with the black or right whale, so called 
in contradistinction to the spermaceti. 
These, however, were chiefly found 


508 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


south of the twenty-fifth parallel. On 
the sixteenth of September, being in 
the vicinity of the Cape of Good Hope, 
the schooner encountered her first gale 
of any violence since leaving Liver- 
pool. In this neighborhood, but more 
frequently to the south and east of the 
promontory (we were to the westward), 
navigators have often to contend with 
storms from the northward, which rage 
with great fury. They always bring 
with them a heavy sea, and one of their 
most dangerous features is the instan- 
taneous chopping round of the wind, 
an occurrence almost certain to take 
place during the greatest force of the 
gale. A perfect hurricane will be blow- 
ing at one moment from the northward 
or northeast, and in the next not a 
breath of wind will be felt in that direc- 
tion, while from the southwest it will 
come out all at once with a violence 
almost inconceivable. A_ bright spot 
to the southward is the sure forerun- 
ner of the change, and vessels are thus 
enabled to take the proper precautions. 

It was about six in the morning when 
the blow came on with a white squall, 
and, as usual, from the northward. By 
eight it had increased very much, and 
brought down upon us one of the most 
tremendous seas I had then ever be- 
held. Every thing had been made as 
snug as possible, but the schooner 
labored excessively, and. gave evidence 
of her bad qualities as a sea-boat, pitch- 
ing her forecastle under at every plunge 
and with the greatest difficulty strug- 
gling up from one wave before she was 
buried in another. Just before sunset 
the bright spot for which we had been 
on the look-out made its appearance in 
the southwest, and in an hour after- 
ward we perceived the little head-sail 


we carried flapping listlessly against the 
mast. In two minutes more, in spite of 
every preparation, we were hurled on 
our beam-ends, as if by magic, and a 
perfect wilderness of foam made a clear 
breach over us as we lay. The blow 
from the southwest, however, luckily 
proved to be nothing more than a 
squall, and we had the good fortune to 
right the vessel without the loss of a 
spar. A heavy cross sea gave us great 
trouble for a few hours after this, but 
toward morning we found ourselves in 
nearly as good condition as before the 
gale. Captain Guy considered that he 
had made an escape little less than 
miraculous. 

On the thirteenth of October we came 
in sight of Prince Edward’s Island, in 
latitude 46° 53’ S., longitude 37° 46’ E. 
Two days afterward we found ourselves 
near Possession Island, and presently 
passed the islands of Crozet, in latitude 
42° 59’ S., longitude 48° E. On the 
eighteenth we made Kerguelen’s or 
Desolation Island, in the Southern In- 
dian Ocean, and: came to anchor in 
Christmas Harbor, having four fathoms 
of water. 

This island, or rather group of isl- 
ands, bears southeast from the Cape of 
Good Hope, and is distant therefrom 
nearly eight hundred leagues. It was 
first discovered in 1772, by the Baron 
de Kergulen, or Kerguelen, a French- 
man, who, thinking the land to form a 
portion of an extensive southern conti- 
nent carried home information to that 
effect, which produced much excitement 
at the time. The government, taking 
the matter up, sent the baron back in 
the following year for the purpose of 
giving his new discovery a critical ex- 
amination. when the mistake was dis- 











THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


covered. In 1777, Captain ‘Cook fell in 
with the same group, and gave to the 
principal one the name of Desolation 
Island, a title which it certainly well 
deserves. Upon approaching the land, 
however, the navigator might be in- 
duced to suppose otherwise, as the sides 
of most of the hills, from September 
to March, are clothed with very bril- 
liant verdure. This deceitful appear- 
ance is causéd by a small plant resem- 
bling saxifrage, which is abundant, 
growing in large patches on a species 
of crumbling moss. Besides this plant 
there is scarcely a sign of vegetation 
on the island, if we except some coarse 
rank grass near the harbor, some lichen, 
and a shrub which bears resemblance 
to a cabbage shooting into seed, and 
which has a bitter and acrid taste. 
The face of the country is hilly, 
although none of the hills can be called 
lofty. Their tops are perpetually cov- 
ered with snow. There are several har- 
bors, of which Christmas Harbor is the 
most convenient. It is the first to be 
met with on the northeast side of the 
island after passing Cape Francois, 
which forms the northern shore, and, by 
its peculiar shape, serves to distinguish 
the harbor. Its projecting point ter- 
minates in a high rock, through which is 
a large hole, forming a natural arch. 
The entrance is in latitude 48° 40’ S., 
longitude 69° 6’ E. Passing in here, 
gocd anchorage may be found under 
the shelter of several small islands, 
which form a sufficient protection from 
all easterly winds. Proceeding on east- 
wardly from this anchorage you come 
to Wasp Bay, at the head of the har- 
bor. This is a small basin, completely 
landlocked, into which you can go with 
four fathoms, and find anchorage in 


509 


from ten to three, hard clay bottom. 
A ship might lie here with her best 
bower ahead all the year round with- 
out risk. To the westward, at the head 
of Wasp Bay, is a small stream of ex- 
cellent water, easily procured. 

Some seal of the fur and hair species 
are still to be found on Kerguelen’s 
Island, and sea-elephants abound. The 
feathered tribes are discovered in great 
numbers. Penguins are very plenty, 
and of these there are four different 
kinds. The royal penguin, so called 
from its size and beautiful plumage, is 
the largest. The upper part of the 
body is usually gray, sometimes of a 
lilac tint; the under portion of the 
purest white imaginable. The head is 
of a glossy and most brilliant black, 
the feet also. The chief beauty of 
plumage, however, consists in two 
broad stripes of a gold color, which 
pass along from the head to the breast. 
The bill is long, and either pink or 
bright scarlet. These birds walk erect; 
with a stately carriage. They carry 
their heads high with their wings droop- 
ing like two arms, and, as their tails 
project from their body in a line with 
the legs, the resemblance to a human 
figure is very striking, and would be 
apt to deceive the spectator at a casual 
glance or in the gloom of the evening. 
The royal penguins which we met with 
on Kerguelen’s Land were rather larger 
than a goose. The other kinds are the 
maccaroni, the jackass, and the rook- 
ery penguin. These are much smaller, 
less beautiful in plumage, and different 
in other respects. 

Besides the penguin many other birds 
are here to be found, among which may 
be mentioned sea-hens, blue peterels, 
teal, ducks, Port Egmont hens, shags, 


510 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Cape pigeons, the nelly, sea-swallows, 
terns, sea-gulls, Mother Carey’s chick- 
ens, Mother Carey’s geese, or the great 
peterel, and, lastly, the albatross. 

The great peterel is as large as the 
common albatross, and is carnivorous. 
It is frequently called the break-bones, 
or osprey peterel. They are not at all 
shy, and, when properly cooked, are 
palatable food. In flying they some- 
times sail very close to the surface of 
the water, with the wings expanded, 
without appearing to move them in the 
least degree, or make any exertion with 
them whatever. 

The albatross is one of the largest 
and fiercest of the South Sea birds. It 
is of the gull species, and takes its prey 
on the wing, never coming on land ex- 
cept for the purpose of breeding. Be- 
tween this bird and the penguin the 
most singular friendship exists. Their 
nests are constructed with great unifor- 
mity upon a plan concerted between the 
two species—that of the albatross being 
placed in the centre of a little square 
formed by the nests of four penguins. 
Navigators have agreed in calling an as- 
semblage of such encampments a rook- 
ery. These rookeries have been often 
described, but as my readers may not 
all have seen these descriptions, and as I 
shall have occasion hereafter to speak of 
the penguin and albatross, it will not 
be amiss to say something here of their 
mode of building and living. 

When the season for incubation ar- 
rives, the birds assemble in vast num- 
bers, and for some days appear to be 
deliberating upon the proper course to 
be pursued. At length they proceed to 
action. A level piece of ground is 
selected, of suitable extent, usually 
comprising three or four acres, and 


situated as ‘near the sea as possible, 
being still beyond its reach. The spot 
is chosen with reference to its evenness 
of surface, and that is preferred which 
is the least encumbered with stones. 
This matter being arranged, the birds 
proceed, with one accord, and actuated 
apparently by one mind, to trace out, 
with mathematical accuracy, either a 
square or other parallelogram, as may 
best suit the nature of the: ground, and 
of just sufficient size to accommodate 
easily all the birds assembled, and no 
more—in this particular seeming deter- 
mined upon preventing the access of 
future stragglers who have not partici- 
pated in the labor of the encampment. 
One side of the place thus marked out 
runs parallel with the water’s edge, and 
is left open for ingress or egress. 
Having defined the limits of the 
rookery, the colony now begin to clear 
it of every species of rubbish, picking 
up stone by stone, and carrying them 
outside of the lines, and close by them, 
so as to form a wall on the three inland 
sides. Just within this wall a perfectly 
level and smooth walk is formed, from 
six to eight feet wide, and extending 
around the encampment—thus serving 
the purpose of a general promenade. 
The next process is to partition out 
the whole area into small squares ex- 
actly equal in size. This is done by 
forming narrow paths, very smooth, 
and crossing each other at right angles 
throughout the entire extent of the 
rookery. At each intersection of these 
paths the nest of an albatross is con- 
structed, and a penguin’s nest in the 
centre of each square—thus every pen- 
gui is surrounded by four albatrosses, 
and each albatross by a like number 
of penguins, ‘The penguin’s nest con- 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


sists of a hole in the earth, very shal- 
low, being only just of sufficient depth 
to keep her single egg from rolling. 
The albatross is somewhat less simple 
in her arrangements, erecting a hillock 
about a foot high and two in diameter. 
This is made of earth, seaweed, and 
shells. On its summit she builds her 
nest. 

The birds take especial care never 
to leave their nests unoccupied for an 
instant during the period of incubation, 
or, indeed, until the young progeny are 
sufficiently strong to take care of them- 
selves. While the male is absent at sea 
in search of food, the female remains 
on duty, and it is only upon the return 
of her partner that she ventures abroad. 
The eggs are never left uncovered at 
all—while one bird leaves the nest the 
other nestling in by its side. This pre- 
caution is rendered necessary by the 
thieving propensities prevalent in the 
rookery, the inhabitants making no 
scruple to purloin each other’s eggs at 
every good opportunity. 

Although there are some rookeries in 
which the penguin and albatross are the 
sole population, yet in most of them a 
variety of oceanic birds are to be met 
with, enjoying all the privileges of citi- 
zenship, and scattering their nests here 
and there, wherever they can find room, 
never interfering, however, with the sta- 
tions of the larger species. The appear- 
ance of such encampments, when seen 
from a distance, is exceedingly singular. 
The whole atmosphere just above the 
settlement is darkened with the immense 
number of the albatross (mingled with 
the smaller tribes) which are continually 
hovering over it, either going to the 
ocean or returning home. At the same 
time a crowd of penguins are to be 


SL 


observed, some passing to and fro in 
the narrow alleys, and some marching 
with the military strut so peculiar to 
them, around the general promenade- 
ground which encircles the rockery. In 
short, survey it as we will, nothing can 
be more astonishing than the spirit of 
reflection evinced by these feathered 
beings, and nothing surely can be better 
calculated to elicit reflection in every 
well-regulated human intellect. 

On the morning after our arrival in 
Christmas Harbor the chief mate, Mr. 
Patterson, took the boats, and (although 
it was somewhat early in the season) 
went in search of seal, leaving the cap- 
tain and a young relation of his on a 
point of barren land to the westward, 
they having some business, whose na- 
ture I could not ascertain, to transact | 
in the interior of the island. Captain 
Guy took with him a bottle, in which 
was a sealed letter, and made his way 
from the point on which he was set 
on shore toward one of the highest 
peaks in the place. It is probable that 
his design was to leave the letter on 
that height for some vessel which he 
expected to come after him. As soon 
as we lost sight of him we proceeded 
(Peters and myself being in the mate’s 
boat) on our cruise around the coast, 
looking for seal. In this business we 
were occupied about three weeks, exam- 
ining with great care every nook and 
corner, not only of Kerguelen’s Land, 
but of the several small islands in the 
vicinity. Our labors, however, were not 
crowned with any important success. 
We saw a great many fur seal, but 
they were exceedingly shy, and with 
the greatest exertions, we could only 
procure three hundred and fifty skins 
in all. Sea-elephants were abundant, 


512 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


especially on the western coast of the 
mainland, but of these we killed only 
twenty, and this with great difficulty. 
On the smaller islands we discovered 
a good many of the hair seal, but did 
not molest them. We returned to the 
schooner on the eleventh, where we 
found Captain Guy and his nephew, 
who gave a very bad account of the 
interior, representing it as one of the 
most dreary and utterly barren coun- 
tries in the world. They had remained 
two nights on the island, owing to some 
misunderstanding, on the part of the 
second mate, in regard to the sending 
a jolly-boat from the schooner to take 
them off. 


CHAPTER XV 


On the twelfth we made sail from 
Christmas Harbor retracing our way to 
the westward, and leaving Marion’s 
Island, one of Crozet’s group, on the 
larboard. We afterward passed Prince 
Edward’s Island, leaving it also on our 
left; then, steering more to the north- 
ward, made, in fifteen days, the islands 
of Tristan d’Acunha, in latitude 37° 8’ 
S., longitude 12° 8” W. 

This group, now so well known, and 
which consists of three circular islands, 
was first discovered by the Portuguese, 
and was visited afterward by the Dutch 
in 1643, and by the French in 1767. 
The three islands together form a tri- 
angle, and are distant from each other 
about ten miles, there being fine open 
passages between. ‘The land in all of 
them is very high, especially in Tristan 
d’Acunha, properly so-called. This is 
the largest of the group, being fifteen 
miles in circumference, and so elevated 
that it can be seen in clear weather at 


' pendicularly from the sea. 


the distance of eighty or ninety miles, 


.A part of the land toward the north 


rises more than a thousand feet per- 
A table- 
land at this height extends back nearly 
to the centre of the island, and from 
this table-land arises a lofty cone like 
that of Teneriffe. The lower half of 
this cone is clothed with trees of good 
size, but the upper region is barren 
rock, usually hidden among the clouds. 
and covered with snow during the 
greater part of the year. There are no 
shoals or other dangers about the island, 
the shores being remarkably bold and 
the water deep. On the northwestern 
coast is a bay, with a beach of black 
sand where a landing with boats can 
be easily effected, provided there be a 
southerly wind. Plenty of excellent 
water may here be readily procured; 
also cod and other fish may be taken 
with hook and line. 

The next isiand in point of size, and 
the most westwardly of the group, is 
that called the Inaccessible. Its pre- 
cise situation is 37° 17’ S. latitude, 
longitude 12° 24’ W. It is seven or 
eight miles in circumference, and on all 
sides presents a forbidding and precipi- 
tous aspect. Its top is perfectly flat, 
and the whole region is sterile, nothing 
growing upon it except a few stunted 
shrubs. 

Nightingale Island, the smallest and 
most southerly, is in latitude 37° 26’ S., 
longitude 12° 12’ W. Off its southern 
extremity is a high ledge of rocky islets; 
a few also of a similar appearance are 
seen to the northeast. The ground is 
irregular and sterile, and a deep valley 
partially separates it. 

The shores of these islands abound, 
in the proper season, with sea-lions, sea- 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 513 


elephants, the hair and fur seal, to- 
gether with a great variety of oceanic 
birds. Whales are also plenty in their 
vicinity. Owing to the ease with which 
these various animals were here for- 
merly taken, the group has been much 
visited since its discovery. The Dutch 
and French frequented it at a very 
early period. In 1790, Captain Patten, 
of the ship Industry, of Philadelphia, 
made Tristan d’Acunha, where he re- 
mained seven months (from August, 
1790, to April, 1791) for the purpose 
of collecting seal-skins. In this time 
he gathered no less than five thousand 
six hundred, and says that he would 
have had no difficulty in loading a large 
ship with oil in three weeks. Upon his 
arrival he found no quadrupeds, with 
the exception of a few wild goats; the 
island now abounds with all our most 
valuable domestic animals, which have 
been introduced by subsequent navi- 
gators. 

I believe it was not long after Cap- 
tain Patten’s visit that Captain Colqu- 
houn, of the American brig Betsey, 
touched at the largest of the islands 
for the purpose of refreshment. He 
planted onions, potatoes, cabbages, and 
a great many other vegetables, an 
abundance of all which is now to be 
met with. 

In 1811, a Captain Haywood, in the 
Nereus, visited Tristan. He found 
there three Americans, who were resid- 
ing upon the island to prepare sealskins 
and oil. One of these men was named 
Jonathan Lambert, and he called him- 
self the sovereign of the country. He 
had cleared and cultivated about sixty 
acres of land, and turned his attention 
to raising the coffee-plant and sugar- 
cane, with which he had been furnished 


American Minister at Rio 
Janeiro. This settlement, however, was 
finally abandoned, and in 1817 the 
islands were taken possession of by the 
British Government, who sent a detach- 
ment for that purpose from the Cape 
of Good Hope. They did not, how- 
ever, retain them long; but, upon the 
evacuation of the country as a British 
possession, two or three English fami- 
lies took up their residence there inde- 
pendently of the Government. On the 
twenty-fifth of March, 1824, the Ber- 
wick, Captain Jeffrey, from London to 
Van Diemen’s Land, arrived at the 
place, where they found an Englishman 
of the name of Glass, formerly a cor- 
poral in the British artillery. He 
claimed to be supreme governor of the 
islands, and had under his control 
twenty-one men and three women. He 
gave a very favorable account of the 
salubrity of the climate and of the pro- 
ductiveness of the soil. The population 
occupied themselves chiefly in collecting 
seal-skins and sea-elephant oil, with 
which they traded to the Cape of Good 
Hope, Glass owning a small schooner. 
At the period of our arrival the gov- 
ernor was still a resident, but his little 
community had multiplied, there being 
fifty-six persons upon Tristan, besides 
a smaller settlement of seven on Night- 
ingale Island. We had no difficulty in 
procuring almost every kind of refresh- 
ment which we required—sheep, hogs, 
bullocks, rabbits, poultry, goats, fish in 
great variety, and vegetables were abun- 
dant. Having come to anchor close in 
with the large island, in eighteen fath- 
oms, we took all we wanted on board 
very conveniently. Captain Guy also 
purchased of Glass five hundred seal- 
skins and some ivory. We remained 


by the 


514 


- here a week, during which the prevail- 
ing winds were from the northward and 
westward, and the weather somewhat 
hazy. On the fifth of November we 
made sail to the southward and west- 
ward, with the intention of having a 
thorough search for a group of islands 
called the Auroras, respecting whose 
existence a great diversity of opinion 
has existed. | 

These islands are said to have been 
discovered as early as 1762, by the 
commander of the ship Aurora. In 
1790, Captain Manuel de Oyarvido, in 
the ship Princess, belonging to the 
Royal Philippine Company, sailed, as 
he asserts, directly among them. In 
1794, the Spanish corvette Atrevida 
went with the determination of ascer- 
taining their precise situation, and, in 
a paper published by the Royal Hydro- 
graphical Society of Madrid in the year 
1809, the following language is used 
respecting this expedition: “The cor- 
vette Atrevida practised, in their imme- 
diate vicinity, from the twenty-first to 
the twenty-seventh of January, all the 


necessary observations, and measured | 


by chronometers the difference of longi- 
tude between these islands and the port 
of Soledad in the Manillas. The islands 
are three; they are very nearly in the 
same meridian; the centre one is rather 
low, and the other two may be seen 
at nine leagues’ distance.” The obser- 
vations made on board the Atrevida 
give the following results as the precise 
situation of each island. The most 
northern is in latitude 52° 37’ 24” S., 
longitude 47° 43’ 15’7 W.; the middle 
one in latitude 53° 2’ 40” S., longitude 
47° 55’ 15” W.; and the most southern 
in latitude 53° 15’ 22” S., longitude 
S72 STEAL Wi 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


On the twenty-seventh of January, 
1820, Captain James Weddel, of the 
British navy, sailed from Staten Land 
also in search of the Auroras. He 
reports that, having made the most 
diligent search and passed not only 
immediately over the spots indicated 
by the commander of the Atrevida, but 
in every direction throughout the vi- 
cinity of these spots, he could discover 
no indication of land. These conflict- 
ing statements have induced other navi- 
gators to look out for the islands; and, 
strange to say, while some have sailed 
through every inch of sea where they 
are supposed to lie without finding 
them, there have been not a few who 
declare positively that they have seen 
them; and even been close in with their 
shores. It was Captain Guy’s inten- 
tion to make every exertion within his 
power to settle the question so oddly 
in dispute.* 

We kept on our course, between the 
south and west, with variable weather, 
until the twentieth of the month, when 
we found ourselves on the debated 
ground, being in latitude 53° 15’ S., 
longitude 47° 58’ W.—that is to say, 
very nearly upon the spot indicated 
as the situation of the most southern 
of the group. Not perceiving any sign 
of land, we continued to the westward 
of the parallel of fifty-three degrees 
south, as far as the meridian of fifty 


* Among the vessels which at various 
times have professed to meet with the 
Auroras may be mentioned the ship San 
Miguel, in 1769; the ship Aurora, in 
1774: the brig Pearl, in 1779; and the 
ship Dolores, in 1790. They all agree 
in giving the mean latitude fifty-three 
degrees south. 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


degrees west. We then stood to the 
north as far as the parallel of fifty-two 
degrees south, when we turned to the 
eastward, and kept our parallel by 
double altitudes, morning and evening, 
and meridian altitudes of the planets 
and moon. Having thus gone east- 
wardly to the meridian of the western 
coast of Georgia, we kept that meridian 
until we were in the latitude from which 
we set out. We then took diagonal 
courses throughout the entire extent of 
sea circumscribed, keeping a look-out 
constantly at the masthead, and repeat- 
ing our examination with the greatest 
care for a period of three weeks, during 
which the weather was remarkably 
pleasant and fair, with no haze what- 
soever. Of course we were thoroughly 
satisfied that, whatever islands might 
have existed in this vicinity at any 
former period, no vestige of them re- 
mained at the present day. Since my 
return home I find that the same 
ground was traced over, with equal care, 
in 1822, by Captain Johnson, of the 
American schooner Henry, and by Cap- 
tain Morrell, in the American schooner 
Wasp—in both cases with the same 
result as in our own. 


CHAPTER XVI 


It had been Captain Guy’s original 
intention, after satisfying himself about 
the Auroras, to proceed through the 
Strait of Magellan, and up along the 
western coast of Patagonia; but infor- 
mation received at Tristan d’Acunha 
induced him to steer to the southward, 
in the hope of falling in with some 
small islands said to lie about the par- 
allel of 60° S., longitude 41° 20’ W. 
In the event of his not discovering 


515 


these lands, he designed, should the sea- 
son prove favorable, to push on toward 
the pole. Accordingly, on the twelfth 
of December, we made sail in that 
direction. On the eighteenth we found 
ourselves about the station indicated by 
Glass, and cruised for three days in 
that neighborhood without finding any 
traces of the islands he had mentioned. 


On the twenty-first, the weather being 


unusually pleasant, we again made sail 
to the southward, with the resolution 
of penetrating in that course as far 
as possible. Before entering upon this 
portion of my narrative, it may be as 
well, for the information of those read- 
ers who have paid little attention to 
the progress of discovery in these 
regions, to give some brief account of 
the very few attempts at reaching the, 
southern pole which have hitherto been 
made. 

That of Captain Cook was the first 
of which we have any distinct account. 
In 1772 he sailed to the south in the 
Resolution, accompanied by Lieutenant 
Furneaux in the Adventure. In Decem- 
ber he found himself as far as the 
fifty-eighth parallel of south latitude, and 
in longitude 26° 57’ E. Here he met 
with narrow fields of ice, about eight 
or ten inches thick, and running north- 
west and southeast. This ice was in 
large cakes, and usually it was packed 
so closely that the vessel had great dif- 
ficulty in forcing a passage. At this 
period Captain Cook supposed, from 
the vast number of birds to be seen, 
and ‘from other indications, that he 
was in the near vicinity of land. He 
kept on to the southward, the weather 
being exceedingly cold, until he reached 
the sixty-fourth parallel, in longitude 
38° 14’ E. Here he had mild weather, 


516 


with gentle breezes, for five days, the 
thermometer being at thirty-six. In 
January, 1773, the vessels crossed the 
Antarctic circle, but did not succeed in 
penetrating much farther; for upon 
reaching latitude 67° 15’ they found 
all farther progress impeded by an im- 
mense body of ice, extending all along 
the southern horizon as far as the eye 
could reach. This ice was of every 
variety—and some large floes of it, 
miles in extent, formed a compact mass, 
rising eighteen or twenty feet above the 
water. It being late in the season, and 
no hope entertained of rounding these 
obstructions, Captain Cook now reluc- 
tantly turned to the northward. 

In the November following he re- 
newed his search in the Antarctic. In 
latitude 59° 40’ he met with a strong 
current setting to the southward. In 
December, when the vessels were in 
latitude 67° 31’, longitude 142° 54’ W., 
the cold was excessive, with heavy gales 
and fog. Here also birds were abun- 
dant; the albatross, the penguin, and 
se peterel especially. In latitude 70° 
23’ some large islands of ice were en- 
countered, and shortly afterward the 
clouds to the southward were observed 
to be of a snowy whiteness, indicating 
the vicinity of field ice. In latitude 
71° 10’, longitude 106° 54’ W., the 
navigators were stopped, as before, by 
an immense frozen expanse, which filled 
the whole area of the southern horizon. 
The northern edge of this expanse was 
ragged and broken, so firmly wedged 
together as to be utterly impassable, 
and extending about a mile to the south- 
ward. Behind it the frozen surface was 
comparatively smooth for some dis- 
tance, until terminated in the extreme 
background by gigantic ranges of ice- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


mountains, the one towering above the 
other. Captain Cook concluded that 
this vast field reached the southern pole 
or was joined to a continent. Mr. J. 
N. Reynolds, whose great exertions and 
perseverance have at length succeeded 
in getting set on foot a national expe- 
dition, partly for the purpose of explor- 
ing these regions, thus speaks of the 
attempt of the Resolution: ‘We are 
not surprised that Captain Cook was 
unable to go beyond 71° 10’, but we 
are astonished that he did attain that 
point on the meridian of 106° 54’ west 
longitude. Palmer’s Land lies south of 
the Shetland, latitude sixty-four de- 
grees, and tends to the southward and 
westward farther than any navigator 
has yet penetrated. Cook was stand- 
ing for this land when his progress was 
arrested by the ice; which, we appre- 
hended, must always be the case in 
that point, and so early in the season 
as the sixth of January—and we shoul 
not be surprised if a portion of the icy 
mountains described was attached to 
the main body of Palmer’s Land, or . 
to some other portions of land lying 
farther to the southward and west- 
ward.” 

In 1803, Captains Kreutzenstern and 
Lisiausky were dispatched by Alexan- 
der of Russia for the purpose of cir- 
cumnavigating the globe. In endeavor- 
ing to get south, they made no farther 
than 59° 58’, in longitude 70° 15’ W. 
They here met with strong currents 
setting eastwardly. Whales were abun- 
dant, but they saw no ice. In regard 
to this voyage, Mr. Reynolds observes 
that, if Kreutzenstern had arrived where 
he did earlier in the season, he must 
have encountered ice—it was March 
when he reached the latitude specified, 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 517 


The winds, prevailing, as they do, from 
the southward and westward, had car- 
ried the floes, aided by currents, into 
that icy region bounded on the north 
by Georgia, east by Sandwich Land and 
the South Orkneys, and west by the 
South Shetland islands. 

In 1822, Captain James Weddell, of 
the British navy, with two very small 
vessels, penetrated farther to the south 
than any previous navigator, and this, 
too, without encountering extraordinary 
difficulties. He states that although he 
was frequently hemmed in by ice before 
reaching the seventy-second parallel, 
yet, upon attaining it, not a particle 
was to be discovered, and that, upon 
arriving at the latitude of 74° 15’, no 
fields, and only three islands of ice were 
visible. It is somewhat remarkable 
that, although vast flocks of birds were 
seen, and other usual indications of 
land, and although, south of the Shet- 
* lands, unknown coasts wete observed 
from the mast-head tending  south- 
wardly, Weddell discourages the idea 
of land existing in the polar regions of 
the south. 

On the 11th of January, 1823, Cap- 
‘ain Benjamin Morrell, of the American 
schooner Wasp, sailed from Kerguelen’s 
Land with a view of penetrating as far 
south as possible. On“the first of Feb- 
ruary he found himself in latitude 64° 
52’ S., longitude 118° 27’ E. The fol- 
lowing passage is extracted from his 
journal of that date: “The wind soon 
freshened to an eleven-knot breeze, and 
we embraced this opportunity of mak- 
ing to the west; being however con- 
‘ vinced that the farther we went south 
_ beyond latitude sixty-four degrees, the 
less ice was to be apprehended, we 
steered a little to the southward, until 


we crossed the Antarctic circle, and 
were in latitude 69° 15’ E. In this 
latitude there was no field ice, and very 
few ice islands in sight. 

Under the date of March fourteenth 
I find also this entry: “The sea was 
now entirely free of field ice, and there 
were not more than a dozen ice islands 
in sight. At the same time the tem- 
perature of the air and water was at 
least thirteen degrees higher (more 
mild) than we had ever found it be- 
tween the parallels of sixty and sixty- 
two south. We were now in latitude 
70° 14’ S., and the temperature of 
the air was forty-seven, and that of 
the water forty-four. In this situation 
I found the variation to be 14° 27’ 
easterly, per azimuth. * * * I have 
several times passed within the Ant- 
arctic circle, on different meridians, and 
have uniformly found the temperature, 
both of the air and the water, to be- 
come more and more mild the farther 
I advanced beyond the sixty fifth de- 
gree of south latitude, and that the 
variation decreases in the same propor- 
tion. While north of. this latitude, say 
between sixty and sixty-five south, we 
frequently had great difficulty in finding 
a passage for the vessel between the 
immense and almost innumerable ice 
islands, some of which were from one 
to two miles in circumference, and 
more than five hundred feet above the 
surface of the water.” 

Being nearly destitute of fuel and 
water, and without proper instruments, 
it being also late in the season, Captain 
Morrell was now obliged to put back, 
without attempting any further progress 
to the westward, although an entirely | 
open sea lay before him. He expresses 
the opinion that, had not these over- 


518 


tuling considerations obliged him to 
retreat, he could have penetrated, if 
not to the pole itself, at least to the 
eighty-fifth parallel. I have given his 
ideas respecting these matters some- 
what at length, that the reader may 
have an opportunity of seeing how far 
they were borne out by my own subse- 
quent experience. 

In 1831, Captain Briscoe, in the em- 
ploy of the Messieurs Enderby, whale- 
ship owners of London, sailed in the 
brig Lively for the South Seas, accom- 
panied by the cutter Tula. On the 
twenty-eighth of February, being in lat- 
itude 66° 30’ S., longitude 47° 13’ E., 
he descried land, and “clearly discov- 
ered through the snow the black peaks 
of a range of mountains running 
E. S. E.” He remained in this neigh- 
borhood during the whole of the fol- 
lowing month, but was unable to ap- 
proach the coast nearer than within ten 
leagues, owing to the boisterous. state 
of the weather. Finding it impossible 
to make further discovery during this 
season, he returned northward to winter 
in Van Diemen’s Land. 

In the beginning of 1832 he again 
proceeded southwardly, and on _ the 
fourth of February was seen to the 
southeast in latitude 67° 15’, longitude 
69° 29’ W. This was soon found to 
be an island near the headland of the 
country he had first discovered. On 
the twenty-first of the month he suc- 
ceeded in landing on the latter, and 
took possession of it in the name of 
William IV, calling it Adelaide’s Island, 
in honor of the English queen. These 
particulars being made known to the 
Royal Geographical Society of London, 
the conclusion was drawn by that body 
“that there is a continuous tract of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


land extending from 47° 30’ E. to 69° 
29’ W. longitude, running the parallel 
of from sixty-six to sixty-seven degrees 
south latitude.” In respect to this 
conclusion Mr. Reynolds observes: “In 
the correctness of it we by no means 
concur; nor do the discoveries of Bris- 
coe warrant any such inference. It was 
within these limits that Weddel pro- 
ceeded south on a meridian to the east 
of Georgia, Sandwich Land, and the 
South Orkney and Shetland islands.” 
My own experience will be feund to 
testify, most directly to the falsity of 
the conclusion arrived at by the society. 

These are the principal attempts 
which have been made at penetrating 
to a high southern latitude, and it will 
now be seen that there remained, previ- 
ous to the voyage of the Jane, nearly 
three hundred degrees of longitude in 
which the Antarctic circle had not been 
crossed at all. Of course a wide field 
lay before us for discovery, and it was 
with feelings of most intense interest 
that I heard Captain Guy express his 
resolution of pushing boldly to the 
southward. 


CHAPTER XVII 


WE kept our course southwardly for 
four days after giving up the search 
for Glass’ islands, without meeting with 
any ice at all. On the twenty-sixth, at 
noon, we were in latitude 63° 23’ S., 
longitude 41° 25’ W. We now saw 
several large ice islands, and a floe of 
field ice, not, however, of any great 
extent. The winds generally blew from 
the southeast, or the northeast, but 
were very light. Whenever we had a 
westerly wind, which was seldom, it 
was invariably attended with a rain 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


squall. Every day we had more or 
less snow. ‘The thermometer, on the 
twenty-seventh stood at thirty-five. 

January 1, 1828.—This day we found 
ourselves completely hemmed in by the 
ice, and our prospects looked cheerless 
indeed. A strong gale blew, during the 
whole forenoon, from the northeast, 
and drove large cakes of the drift 
against the rudder and counter with 
such violence that we all trembled for 
the consequences. Toward evening, the 
gale still blowing with fury, a large 
field in front separated, and we were 
enabled, by carrying a press of sail, to 
force a passage through the smaller 
flakes into some open water beyond. 
As we approached this space we took 
in sail by degrees, and having at length 
got clear, lay-to under a single-reefed 
foresail. 

January 2nd.—We had now tolerably 
pleasant weather. At noon we found 
ourselves in latitude 69° 10’ S., longi- 
tude 42° 20’ W., having crossed the 
Antarctic circle. Very little ice was to 
be seen to the southward, although large 
fields of it lay behind us. This day 
we rigged some sounding gear, using 
a large iron pot capable of holding 
twenty gallons, and a line of two hun- 
dred fathoms. We found the current 
setting to the north, about a quarter 
of a mile per hour. The temperature 
of the air was now about thirty-three. 
Here we found the variation to be 14° 
28’ easterly, per azimuth. 

January 5th—We had still held on to 
the southward without any very great 
impediments. On this morning, how- 
ever, being in latitude 73° 15’ E., longi- 
tude 42° 10’ W., we were again brought 
to a stand by an immense expanse of 
firm ice. We saw, nevertheless, much 


519 


open water to the southward, and felt 
no doubt of being able to reach it even- 
tually. Standing to the eastward along 
the edge of the floe, we at length came 
to a passage of about a mile in width, 
through which we warped our way by 
sundown. The sea in which we now 
were was thickly covered with ice 
islands, but had no field ice, and we 
pushed on boldly as before. The cold 
did not seem to increase, although we 
had snow very frequently, and now and 
then hail squalls of great violence. Im- 
mense flocks of the albatross flew over 
the schooner this day, going from south- 
east to northwest. 

January 7th—tThe sea still remained 
preity well open, so that we had no 
difficulty in holding on our course. To 
the westward we saw some icebergs of 
incredible size, and in the afternoon 
passed very near one whose summit 
could not have been less than four 
hundred fathoms from the surface of 
the ocean. Its girth was probably, at 
the base, three-quarters of a league, and 
several streams of water were running 
from crevices in its sides. We re- 
mained in sight of this island two days, 
and then only lost it in a fog. 

January 10th—KEarly this morning 
we had the misfortune to lose a man 
overboard. He was an American, 
named Peter Vrendenburgh, a native of 
New York, and was one of the most 
valuable hands on board the schooner. 
In going over the bows his foot slipped, 
and he fell between two cakes of ice, 
never rising again. At noon of this day 


we were in latitude 78° 30’, longitude 


40° 15’ W. The cold was now exces- 
sive, and we had hail squalls continually 
from the northward and eastward. In 
this direction also. we saw several more 


520 


immense icebergs, and the whole hori- 
zon to the eastward appeared to be 
blocked up with field ice, rising in tiers, 
one mass above the other. Some drift- 
wood floated by during the evening, and 
a great quantity of birds flew over, 
among which were nellies, peterels, alba- 
trosses, and a large bird of a brilliant 
blue plumage. The variation here, per 
azimuth, was less than it had been pre- 
viously to our passing the Antarctic 
circle. 
January 12th—Our passage to the 
south again looked doubtful, as nothing 
was to be seen in the direction of the 
pole but one apparently limitless floe, 
backed by absolute mountains of ragged 
ice, one precipice of which arose frown- 
ingly above the other. We stood to 
the westward until the fourteenth, in 
the hope of finding an entrance. 
January 14th—This morning we 
reached the western extremity of the 
field which had impeded us, and, 
weathering it, came to an open sea, 
without a particle of ice. Upon sound- 
ing with two hundred fathoms, we here 
found a current setting southwardly at 
the rate of half a mile per hour. The 
temperature of the air was forty-seven, 
that of the water thirty-four. We now 
sailed to the southward without meet- 
ing any interruption of moment until 
the sixteenth, when, at noon, we were 
in latitude 81° 21’, longitude 42° W. 
We here again sounded, and found a 
current setting still southwardly, and at 
the rate of three-quarters of a mile per 
hour. The variation per azimuth had 
diminished, and the temperature of the 
air was mild and pleasant, the ther- 
mometer being as high as fifty-one. At 
this period not a particle of ice was 
to be discovered, All hands on board 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


now felt certain of attaining the pole. 

January 17th—This day was full of 
incident. Innumerable flights of birds 
flew over us from the southward, and 
several were shot from the deck; one 
of them, a species of pelican, proved 
to be excellent eating. About midday 
a small floe of ice was seen from the 
mast-head off the larboard bow, and 
upon it there appeared to be some large 
animal. As the weather was good and 
nearly calm, Captain Guy ordered out 
two of the boats to see what it was. 
Dirk Peters and myself accompanied 
the mate in the larger boat. Upon 
coming up with the floe, we perceived 
that it was in the possession of a gigan- 
tic creature of the race of the Arctic 
bear, but far exceeding in size the larg- 
est of these animals. Being well armed, 
we made no scruple of attacking it at 
once. Several shots were fired in quick 
succession, the most of which took 
effect, apparently, in the head and body. 
Nothing discouraged, however, the mon- 
ster threw himself from the ice, and 
swam with open jaws, to the boat in 
which were Peters and myself. Owing 
to the confusion which ensued among 
us at this unexpected turn of the adven- 
ture, no person was ready immediately 
with a second shot, and the bear had 
actually succeeded in getting half his 
vast bulk across our gunwale, and seiz- 
ing one of the men by the small of his 
back, before any efficient means were 
taken to repel him. In this extremity 
nothing but the promptness and agility 
of Peters saved us from destruction. 
Leaping upon the back of the huge 
beast, he plunged the blade of a knife 
behind the neck, reaching the spinal 
marrow at a blow. The brute tumbled 
into the sea lifeless. and without a 


| 
| 
| 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 521 


struggle, rolling over Peters as he fell. 
The latter soon recovered himself, and 
‘a rope being thrown him, he secured 
the carcass before entering the boat. 
We then returned in triumph to the 
schooner, towing our trophy behind us. 
This bear, upon admeasurement, proved 
to be full fifteen feet in his greatest 
length. His wool was perfectly white, 
and very coarse, curling tightly. The 
eyes were of a blood red, and larger 
than those of the Arctic bear; the snout 
also more rounded, rather resembling 
the snout of the bull-dog. The meat 
was tender, but excessively rank and 
fishy, although the men devoured it 
with avidity, and declared it excellent 
eating. 

Scarcely had we got our prize along- 
side, when the man at the mast-head 
gave the joyful shout of “land on the 
starboard bow!’’ All hands were now 
upon the alert, and, a breeze springing 
up very opportunely from the north- 
ward and eastward, we were soon close 
in with the coast. It proved to be a 
low rocky islet, of about a league in 
circumference, and altogether destitute 
of vegetation, if we except a species 
of prickly-pear. In approaching it from 
the northward, a singular ledge of rock 
is seen projecting into the sea, and 
bearing a strong resemblance to corded 
bales of cotton. Around this ledge to 
the westward is a small bay, at the 
bottom of which our boats effected a 
convenient landing. 

It did not take us long to explore 
every portion of the island, but, with 
one exception, we found nothing worthy 
of our observation. In the southern 
extremity, we picked up near the shore, 
half buried in a pile of loose stones, 
a piece of wood, which seemed to have 


formed the prow of a canoe. There 
had been evidently some attempt at 
carving upon it, and Captain Guy fan- 
cied that he made out the figure of a 
tortoise, but the resemblance did not 
strike me very forcibly. Besides this 
prow, if such it were, we found na 
other token that any living creature 
had ever been here before. Around 
the coast we discovered occasional small 
floes of ice—but these were very few. 
The exact situation of the islet (to 
which Captain Guy gave the name of 
Bennet’s Islet, in honor of his partne? 
in the ownership of the schooner) is 
82° 50’ S. latitude, 42° 20’ W. longi- 
tude. 

We had now advanced to the south- 
ward more than eight degrees farther 
than any previous navigators, and the 
sea still lay perfectly open before us. 
We found, too, that the variation uni- 
formly decreased as we proceeded, and, 
what was still more surprising, that the 
temperature of the air, and latterly of 
the water, became milder. The weather 
might even be called pleasant, and we 
had a steady but very gentle breeze 
always from some northern point of the 
compass. The sky was usually clear, 
with now and then a slight appearance 
of thin vapor in the southern horizon— 
this, however, was ‘invariably of brief 
duration. Two difficulties alone pre- 
sented themselves to our view; we were 
getting short of fuel, and symptoms of 
scurvy had occurred among several of 
the crew. These considerations began 
to impress upon Captain Guy the neces- 
sity of returning, and he spoke of it 
frequently. For my own part, confi- 
dent as I was of soon arriving at land 
of some description upon the course 
we were pursuing, and having every 


522 


reason to believe, from present appear- 
ances, that we should not find it the 
sterile soil met with in the higher Arctic 
latitudes, I warmly pressed upon him 
the expediency of persevering, at least 
for a few days longer, in the direction 
we were now holding. So tempting an 
opportunity of solving the great prob- 
lem in regard to an Antarctic continent 
had never yet been afforded to man, 
and I confess that I felt myself burst- 
ing with indignation at the timid and 
ill-timed suggestions of our commander. 
I believe, indeed, that what I could 
not refrain from saying to him on this 
head had the effect of inducing him to 
push on. While, therefore, I cannot but 
lament the most unfortunate and bloody 
events which immediately arose from 
my advice, I must still be allowed to 
feel some degree of gratification at 
having been instrumental, however re- 
motely, in opening to the eye of science 
one of the most intensely exciting 
secrets which has ever engrossed its 
attention. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


JANUARY 18TH.—This morning* we 
continued to the southward, with the 
same pleasant weather as before... The 
sea was entirely smooth, the air tol- 
erably warm and from the northeast, 


* The terms morning and evening, 
which I have made use of to avoid con- 
fusion in my narrative, as far as pos- 
sible, must not, of course, be taken in 
their ordinary sense. For a long time 
past we had had no night at all, the 
daylight being continual. The dates 
throughout are according to nautical 
time. and the bearings must be under- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the temperature of the water fifty-three. 
We now again got our sounding-gear 
in order, and, with a hundred and fifty 
fathoms of line, found the current set- 
ting toward the pole at the rate of a 
mile an hour. This constant tendency 
to the southward, both in the wind and 
current, caused some degree of specula- 
tion, and even of alarm, in different 
quarters of the schooner, and I saw 
distinctly that no little impression had 
been made upon the mind of Captain 
Guy. He was exceedingly sensitive to 
ridicule, however, and I finally suc- 
ceeded in laughing him out of his ap- 
prehensions. The variation was now 
very trivial. In the course of the day 
we saw several large whales of the 
right species, and innumerable flights 
of the albatross passed over the vessel. 
We also picked up a bush, full of red 
berries, like those of the hawthorn, and 
the carcass of a singular-looking land- 
animal. It was three feet in length, and 
but six inches in height, with four very 
short legs, the feet armed with long 
claws of a brilliant scarlet, and resem- 
bling coral in substance. The body was 
covered with a straight silky hair, per- 
fectly white. The tail was peaked like 
that of a rat, and about a foot and a 
half long. The head resembled a cat’s, 


with the exception of the ears—these 


stood as per compass. I would also 
remark, in this place, that I cannot, in 
the first portion of what is here written, 
pretend to strict accuracy in respect to 
dates, or latitudes and longitudes, hav- 
ing kept no regular journal until after 
the period of which this first portion 
treats. In many instances I have relied 
altogether upon memory. 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


were flopped like the ears of a dog. 
The teeth were of the same brilliant 
scarlet as the claws. 

January 19th—To-day, being in lati- 
tude 83° 20’, longitude 43° 5’ W. (the 
sea being of an extraordinarily dark 
color), we again saw land from the 
mast-head, and, upon a closer scrutiny, 
found it to be one of a group of very 
large islands. The shore was precipi- 
tous, and the interior seemed to be well 
wooded, a circumstance which occa- 
sioned us great joy. In about four 
hours from our first discovering the 
land we came to anchor in ten fathoms, 
sandy bottom, a league from the coast, 
as a high surf, with strong ripples here 
and there, rendered a nearer approach 
of doubtful expediency. The two larg- 
est boats were now ordered out, and a 
party, well armed (among whom were 
Peters and myself), proceeded to look 
for an opening in the reef which -ap- 
peared to encircle the island. After 
searching about for some time, we dis- 
covered an inlet, which we were enter- 
ing, when we saw four large canoes 
put off from the shore, filled with men 
who seemed to be well armed. We 
waited for them to come up, and, as 
they moved with great rapidity, they 
were soon within hail. Captain Guy 
now held up a white handkerchief on 
the blade of an oar, when the strang- 
ers made a full stop, and commenced a 
loud jabbering all at once, intermingled 
with occasional shouts, in which we 
could distinguish the words Anamoo- 
moo! and Lama-Lama! They continued 
this for at least half an hour, during 
which we had a good opportunity of 
observing their appearance. 

In the four canoes, which might have 
been fifty feet long and five broad, 


523 


there were a hundred and ten savages 
in all. They were about the ordinary 
stature of Europeans, but of a more 
muscular and brawny frame. Their 
complexion a jet black, with thick and 
long woolly hair. They were clothed 
in skins of an unknown black animal, 
shaggy and silky, and made to fit the 
body with some degree of skill, the 
hair being inside, except where turned 
out about the neck, wrists, and ankles. 
Their arms consisted principally of 
clubs, of a dark, and apparently very 
heavy wood. Some spears, however, 
were observed among them, headed with 
flint, and a few slings. The bottoms 
of the canoes were full of black stones 
about the size of a large egg. 

When they had concluded their ha- 
rangue (for it was clear they intended 
their jabbering for such), one of them 
who seemed to be the chief stood up 
in the prow of his canoe, and made 
signs for us to bring our boats along- 
side of him. This hint we pretended 
not to understand, thinking it the wiser 
plan to maintain, if possible, the inter- 
val between us, as their number more 
than quadrupled our own. Finding this 
to be the case, the chief ordered the 
three other canoes to hold back, while 
he advanced toward us with his own. 
As soon as he came up with us he leaped 
on board the largest of our boats, and 
seated himself by the side of Captain 
Guy, pointing at the same time to the 
schooner, and repeating the words Ana- 
moo-moo! and Lama-Lama! We now 
put back to the vessel, the four canoes 
following at a little distance. 

Upon getting alongside, the chief 
evinced symptoms of extreme surprise 
and delight, clapping his hands, slap- 
ping his thighs and breast. and laughing 


924 


obstreperously. His followers behind 
joined in his merriment, and for some 
minutes the din was so excessive as to 
be absolutely deafening. Quiet being at 
length restored, Captain Guy ordered 
the boats to be hoisted up, as a neces- 
sary precaution, and gave the chief 
(whose name we soon found to be 
Too-wit) to understand that we could 
admit no more than twenty of his men 
on deck at one time. With this arrange- 
ment he appeared perfectly satisfied, 
and gave some directions to the canoes, 
when one of them approached, the rest 
remaining about fifty yards off. Twenty 
of the savages now got on board, and 
proceeded to ramble over every part 
of the deck, and scramble about among 
the rigging, making themselves much at 
home, and examining every article with 
great inquisitiveness. 

It was quite evident that they had 
never before seen any of the white 
race—from whose complexion, indeed, 
they appeared to recoil. They believed 
the Jane to be a living creature, and 
seemed to be afraid of hurting it with 
the points of their spears, carefully 
turning them up. Our crew were much 
amused with the conduct of Too-wit 
in one instance. The cook was splitting 
some wood near the galley, and, by 
accident, struck his axe into the deck, 
making a gash of considerable depth. 
The chief immediately ran up, and 
pushing the cook on one side rather 
roughly, commenced a half whine, half 
howl, strongly indicative of sympathy 
in what he considered the sufferings of 
the schooner, patting and smoothing 
the gash with his hand, and washing it 
from a bucket of sea-water which stood 
by. This was a degree of ignorance 
for which we were not prepared, and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


for my part I could not help thinking 
some of it affected. 

When the visitors had satisfied, as 
well as they could, their curiosity in 
regard to our upper works, they were 
admitted below, when their amazement 
exceeded all bounds. Their astonish- 
ment now appeared to be far too deep 
for words, for they roamed about in 
silence, broken only by low ejaculations. 
The arms afforded them much food for 
speculation, and they were suffered to 
handle and examine them at leisure. 
I do not believe that they had the least 
suspicion of their actual use, but rather 
took them for idols, seeing the care 
we had of them, and the attention with 
which we watched their movements 
while handling them. At the great guns 
their wonder was redoubled. They ap- 
proached them with every mark of the 
profoundest reverence and awe, but for- 
bore to examine them minutely. There 
were two large mirrors in the cabin, 
and here was the acme of their amaze- 
ment. Too-wit was the first to ap- 
proach them, and he had got in the 
middle of the cabin, with his face to 
one and his back to the other, before 
he fairly perceived them. Upon raising 
his eyes and seeing his reflected self in 
the glass, I thought the savage would 
go mad; but, upon turning short round 
to make a retreat, and beholding him- 
self a second time in the opposite direc- 
tion, I was afraid he would expire upon 
the spot. No persuasion could prevail 
upon him to take another look; but, 
throwing himself upon the floor, with 
his face buried in his hands, he re- 
mained thus until we were obliged to 
drag him upon deck. 

The whole of the savages were ad- 
mitted on board in this manner, twenty 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


at a time, Too-wit being suffered to 
remain during the entire period. We 
saw no disposition to thievery among 
them, nor did we miss a single article 
after their departure. Throughout the 
whole of their visit they evinced the 
most friendly manner. ‘There were, 
however, some points in their demeanor 
which we found it impossible to under- 
stand; for example, we could not get 
them to approach several very harmless 
objects—such as the schooner’s sails, an 
egg, an open book, or a pan of flour. 
We endeavored to ascertain if they had 
among them any articles which might 
be turned to account in the way of 
traffic, but found great difficulty in 
being comprehended. We made out, 
nevertheless, what greatly astonished us, 
that the islands abounded in the large 
tortoise of the Gallipagos, one of which 
we saw in the canoe of Too-wit. We 
saw also some biche de mer in the 
hands of one of the savages, who was 
greedily devouring it in its natural state. 
These anomalies—for they were such 
when considered in regard to the lati- 
tude—induced Captain Guy to wish for 
a thorough investigation of the country, 
in the hope of making a profitable 
speculation in his discovery. For my 
own part, anxious as I was to know 
something more of these islands, I was 
still more earnestly bent on prosecuting 
the voyage to the southward without 
delay. We had now fine weather, but 
there was no telling how long it would 
last; and being already in the eighty- 
fourth parallei, with an open sea before 
us, a current setting strongly to the 
southward, and the wind fair, I could 
not listen with any patience to a propo- 
sition of stopping longer than was abso- 
lutely necessary for the health of the 


o20 


crew and the taking on board a proper 
supply of fuel and fresh provisions. I 
represented to the captain that we might 
easily make this group on our return, 
and winter here in the event of being 
blocked up by the ice. He at length 
came into my views (for in some way, 
hardly known to myself, I had ac- 
quired much influence over him), and 
it was finally resolved that, even in 
the event of our finding biche de mer, 
we should only stay here a week to 
recruit, and then push on to the south- 
ward while we might. Accordingly we 
made every necessary preparation—and, 
under the guidance of Too-wit, got the 
Jane through the reef in safety, com- 
ing to anchor about a mile from the 
shore, in an excellent bay, completely 
landlocked, on the southeastern coast 
of the main island, and in ten fathoms 
of water, black sandy bottom. At the 
head of this bay there were three fine 
springs (we were told) of good water, 
and we saw abundance of wood in the 
vicinity. The four canoes followed us 
in, keeping, however, at a respectful 
distance. Too-wit himself remained on 
board, and, upon dropping our anchor, 
invited us to accompany him on shore, 
and visit his village in the interior. 
To this Captain Guy consented; and 
ten savages being left on board as 
hostages, a party of us, twelve in all, 
got in readiness to attend the chief. 
We took care to be well armed, yet 
without evincing any distrust. The 
schooner had her guns run out, her 
boarding-nettings up, and every other 
proper precaution was taken to guard 
against surprise. Directions were left 
with the chief mate to,admit no per- 
son on board during our absence, and, 
in the event of our not appearing in 


526 


twelve hours, to send the cutter, with 
a swivel, around the island in search 
of us. 

At every step we took inland the 
conviction forced itself upon us that 
we were in a country differing essen- 
tially from any hitherto visited by 
civilized men. We saw nothing with 
which we had been formerly conver- 
sant. The trees resembled no growth 
of either the torrid, the temperate, or 
the northern frigid zones, and were al- 
together unlike those of the lower 
southern latitudes we had already trav- 
ersed. The very rocks were novel in 
their mass, their color, and their strati- 
fication; and the streams themselves, 
utterly incredible as it may appear, had 
so little in common with those of other 
climates, that we were scrupulous of 
tasting them, and, indeed, had difficulty 
in bringing ourselves to believe that 
their qualities were purely those of na- 
ture. At a small brook which crossed 
our path (the first we had reached) 
Too-wit and his attendants halted to 
drink. On account of the singular 
character of the water, we refused to 
taste it, supposing it to be polluted; 
and it was not until some time after- 
ward we came to understand that such 
was the appearance of the streams 
throughout the whole group. I am at 
a loss to give a distinct idea of the 
nature of this liquid, and cannot. do 
so without many words. Although it 
flowed with rapidity in all declivities 
where common water would do so, yet 
never, except when falling in a cascade, 
had it the customary appearance of 
limpidity. It was, nevertheless, in 
point of fact, as perfectly limpid as 
any limestone water in existence, the 
difference being only in appearance. At 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


first sight, and especially in cases where 
little declivity was found, it bore re- 
semblance, as regards consistency, to a 
thick infusion of gum arabic in com- 
mon water. But this was only the 
least remarkable of its extraordinary 
qualities. It was mot colorless, nor was 
it of any one uniform color—present- 
ing to the eye, as it flowed, every 
possible shade of purple, like the hues 
of a changeable silk. This variation 
in shade was produced in a manner — 
which excited’ as profound astonish- 
ment in the minds of our party as the 
mirror had done in the case of Too- 
wit. Upon collecting a basinful, and 
allowing it to settle thoroughly, we 
perceived that the whole mass of liquid 
was made up of a number of distinct 
veins, each of a distinct hue; that these 
veins did not commingle; and that their 
cohesion was perfect in regard to their 
own particles among themselves, and 
imperfect in regard to neighboring 
veins. Upon passing the blade of a 
knife athwart the veins, the water 
closed over it immediately, as with us, 
and also, in withdrawing it, all traces 
of the passage of the knife were in- 
stantly obliterated. If, however, the 
blade was. passed down accurately be- 
tween the two veins, a perfect separa- 
tion was effected, which the power of 
cohesion did not immediately rectify. 
The phenomena of this water formed 
the first definite link in that vast chain 
of apparent miracles with which I was 
destined to be at length encircled. 


CHAPTER XIX 
WE were nearly three hours in reach- 


ing the village, it being more than nine 
miles in the interior, and the path lying 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


through a rugged country. As we 
passed along, the party of Too-wit (the 
whole hundred and ten savages of the 
canoes) was momentarily strengthened 
by smaller detachments, of from two 
to six or seven, which joined us, as if 
by accident, at different turns of the 
road. There appeared so much of sys- 
tem in this that I could not help feel- 
ing distrust, and I spoke to Captain 
Guy of my apprehensions. It was now 
too late, however, to recede, and we 
concluded that our best security lay in 
evincing a perfect confidence in the 
good faith of Too-wit. We accordingly 
went on, keeping a wary eye upon the 
manceuvres of the savages, and not 
permitting them to divide our numbers 
by pushing in between. In this way, 
passing through a precipitous ravine, 
we at length reached what we were 
told was the only collection of habita- 
tions upon the island. As we came in 
sight of them, the chief set up a shout, 
and frequently repeated the word 
Klock-klock, which we supposed to be 
the name of the village, or perhaps the 
generic name for villages. 

The dwellings were of the most 
miserable description imaginable, and, 
unlike those of even the lowest of the 
savage races with which mankind are 
acquainted, were of no uniform plan. 
Some of them (and these we found 
belonged to the Wampoos or Yampoos, 
the great men of the land) consisted of 
a tree cut down at about four feet 
from the root, with a large black skin 
thrown over it, and hanging in loose 
folds upon the ground. Under this the 
savage nestled. Others were formed by 
means of rough limbs of trees, with the 
withered foliage upon them, made to 
tecline, at an angle of forty-five de- 


527 


grees, against a bank of clay, heaped 
up, without regular form, to the height 
of five or six feet. Others, again, were 
mere holes dug in the earth perpen- 
dicularly, and covered over with simi- 
Jar branches, these being removed when 
the tenant was about to enter, and 
pulled on again when he had entered. 
A few were built among the forked 
limbs of trees as they stood, the upper 
limbs being partially cut through, so as 
to bend over upon the lower, thus 
forming thicker shelter from the 
weather.. The greater number, how- 
ever, consisted of small shallow cav- 
erns, apparently scratched in the face 
of a precipitous ledge of dark stone, 
resembling fuller’s earth, with which 
three sides of the viilage were bounded. 
At the door of each of these primitive 
caverns was a small rock, which the 
tenant carefully placed before the en- 
trance upon leaving his residence, for 
what purpose I could not ascertain, as 
the stone itself was never of sufficient 
size to close up more than a third of 
the opening. 

This village, if it were worthy of the 
name, lay in a valley of some depth, 
and could only be approached from the 
southward, the precipitous ledge of 
which I have already spoken cutting 
off all access in other directions. 
Through the middle of the valley ran 
a brawling stream of the same magical- 
looking water which has been described. 
We saw several strange animals about 
the dwellings, all appearing to be 
thoroughly domesticated. The largest 
of these creatures resembled our com- 
mon hog in the structure of the body 
and snout; the tail, however, was 
bushy, and the legs slender as those of 
the antelope. Its motion was exceed- 


528 


ingly awkward and indecisive, and we 
never saw it attempt to run. We no- 
ticed also several animals very similar 
in appearance, but of a greater length 
of body, and covered with a black 
wool. There were a great variety of 
tame fowls running about, and these 
seemed to constitute the chief food of 
the natives. To our astonishment we 
saw black albatross among these birds 
in a state of entire domestication, go- 
ing to sea periodically for food, but 
always returning to the village as a 
home, and using the southern shore 
in the vicinity as a place of incubation. 
There they were joined by their friends 
the pelicans as usual, but these latter 
never followed them to the dwellings 
of the savages. Among the other kinds 
of tame fowls were ducks, differing 
very little from the canvas-back of our 
own country, black gannets, and a large 
bird not unlike the buzzard in appear- 
ance, but not carnivorous. Of fish 
there seemed to be a great abundance. 
We saw, during our visit, a quantity 
of dried salmon, rock cod, blue dol- 
phins, mackerel, blackfish, skate, conger 
eels, elephant-fish, mullets, soles, par- 
rot-fish, leather-jackets, gurnards, hake, 
flounders, paracutas, and innumerable 
other varieties. We noticed, too, that 
most of them were similar to the fish 
about the group of the Lord Auckland 
islands, in a latitude as low as fifty-one 
degrees south. The Gallipago tortoise 
was also very plentiful. We saw but 
few wild animals, and none of a large 
size, or of a species with which we 
were familiar. One or two serpents of 
a formidable aspect crossed our path, 
but the natives paid them little atten- 
tion, and we concluded that they were 
not venomous. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


As we approached the village with 
Too-wit and his party, a vast crowd 
of the people rushed out to meet us, 
with loud shouts, among which we 
could only distinguish the everlasting 
Ana-moo-moo! and Lama-Lama! We 
were much surprised at perceiving that, 
with one or two exceptions, these new 
comers were entirely naked, the skins 
being used only by the men of the 
canoes. All the weapons of the count- 
try seemed also to be in the possession 
of the latter, for there was no appear- 
ance of any among the villagers. There 
were a great many women and chil- 
dren, the former not altogether want- 
ing in what might be termed personal 
beauty. They were straight, tall, and 
well formed, with a grace and freedom 
of carriage not to be found in civilized 
society. Their lips, however, like those 
of the men, were thick and clumsy, so 
that, even when laughing, the teeth 
were never disclosed. Their hair was 
of a finer texture than that of the 
males. Among these naked villagers 
there might have been ten or twelve 
who were clothed, like the party of 
Too-wit, in dresses of black skin, and 
armed with lances and heavy clubs. 
These appeared to have great influence 
among the rest, and were always ad- 
dressed by the title Wampoo. These, 
too, were the tenants of the black skin 
palaces. That of Too-wit was situated 
in the centre of the village, and was 
much larger and somewhat better con- 
structed than others of its kind. The 
tree which formed its support was cut 
off at a distance of twelve feet or 
thereabouts from the root, and there 
were several branches left just below 
the cut, these serving to extend the 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


covering, and in this way prevent its 
flapping about the trunk. The cover- 
ing, too, which consisted of four very 
large skins fastened together with 
wooden skewers, was secured at the 
bottom with pegs driven through it and 
into the ground. The floor was strewed 
with a quantity of dry leaves by way 
of carpet. 

To this hut we were conducted with 
great solemnity, and as many of the 
natives crowded in after us as possible. 
Too-wit seated himself on the leaves, 
and made signs that we should follow 
his example. This we did, and pres- 
ently found ourselves in a_ situation 
peculiarly uncomfortable, if not criti- 
cal. We were on the ground, twelve 
in number, with the savages, as many 
as forty, sitting on their hams so 
closely around us that, if any disturb- 
ance had arisen, we should have found 
it impossible to make use of our arms, 
or indeed to have risen to our feet. 
The pressure was not only inside the 
tent, but outside, where probably was 
every individual on the whole island, 
the crowd being prevented from tramp- 
ling us to death only by the incessant 
exertions and vociferations of Too-wit. 
“Our chief security lay, however, in the 
presence of Too-wit himself among us, 
and we resolved to stick by him closely, 
as the best chance of extricating our- 
selves from the dilemma, sacrificing 
him immediately upon the first appear- 
ance of hostile design. 

After some trouble a certain degree 
of quiet was restored, when the chief 
addressed us in a speech of great 
length, and very nearly resembling the 
one delivered in the canoes, with the 
exception that the Anamoo-moos! were 





529 


now somewhat more strenuously in- 
sisted upon than the Lama-Lamas! 
We listened in profound silence until 
the conclusion of this harangue, when 
Captain Guy replied by assuring the 
chief of his eternai friendship and 
good-will, concluding what he had to 
say by a present of several strings of 
blue beads and a knife. At the former 
the monarch, much to our surprise, 
turned up his nose with some expres- 
sion of contempt; but the knife gave 
him the most unlimited satisfaction, 
and he immediately ordered dinner. 
This was handed into the tent over the 
heads of the attendants, and consisted 
of the palpitating entrails of a species 
of unknown animal, probably one of 
the slim-legged hogs which we had ob- 
served in our approach to the village. 
Seeing us at a loss how to proceed, he 
began, by way of setting us an exam- 
ple, to devour yard after yard of the 
enticing food, until we could positively 
stand it no longer, and evinced such 
manifest symptoms of rebellion of 
stomach as inspired his majesty with a 
degree of astonishment only inferior to 
that brought about by the looking- 
glasses. We declined, however, partuk- 
ing of the delicacies before us, and 
endeavored to make him understand 
that we had no appetite whatever, hav- 
ing just finished a hearty dejeuner. 
When the monarch had made an end 
of his meal, we commenced a series of 
cross-questioning in every ingenious 
manner we could devise, with a view of 
discovering what were the chief pro- 
ductions of the country, and whether 
any of them might be turned to profit. 
At length he seemed to have some idea 
of our meaning, and offered to accom- 


530 


pany us to a part of the coast where 
he assured us the biche de mer (point- 
ing to a specimen of that animal) was 
to be found in great abundance. We 
were glad of this early opportunity of 
escaping from the oppression of the 
crowd, and signified our eagerness to 
proceed. We now left the tent, and, 
accompanied by the whole population 
of the village, followed the chief to the 
southeastern extremity of the island, 
not far from the bay where our vessel 
lay at anchor. We waited here for 
about an hour, until the four canoes 
were brought round by some of the 
savages to our station. The whole of 
our party then getting into one of 
them, we were paddled along the edge 
of the reef before mentioned, and of 
another still farther out, where we saw 


a far greater quantity of biche de mer | 


than the oldest seamen among us had 
ever seen in those groups of the lower 
fatitudes most celebrated for this arti- 
cle of commerce. We stayed near these 
reefs only long enough to satisfy our- 
selves that we could easily load a dozen 
vessels with the animal if necessary, 
when we were taken alongside the 
schooner, and parted with Too-wit, 
after obtaining from him a promise 
that he would bring us, in the course 
of twenty-four hours, as many of the 
canvas-back ducks and Gallipago tor- 
toises as his canoes would hold. In the 
whole of this adventure we saw noth- 
ing in the demeanor of the natives cal- 
culated to create suspicion, with the 
single exception of the systematic man- 
ner in which their party was strength- 
ened during our route from the 
schooner to the village. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


CHAPTER XX 


Tue chief was as good as his word, 
and we were soon plentifully supplied 
with fresh provisions. We found the 
tortoises as fine as we had ever seen, 
and the ducks surpassed our best spe- 
cies of wild fowl, being exceedingly 
tender, juicy, and well-flavored. Be- 
sides these, the savages brought us, 
upon our making them comprehend our 
wishes, a vast quantity of brown celery 
and scurvy-grass, with a canoe-load of 
fresh fish and some dried. The celery 
was a treat indeed, and the scurvy- 
grass proved of incalculable benefit in 
restoring those of our men who had 
shown symptoms of disease. In a very 
short time we had not a single person 
on the sick-list. We had also plenty 
of other kinds of fresh provisions, 
among which may be mentioned a spe- 
cies of shell-fish resembling the mussel 
in shape, but with the taste of an 
oyster. Shrimps, too, and prawns were 
abundant, and albatross and _ other 
birds’ eggs with dark shells. We took 
in, too, a plentiful stock of the flesh 
of the hog which I have mentioned 
before. Most of the men found it a 
palatable food, but I thought it fishy” 
and otherwise disagreeable. In return 
for these good things we presented the 
natives with blue beads, brass trinkets, 
nails, knives, and pieces of red cloth, 
they being fully delighted in the ex- 
change. We established a regular mar- 
ket on shore, just under the guns of 
the schooner, where our barterings were 
carried on with every appearance of 
good faith, and a degree of order which 
their conduct at the village of Klock- 
klock had not led us to expect from 
the savages. 


THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


Matters went on thus very amicably 
for several days, during which parties 
of the natives were frequently on 
board the schooner, and parties of our 
men frequently on shore, making long 
excursions into the interior, and receiv- 
ing no molestation whatever. Finding 
the ease with which the vessel might 
be loaded with biche de mer, owing to 
the friendly disposition of the island- 
ers, and the readiness with which they 
would render us assistance in collecting 
it, Captain Guy resolved to enter into 
negotiation with Too-wit for the erec- 
tion of suitable houses in which to cure 
the article, and for the services of him- 
self and tribe in gathering as much as 
possible, while he himself vook advan- 
take of the fine weather to prosecute 
his voyage to the southward. Upon 
mentioning this project to the chief he 
seemed very willing to enter into an 
agreement. A bargain was accordingly 
struck, perfectly satisfactory to both 
parties, by which it was arranged that, 
after making the necessary prepara- 
tions, such as laying off the proper 
grounds, erecting a portion of the 
buildings, and doing:-some other work 
in which the whole of our crew would 
be required, the schooner should pro- 
ceed on her route, leaving three of her 
men on the island to superintend the 
fulfilment of the project, and instruct 
the natives in drying the biche de mer. 
In regard to terms, these were made 
to depend upon the exertions of the 
savages in our absence. They were to 
receive a stipulated quantity of blue 
beads, knives, red cloth, and so forth, 
for every certain number of piculs of 
the biche de mer which should be ready 
on our return. 

A description of the nature of this 


531 


important article of commerce, and the 
method of preparing it, may prove of 
some interest to my readers, and I can 
find no more suitable place than this 
for introducing an account of it. The 
following comprehensive notice of the 
substance is taken from a modern his- 
tory of a voyage to the South Seas: 
“Tt is that mollusca from the Indian 
Seas which is known to commerce by 
the French name bouche de mer (a 
nice morsel from the sea). If I am 
not much mistaken, the celebrated 
Cuvier calls it gasteropeda pulmoni- 
fera. It is abundantly gathered in the 
coasts of the Pacific islands, and gath- 
ered especially for the Chinese market, 
where it commands a great price, per- 
haps as much as their much-talked-of 
edible birds’ nests, which are properly 
made up of the gelatinous matter 
picked up by a species of swallow from 
the body of these mollusce. They have 
no shell, no legs, nor any prominent 
part, except an absorbing and an excre- 
tory, opposite organs; but, by their 
elastic wings, like caterpillars or worms, 
they creep in shallow waters, in which, 
when low, they can be seen by a kind 
of swallow, the sharp bill of which, 
inserted in the soft animal, draws a 
gummy and filamentous substance, 
which, by drying, can be wrought into 
the solid walls of their nest. Hence 
the name of gasteropeda pulmonifera. 
“This mollusca is oblong, and of dif- 
ferent sizes, from three to eighteen 
inches in length; and I have seen a few 
that were not less than two feet long, 
They were nearly round, a little flattish 
on one side, which lies next to the bot- 
tom of the sea; and they are from one 
to eight inches thick. They crawl up 
into shallow water at particular seasons 


532 


of the year, probably for the purpose 
of gendering, as we often find them 
in pairs. It is when the sun has the 
most power on the water, rendering it 
tepid, that they approach the shore; 
and they often go up into places so 
shallow that, on the tide’s receding, 
they are left dry, exposed to the heat 
of the sun. But they do not bring 
forth their young in shallow water, as 
we never see any of their progeny, and 
full-grown ones are always observing 
coming in from deep water. They feed 
principally on that class of zoophites 
which produce the coral. 

“The biche de mer is generally taken 
in three or four feet of water; after 
which they are brought on shore, and 
split at one: end with a knife, the in- 
cision being one inch or more, ac- 
cording to the size of the mollusca. 
Through this opening the entrails are 
forced out by pressure, and they are 
much like those of any other small 
tenant of the deep. The article is then 
washed, and afterward boiled to a cer- 
tain degree, which must not be too 
much or too little. They are then 
buried in the ground for four hours, 
then boiled again for a short time, 
after which they are dried, either by 
the fire or the sun. Those cured by 
the sun are worth the most; but where 
one picul (133 1-3 lbs.) can be cured 
that way, I can cure thirty piculs by 
the fire. When once properly cured, 
they can be kept in a dry place for two 
or three years without any risk; but 
they should be examined once in every 
few months, say four times a year, to 
see if any dampness is likely to affect 
them. 

“The Chinese, as before stated, con- 


sider biche de mer a very great luxury, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


believing that it wonderfully strength. 
ens and nourishes the system, and 
renews the exhausted system of the 
immoderate voluptuary. The first 
quality commands a high price in Can- 
ton, being worth ninety dollars a picul; 
the second quality, seventy-five dollars; 
the third, fifty dollars; the fourth, 
thirty dollars; the fifth, twenty dollars; 
the sixth, twelve dollars; the seventh, 
eight dollars; and the eighth, four dol- 
lars; small cargoes, however, will often 
bring more in Manilla, Singapore, and 
Batavia.” 

An agreement having been thus en- 
tered into, we proceeded immediately 
to land everything necessary for pre- 
paring the buildings and clearing the 
ground. A large flat space near the 
eastern shore of the bay was selected, 
where there was plenty of both wood 
and water, and within a convenient 
distance of the principal reefs on which 
the biche de mer was to be procured. 
We now all set to work in good earnest, 
and soon, to the great astonishment of 
the savages, had felled a sufficient num- 
ber of trees for our purpose, getting 
them quickly in order for the frame- 
work of the houses, which in two or 
three days were so far under way that 
we could safely trust the rest of the 
work to the three men whom we in- 
tended to leave behind. These were 
John Carson, Alfred Harris, 
Peterson (all natives of London, I 
believe), who volunteered their services 
in this respect. 

By the last of the month we had 
everything in readiness for departure. 
We had agreed, however, to pay a 
formal visit of leave-taking to the 
village, and Too-wit insisted so perti- 
naciously upon our keeping the promise 





ee ee eee 





THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


that we did not think it advisable to 
run the risk of offending him by a final 
refusal. I believe that not one of us 
had at this time the slightest suspicion 
of the good faith of the savages. They 
had uniformly behaved with the great- 
est decorum, aiding us with alacrity in 
our work, offering us their commodi- 
ties, frequently without price, and 
_ never, in any instance, pilfering a single 
article, although the high value they 
set upon the goods we had with us was 
evident by the extravagant demonstra- 
tions of joy always manifested upon 
our making them a present. The 
women especially were most obliging in 
every respect, and, upon the whole, we 
should have been the most suspicious 
of human beings had we entertained a 
single thought of perfidy on the part 
of a people who treated us so well. A 
very short while sufficed to prove that 
this apparent kindness of disposition 
was only the result of a deeply laid 
plan for our destruction, and that the 
islanders for whom we entertained such 
inordinate feelings of esteem, were 
among the most barbarous, subtle, and 
bloodthirsty wretches that ever con- 
taminated the face of the globe. 

It was on the first of February that 
we went on shore for the purpose of 
visiting the village. Although, as said 
before, we entertained not the slightest 
suspicion, still no proper precaution 
was neglected. Six men were left in 
the schooner, with instructions to per- 
mit none of the savages to approach 
the vessel during our absence, under 
any pretence whatever, and to remain 
constantly on deck. The _ boarding- 
nettings were up, the guns double- 
shotted with grape and canister, and 
the swivels loaded with canisters of 


533 


musket-balls. She lay, with her anchor 
apeak, about a mile from the shore, 
and no canoe could approach her in 
any direction without being distinctly 
seen and exposed to the full fire of our 
swivels immediately. 

The six men being left on board, 
our shore-party consisted of thirty-two 
persons in all. We were armed to the 
teeth, having with us muskets, pistols, 
and cutlasses; besides, each had a long 
kind of seaman’s knife, somewhat. re- 
sembling the bowie knife now so much 
used throughout our western and south- 
ern country. A hundred of the black- 
skin warriors met us at the landing for 
the purpose of accompanying us on our 
way. We noticed, however, with some 
surprise, that they were now entirely 
without arms; and, upon questioning 
Too-wit in relation to this circum- 
stance, he merely answered that Mattee 
non we pa pa si—meaning that there 
was no need of arms where all were 
brothers. We took this in good part, 
and proceeded. 

We had passed the spring and rivulet 
of which I before spoke, and were now 
entering upon a narrow gorge leading 
through the chain of soapstone hills 
among which the village was situated. 
This gorge was very rocky and uneven, 
so much so that it was with no little 
difficulty we scrambled through it on 
our first visit to Klock-klock. The 
whole length of the ravine might have 
been a mile and a half, or probably 
two miles. It wound in every possible 
direction through the hills (having ap. 
parently formed, at some _ remote 
period, the bed of a torrent), in no 
instance proceeding more than twenty 
yards without an abrupt turn. The 
sides of this dell) would have averaged, 


534 


T am sure, seventy or eighty feet in 
perpendicular altitude throughout the 
whole of their extent, and in some por- 
tions they arose to an astonishing 
height, overshadowing the pass so com- 
pletely that put little of the light of 
day could penetrate. The general 
width was about forty feet, and occa- 
sionally it diminished so as not to allow 
the passage of more than five or six 
persons abreast. In short, there could 
be no place in the world better adapted 
for the consummation of an ambus- 
cade, and it was no more than natural 
that we should look carefully to our 
arms as we entered upon it. When I 
now think of our egregious folly, the 
chief subject of astonishment seems to 
be, that we should have ever ventured, 
under any circumstances, so completely 
into the power of unknown savages as 
to permit them to march both before 
and behind us in our progress through 
this ravine, Yet such was the order 
we blindly took up, trusting foolishly 
to the force of our party, the unarmed 
condition of Too-wit and his men, the 
certain efficacy of our fire-arms (whose 
effect was yet a secret to the natives), 
and, more than. all, to the long-sus- 
tained pretension of friendship kept up 
by these infamous wretches. Five or 
six of them went on before, as if to 
lead the way, ostentatiously busying 
themselves in removing the larger 
stones and rubbish from the path. 
Next came our own party. We walked 
closely together, taking care only to 
prevent separation. Behind followed 
the main body of the savages, observ- 
ing unusual order and decorum. 

Dirk Peters, a man named Wilson 
Allen, and myself were on the right 
of our companions, examining, as we 


. WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


went along, the singular stratification 
of the precipice which overhung us. A 
fissure in the soft rock attracted our 
attention. It was about wide enough 
for one person to enter without squeez- 
ing, and extended back into the hill 
some eighteen or twenty feet in a 
straight course, sloping afterward to 
the left. The height of the opening, 
as far as we could see into it from the 
main gorge, was perhaps sixty or 
seventy feet. There were one or two 
stunted shrubs growing from the crev- 
ices, bearing a species of filbert which 
I felt some curiosity to examine, and 
pushed in briskly for that purpose, 
gathering five or six of the nuts at a 
grasp, and then hastily retreating. As 
I turned, I found that Peters and Allen 
had followed me. I desired them to 
go back, as there was not room for two 
persons to pass, saying they should 
have some of my nuts. They accord- 
ingly turned, and were scrambling 
back, Allen being close to the mouth 
of the fissure, when I was suddenly 
aware of a concussion resembling noth- 
ing I had ever before experienced, and 
which impressed me with a vague con- 
ception, if indeed I then thought of 
anything, that the whole foundations 


of the solid globe were suddenly rent ~ 


asunder, and that the day of universal 
dissolution was at hand. 


CHAPTER XXT 


As soon as I could collect my scat- 
tered senses, I found myself nearly 
suffocated, and grovelling in utter dark- 
hess among a quantity of loose earth, 
which was also falling upon me heavily 
in every direction, threatening to bury 
me entirely. Horribly alarmed at this 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


idea, I struggled to gain my feet, and 
at last succeeded. I then remained mo- 
tionless for some moments, endeavor- 
ing to conceive what had happened to 
me, and where I was. Presently I 
heard a deep groan just at my ear, 
and afterward the smothered voice of 
Peters calling to me for aid in the 
name of God. I scrambled one or two 
paces forward, when I fell directly 
over the head and shoulders of my 
companion, who, I soon discovered, was 
buried in a loose mass of earth as far 
as his middle, and struggling desper- 
ately to free himself from the pressure. 
I tore the dirt from around him with 
all the energy I could command, and at 
length succeeded in getting him out. 
As soon as we sufficiently recovered 
from our fright and surprise to be 
capable of conversing rationally, we 
both came to the conclusion that the 
walls of the fissure in which we had 
ventured had, by some convulsion of 
nature, or probably from their own 
weight, caved in overhead, and that we 
were consequently lost for ever, being 
thus entombed alive. For a long time 
we gave up supinely to the most intense 
agony and despair, such as cannot be 
adequately imagined by those who have 
never been in a similar position. I 
firmly believed that no incident ever 
occurring in the course of human 
events is more adapted to inspire the 
supremeness of mental and bodily dis- 
tress than a case like our own, of living 
inhumation. The blackness of darkness 
which envelops the victim, the terrific 
oppression of lungs, the stifling fumes 
from the damp earth, unite with the 
ghastly considerations that we are be- 


yond the remotest confines of hope, and 


that such is the allotted portion of the 


535 


dead, to carry into the human heart a 
degree of appalling awe and horror not 
to be tolerated—never to be conceived. 

At length Peters ‘proposed that we 
should endeavor to ascertain precisely 
the extent of our calamity, and grope 
about our prison; it being barely pos- 
sible, he observed, that some opening 
might yet be left us for escape. I 
caught eagerly at this hope, and, arous- 
ing myself to exertion, attempted to 
force my way through the loose earth. 
Hardly had I advanced a single step 
before a glimmer of light became per- 
ceptible, enough to convince me that, 
at all events, we should not immedi- 
ately perish for want of air. We now 
took some degree of heart, and encour- 
aged each other to hope for the best. 
Having scrambled over a bank of rub- 
bish which impeded our farther prog- 
ress in the direction of the light, we 
found less difficulty in advancing and 
also experienced some relief from the 
excessive oppression of lungs which had 
tormented us. Presently we were en- 
abled to obtain a glimpse of the objects 
around, and discovered that we were 
near the extremity of the straight por- 
tion of the fissure, where it made a 
turn to the left. A few struggles more, 
and we reached the bend, when to our 
inexpressible joy, there appeared a long 
seam or crack extending upward a vast 
distance, generally at an angle of about 
forty-five degrees, although sometimes 
much more precipitous. We could not 
see through the whole extent of this 
opening; but, as a good deal of light 
came down it, we had little doubt of 
finding at the top of it (if we could by 
any means reach the top) a clear pas- 
sage into the open air. 

T now called to mind that three of us 


536 


had entered the fissure from the main 
gorge, and that our companion, Allen, 
was still missing; we determined at 
once to retrace our steps and look for 
him. After a long search, and much 
danger from the farther caving in of 
the earth above us, Peters at length 
cried out to me that he had hold of 
our companion’s foot, and that his 
whole body was deeply buried beneath 
the rubbish beyond the possibility of 
extricating him. I soon found that 
what he said was too true, and that, 
of course, life had been long extinct. 
With sorrowful hearts, therefore, we 
left the corpse to its fate, and again 
made our way to the bend. 

The breadth of the seam was barely 
sufficient to admit us, and, after one 
or two ineffectual efforts at getting up, 
we began once more to despair. I have 
before said that the chain of hills 
through which ran the main gorge was 
composed of a species of soft rock 
resembling soapstone. The sides of the 
cleft we were now attempting to ascend 
were of the same material, and so ex- 
cessively slippery, being wet, that we 
could get but little foothold upon them 
even in their least precipitous parts; 
in some places, where the ascent was 
nearly perpendicular, the difficulty was, 
of course, much aggravated; and, in- 
deed, for some time we thought insur- 
mountable. We took courage, however, 
from despair; and what, by dint of 
cutting steps in the soft stone with our 
bowie knives, and swinging at the risk 
of our lives, to small projecting points 
of a harder species of slaty rock which 
now and then protruded from the 
general mass, we at length reached a 
natural platform, from which was per- 
ceptible a patch of blue sky, at the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


extremity of a thickly-wooded ravine. 
Looking back now, with somewhat 
more leisure, at the passage through 
which we had thus far proceeded, we 
clearly saw from the appearance of its 
sides, that it was of late formation, 
and we concluded that the concussion, 
whatever it was, which had so unex- 
pectedly overwhelmed us, had also, at 
the same moment, laid open this path © 
for escape. Being quite exhausted with 
exertion, and indeed, so weak that we 
were scarcely able to stand or articu- 
late, Peters now proposed that we 
should endeavor to bring our compan- 
ions to the rescue by firing the pistols — 
which still remained in our girdles—the | 
muskets as well as cutlasses had been | 
lost among the loose earth at the bot- | 
tom of the chasm. Subsequent events — 
proved that, had we fired, we should © 
have sorely repented it, but luckily a — 
half suspicion of foul play had by this - 
time arisen in my mind, and we fore- | 
bore to let the savages know of our | 
whereabouts. 

After having reposed for about an 
hour, we pushed on slowly up the 
ravine, and had gone no great way 
before we heard a succession of tre- 
mendous yells. At length we reached 
what might be called the surface of the 
ground; for our path hitherto, since 
leaving the platform, had lain beneath 
an archway of high rock and foliage, 
at a vast distance overhead. With © 
great caution we stole to a narrow — 
opening, through which we had a clear | 
sight of the surrounding country, when 
the whole dreadful secret of the con- 
cussion broke upon us in one moment 
and at one view. 

The spot from which we looked was 
not far from the summit of the highest 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


peak in the range of the soapstone 
hills. The gorge in which our. party 
of thirty-two had entered ran within 
fifty feet to the left of us. But, for 
at least one hundred yards, the channel 
or bed of this gorge was entirely filled 
up with the chaotic ruins of more than 
a million tons of earth and stone that 
had been artificially tumbled within it. 
The means by which the vast mass had 
been precipitated were not more sim- 
ple than evident, for sure traces of the 
murderous work were yet remaining. 
In several spots along the top of the 
eastern side of the gorge (we were now 
on the western) might be seen stakes 
of wood driven into the earth. In 
these spots the earth had not given 
way; but throughout the whole extent 
of the face of the precipice from which 
the mass had fallen, it was clear, from 
marks left in the soil resembling those 
made by the drill of the rock-blaster, 
that stakes similar to those we saw 
standing had been inserted, at not more 
than a yard apart, for the length of 
perhaps three hundred feet, and rang- 
ing at about ten feet back from the 
edge of the gulf. Strong cords of 
grape vine were attached to the stakes 
still remaining on the hill, and it was 
evident that such cords had also been 
attached to each of the other stakes. 
I have already spoken of the singular 
stratification of these soapstone hills; 
and the description just given of the 
narrow and deep fissure through which 
we effected our escape from inhumation 
will afford a further conception of its 
nature. This was such that almost 
every natural convulsion would be sure 
to split the soil into perpendicular 
layers or ridges running parallel with 
one another: and a very moderate ex- 


537 


ertion of art would be sufficient for 
effecting the same purpose. Of this 
stratification the savages had availed 
themselves to accomplish their treach- 
erous ends. There can be no doubt 
that, by the continuous line of stakes, 
a partial rupture of the soil had been 
brought about, probably to the depth 
of one or two feet, when by means of 
a savage pulling at the end of each of 
the cords (these cords being attached 
to the tops of the stakes, and extend- 
ing back from the edge of the cliff), 
a vast leverage power was obtained, 
capable of hurling the whole face of 
the hill, upon a given signal, into the 
bosom of the abyss below. The fate of 
our poor companions was no longer a 
matter of uncertainty. We alone had 
escaped from the tempest of that over- 
whelming destruction. We were the 
only living white men upon the island, 


CHAPTER XXII 


Our situation, as it now appeared, 
was scarcely less dreadful than when 
we had conceived ourselves entombed 
forever. We saw before us no prospect 
but that of being put to death by the 
savages, or of dragging cut a miserable 
existence in captivity among them. We 
might, to be sure, conceal ourselves for 
a time from their observation among 
the fastnesses of the hills, and, as a 
final resort, in the chasm from which 
we had just issued; but we must either 
perish in the long polar winter through 
cold and famine, or be ultimately dis- 
covered in our efforts to obtain relief. 

The whole country around us seemed 
to be swarming with savages, crowds 
of whom, we now perceived, had come 
over from the islands to the southward 


1538 


on flat rafts, doubtless with a view of 
lending their aid in the capture and 
plunder of the Jane. The vessel still 
lay calmly at anchor in the bay, those 
on board being apparently quite uncon- 
scious of any danger awaiting them. 
How we longed at that moment to be 
with them either to aid in effecting 
their escape, or to perish with them in 
attempting a defence. We saw no 
chance even of warning them of their 
danger without bringing immediate de- 
struction upon our own heads, with 
but a remote hope of benefit to them. 
A pistol fired might suffice to apprise 
them that something wrong had oc- 
curred; but the report could not pos- 
sibly inform them that their only 
prospect of safety lay in getting out 
of the harbour forthwith—nor tell them 
no principles of honor now bound them 
to remain, that their companions were 
no longer among the living. Upon 
hearing the discharge they could not 
be more thoroughly prepared to meet 
the foe, who were now getting ready 
to attack, than they already were, and 
always had been. No good, therefore, 
and infinite harm, would result from 
our firing, and after mature deliberation, 
we forbore. 

Our next thought was to attempt to 
rush toward the vessel, to seize one of 
the four canoes which lay at the head 
of the bay, and endeavor to force a 
passage on board. But the utter im- 
possibility of succeeding in this desper- 
ate task soon became evident. The 
country, as I said before, was literally 
swarming with the natives, skulking 
among the bushes and recesses of the 
hills, so as not to be observed from 
the schooner. In our immediate vicin- 
ity especially, and blockading the sole 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


path by which we could hope to attain 
the shore at the proper point were 
stationed the whole party of the black- 
skin warriors, with Too-wit at their 
head, and apparently only waiting for 
some re-enforcement to commence his 
onset upon the Jane. The canoes, too, 
which lay at the head of the bay, were 
manned with savages, unarmed, it is 
true, but who undoubtedly had arms 
within reach. We were forced, there- 
fore, however unwillingly, to remain in 
our place of concealment, mere specta- 
tors of the conflict which presently 
ensued. 

In about half an hour we saw some 
sixty or seventy rafts, or flat-boats, 
with outriggers, filled with savages, and 
coming round the southern bight of the 
harbor. They appeared to have no 
arms except short clubs, and stones 
which lay in the bottom of the rafts. 
Immediately afterward another detach- 
ment, still larger, appeared in an oppo- 
site direction, and with similar weap- 
ons. The four canoes, too, were now 
quickly filled with natives, starting up 
from the bushes at the head of the 
bay, and put off swiftly to join the 
other parties. Thus, in less time than 
I have taken to tell it, and as if by 
magic, the Jane saw herself surrounded 
by an immense multitude of despera- 
does evidently bent upon capturing her 
at all hazards. 

That they would succeed in so doing 
could not be doubted for an instant. 
The six men left in the vessel, how- 
ever resolutely they might engage in 
her defence, were altogether unequal 
to the proper management of the guns, 
or in any manner to sustain a contest. 
at such odds. I could hardly imagine 
that they would make resistance at al. 














THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


but in this was deceived; for presently 
I saw them get springs upon the cable, 
and bring the vessel’s starboard broad- 
side to bear upon the canoes, which by 
this time were within pistol range, the 
rafts being nearly a quarter of a mile 
to windward: Owing to some cause 
unknown, but most probably to the agi- 
tation of our poor friends at seeing 
themselves in so hopeless a situation, 
the discharge was an entire failure. 
Not a canoe was hit or_a single savage 
injured, the shots striking short and 
ricochetting over their heads. The 
only effect produced upon them was 
astonishment at the unexpected report 
and smoke, which was so excessive that 
for some moments I almost thought 
they would abandon their design en- 
tirely, and return to the shore. And 
this they would most likely have done 
had our men followed up their broad- 
side by a discharge of small-arms, in 
which, as the canoes were now so near 
at hand, they could not have failed in 
doing some execution, sufficient, at 
least, to deter this party from a farther 
advance, until they could have given 
the rafts also a broadside. But, in 
place of this, they left the canoe party 
to recover from their panic, and, by 
looking about them, to see that no in- 
jury had been sustained, while they 
flew to the larboard to get ready for 
the rafts. 

The discharge to larboard produced 
the most terrible effect. The star and 
double-headed shot of the large guns 
cut seven or eight. of the rafts com- 
pletely asunder, and killed, perhaps, 
thirty or forty of the savages outright, 
while a hundred of them, at least, were 
thrown into the water, the most of 
them dreadfully wounded. The re- 


539 


mainder, frightened out of their senses, 
commenced at once a precipitate re- 
treat, not even waiting to pick up their 
maimed companions, who were swim- 
ming about in every direction, scream- 
ing and yelling for aid. This great 
success, however, came too late for the 
salvation of our devoted people. The 
canoe party were already on board the 
schooner to the number of more than 
a hundred anc afty, the most of them 
having succeeded in scrambling up the 
chains and over the boarding-nettings 
even before the matches had been ap- 
plied to the larboard guns. Nothing 
now could withstand their brute rage. 
Our men were borne down at once, 
overwhelmed, trodden under foot, and 
absolutely torn to pieces in an instant. 

Seeing this, the savages on the rafts 
got the better of their fears, and came 
up in shoals to the plunder. In five 
minutes the Jane was a pitiable scene 
indeed of havoc and tumultuous out- 
rage. The decks were split open and 
ripped up; the cordage, sails, and 
everything movable on deck demol- 
ished as if by magic; while, by dint 
of pushing at the stern, towing with the 
canoes, and hauling at the sides, as 
they swam in thousands around the 
vessel, the wretches finally forced her 
on shore (the cable having been 
slipped), and delivered her over to the 
good offices of Too-wit, who, during 
the whole of the engagement, had 
maintained, like a skilful general, his 
post of security and reconnoissance 
among the hills, but, now that the vic- 
tory was completed to his satisfaction, 
condescended to scamper down with his 
warriors of the black skin, and become 
a partaker in the spoils. 

‘Too-wit’s descent left us at liberty 


540 


to quit our hiding-place and _ recon- 
noitre the hill in the vicinity of the 
chasm. At about fifty yards from the 
mouth of it we saw a small spring of 
water, at which we slaked the burning 
thirst that now consumed us. Not far 
from the spring we discovered several 
of the filbert-bushes which I mentioned 
before. Upon tasting the nuts we 
found them palatable, and very nearly 
resembling in flavor the common Eng- 
lish filbert. We collected our hats full 
immediately, deposited them within the 
ravine, and returned for more. While 
we were busily employed in gathering 
these, a rustling in the bushes alarmed 
us, and we were upon the point of 
stealing back to our covert, when a 
large black bird of the bittern species 
strugglingly and slowly arose above the 
shrubs. I was so much startled that 
I could do nothing, but Peters had 
sufficient presence of mind to run up 
to it before it could make its escape, 
and seize it by the neck. Its struggles 
and screams were tremendous, and we 
had thoughts of letting it go, lest the 
noise should alarm some of the savages 
who might be still lurking in the neigh- 
borhood. A stab with a bowie knife, how- 
ever, at length brought it to the ground, 
and we dragged it into the ravine, con- 
gratulating ourselves that, at all events, 
we had thus obtained a supply of food 
enough to last us for a week. 

We now went out again to look about 
us, and ventured a considerable dis- 
tance down the southern declivity of 
the hill, but met with nothing else 
which could serve us for food. We 
therefore collected a quantity of dry 
wood and returned, seeing one or two 
large parties of the natives on their 
way to the village, laden with the plun- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


der of the vessel, and who, we were 
apprehensive, might discover us in 
passing beneath the hill. 

Our next care was to render our 
place of concealment as secure as pos- 
sible, and with this object, we arranged 
some brushwood over the aperture 
which I have before spoken of as the 
one through which we saw the patch of 
blue sky, on reaching the platform 
from the interior of the chasm. We 
left only a very small opening just wide 
enough to admit of our seeing the ‘bay, 
without the risk of being discovered 
from below. Having done this, we 
congratulated ourselves upon the secu- 
rity of the position; for we were now 
completely excluded from observation, 
as long as we chose to remain within 
the ravine itself, and not venture out 
upon the hill. We could perceive no. 
traces of the savages having ever been 
within this hollow; but, indeed, when 
we came to reflect upon the probability 
that the fissure through which we at- 
tained it had been only just now cre- 
ated by the fall of the cliff opposite, 
and that no other way of attaining it 
could be perceived, we were not so 
much rejoiced at the thought of being 
secure from molestation as fearful lest 
there should be absolutely no means 
left us for descent. We resolved to 
explore the summit of the hill thor- 
oughly, when a good opportunity should 
offer. In the meantime we watched 
the motions of the savages through our 
loophole. 

They had already made a complete 
wreck of the vessel, and were now pre- 
paring to set her on fire. In a little 
while we saw the smoke ascending in 
huge volumes from her main hatchway, 
and, shortly afterward, a dense mass 











THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 541 


of flame burst up from the forecastle. 
The rigging, masts and what remained 
of the sails caught immediately, and 
the fire spread rapidly along the decks. 
Still a great many of the savages re- 
tained their stations about her, ham- 
mering with large stones, axes, and 
cannon-balls at the bolts and other iron 
and copper work. On the beach, and 
in canoes and rafts, there were not less, 
altogether, in the immediate vicinity of 
the schooner, than ten thousand na- 
tives, besides the shoals of them who, 
laden with booty, were making their 
way inland and over to the neighboring 
islands. We now anticipated a catas- 
trophe, and were not disappointed. 
First of all there came a smart shock 
(which we felt as distinctly where we 
were as if we had been slightly galvan- 
ized), but unattended with any visible 
signs of an explosion. The savages 
were evidently startled, and paused for 
an instant from their labors and yell- 
ings. They were upon the point of 
recommencing, when suddenly a mass 
of smoke puffed up from the decks, 
resembling a black and heavy thunder- 
cloud—then, as if from its bowels, 
arose a tall stream of vivid fire to the 
height, apparently, of a quarter of a 
mile—then there came a sudden circular 
expansion of the flame—then the whole 


atmosphere was magically crowded, in 


a single instant, with a wild chaos of 
wood, and metal, and human limbs— 
and, lastly, came the concussion in its 
fullest fury, which hurled us impetu- 
ously from our feet, while the hills 
echoed and re-echoed the tumult, and 
a dense shower of the minutest frag- 
ments of the ruins tumbled headlong 
in every direction around us. 

The havoc among the savages far 


exceeded our utmost expectation, and 
they had now, indeed, reaped the full 
and perfect fruits of their treachery. 
Perhaps a thousand perished by the 
explosion, while at least an equal num- 
ber were desperately mangled. The 
whole surface of the bay was literally 
strewn with the struggling and drown- 
ing wretches, and on shore matters 
were even worse. They seemed utterly 
appalled by the suddenness and com- 
pleteness of their discomfiture, and 
made no efforts at assisting one an- 
other. At length we observed a total 
change in their demeanor. From abso- 
lute stupor, they appeared to be, all 
at once, aroused to the highest pitch 
of excitement, and rushed wildly about, 
going to and from a certain point on 
the beach, with the strangest expres- 
sions of mingled horror, rage, and 
intense curiosity depicted on their 
countenances, and shouting, at the top 
of their voices, “Tekeli-li! Tekcli-li!” 

Presently we saw a large body go 
off into the hills, whence they returned 
in a short time, carrying stakes of 
wood. These they brought to the sta- 
tion where the crowd was the thickest, 
which now separated so as to afford us 
a view of the object of all this excite- 
ment. We perceived something white 
lying upon the ground, but could not 
immediately make out what it was. At 
length we saw that it was the carcass 
of the strange animal with the scarlet 
teeth and claws which the schooner had 
picked up at sea on the eighteenth of 
January. Captain Guy had had the 
body preserved for the purpose of 
stuffing the skin and taking it to Eng- 
land. I remember he had given some 
directions about it just before our mak- 
ing the island, and it had been brought 


$42 


into the cabin and stowed away in one 
of the lockers. It had now been 
thrown on shore by the explosion; but 
why it had occasioned so much concern 
among the savages was more than we 
could comprehend. Although they 
crowded around the carcass at a little 
distance, none of them seemed willing 
to approach it closely. By and by the 
men with the stakes drove them in a 
circle around it, and no sooner was this 
arrangement completed, than the whole 
of the vast assemblage rushed into the 
interior of the island, with loud screams 
of “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


DurRiNG the six or seven days imme- 
diately following we remained in our 
hiding-place upon the hill, going out 
only occasionally, and then with the 
greatest precaution, for water and fil- 
berts. We had made a kind of pent- 
house on the platform, furnishing it 
with a bed of dry leaves, and placing 
in it three large flat stones, which 
served us for both fireplace and table. 
We kindled a fire without difficulty by 
rubbing two pieces of dry wood to- 
gether, the one soft, the other hard. 
The bird we had taken in such good 
season proved excellent eating, although 
somewhat tough. It was not an oceanic 
fowl, but a species of bittern, with jet 
black and grizzly plumage, and diminu- 
tive wings in proportion to its bulk. 
We afterward saw three of the same 
kind in the vicinity of the ravine, ap- 
parently seeking for the one we had 
captured; but, as they never alighted, 
we had no opportunity of catching 
them. 

As long as this fowl lasted we suf- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fered nothing from our situation, but 
it was now entirely consumed, and it 
became absolutely necessary that we 
should look out for provision. The 
filberts would not satisfy the cravings 
of hunger, afflicting us, too, with severe 
gripings of the bowels, and, if freely 
indulged in, with violent headache. We 
had seen several large tortoises near the 
seashore to the eastward of the hill, 
and perceived they might be easily 
taken, if we could get at them without 
the observation of the natives. It was 
resolved, therefore, to make an attempt 
at descending. 

We commenced by going down the 
southern declivity, which seemed to 
offer the fewest difficulties, but had not 
proceeded a hundred yards before (as 
we had anticipated from appearances 
on the hilltop) our progress was en- 
tirely arrested by a branch of the gorge 
in which our companions had perished. 
We now passed along the edge of this 
for about a quarter of a mile, when we 
were again stopped by a precipice of 
immense depth, and, not being able to 
make our way along the brink of it, 
we were forced to retrace our steps by 
the main ravine. | 

We now pushed over to the eastward, 
but with precisely similar fortune. 
After an hour’s scramble, at the risk 
of breaking our necks, we discovered 
that we had merely descended into a 
vast pit of black granite, with fine dust 
at the bottom, and whence the only 
egress was by the rugged path in which 
we had come down. Toiling again up 
this path, we now tried the northern 
edge of the hill. Here we were obliged 
to use the greatest possible caution in 
our manoeuvres, as the least indiscre- 
tion would expose us to the full view 














THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


of the savages in the village. We 
crawled along, therefore, on our hands 
and knees, and, occasionally, were even 
forced to throw ourselves at full length, 
dragging our bodies along by means of 
the shrubbery. In this careful manner 
we had proceeded but a little way, 
when we arrived at a chasm far deeper 
than any we had yet seen, and leading 
directly into the main gorge. Thus 
our fears were fully confirmed, and we 
found ourselves cut off entirely from 
access to the world below. Thoroughly 
exhausted by our exertions, we made 
the best of our way back to the plat- 
form, and throwing ourselves upon the 
bed of leaves, slept sweetly and 
soundly for some hours. 

For several days after this frutiless 
search we were occupied in exploring 
every part of the summit of the hill, 
in order to inform ourselves of its 
actual resources. We found that it 
would afford us no food, with the ex- 
ception of the unwholesome filberts, 
and a rank species of scurvy-grass, 
which grew in a little patch of not more 
than four rods square, and would be 
soon exhausted. On the fifteenth of 
February, as near as I can remember, 
there was not a blade of this left, and 
the nuts were growing scarce; our situa- 
tion, therefore, could hardly be more 
lamentable.* On the sixteenth we again 
went round the walls of our prison, in 
hope of finding some avenue of escape; 
but to no purpose. We also descended 
the chasm in which we had been over- 
whelmed, with the faint expectation of 


* This day was rendered remarkable 
by our observing in the south several 


_| huge wreaths of the grayish vapor I 


_have before spoken of. 


543 


discovering, through this channel, some 
opening to the main ravine. Here, too, 
we were disappointed, although we 
found and brought up with us a musket. 

On the seventeenth we set out with 
the determination of examining more 
thoroughly the chasm of black granite 
into which we had made our way in 
the first search. We remembered that 
one of the fissures in the sides of this 
pit had been but partially looked into, 
and we were anxious to explore it, al- 
though with no’ expectation of discov- 
ering here any opening. 

We found no great difficulty in reach- 
ing the bottom of the hollow as before, 
and were now sufficiently calm to sur- 
vey it with some attention. It was, 
indeed, one of the most singular-looking 
places imaginable, and we could scarcely 
bring ourselves to believe it altogether 
the work of nature. The pit, from its 
eastern to its western extremity, was 
about five hundred yards in _ length, 
when all its windings were threaded; 
the distance from east to west in a 
straight line not being more (I should 
suppose, having no means of accurate 
examination) than forty or fifty yards. 
Upon first descending into the chasm— 
that is to say, for a hundred feet down. 
ward from the summit of the hill, the 
sides of the abyss bore little resemblance 
to each other, and, apparently, had at 
no time been connected, the one sur- 
face being of the soapstone, and the 
other of marl, granulated with some 
metallic matter. The average breadth 
or interval between the two cliffs was 
probably here sixty feet, but there 
seemed to be no regularity of forma- 
tion. Passing down, however, beyond 
the limit spoken of, the interval rapidly 
contracted, and the sides began to run 


544 


parallel, although, for some distance 
farther, they were still dissimilar in 
their material and form of surface. 
Upon arriving within fifty feet of the 
bottom, a perfect regularity commenced. 
The sides were now entirely uniform 
in substance, in color, and in lateral 
direction, the material being a very 
black and shining granite, and the 
distance between the two sides, at all 
points, facing each other, exactly 
twenty yards. The precise formation 
of the chasm will be best understood 
by means of a delineation taken upon 
the spot; for I had luckily with me a 
pocket-book and pencil, which I pre- 
served with great care through a long 
series of subsequent adventure, and to 
which I am indebted for memoranda of 
many subjects which would otherwise 
have been crowded from my remem- 
brance. 


This figure (see fig. 1) gives the gen- 





eral outlines of the chasm, without the 
minor cavities in the sides, of which 
there were several, each cavity having 
a corresponding protuberance opposite. 
The bottom of the gulf was covered to 
the depth of three or four inches with a 
powder almost impalpable, beneath 
which we found a continuation of the 
black granite. To the right, at the lower 
extremity, will be noticed the appear- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ance of a small opening; this is the 
fissure alluded to above, and to ex- 
amine which more minutely than before 
was the object of our second visit. We 
now pushed into it with vigor, cutting 
away a quantity of brambles which 
impeded us, and removing a vast heap 
of sharp flints somewhat resembling 
arrow-heads in shape. We were en- 
couraged to persevere, however, by per- 
ceiving some little light proceeding from 
the farther end. We at length squeezed 
our way for about tlirty feet, and 
found that the aperture was a low and 
regularly formed arch, having a bottom 
of the same impalpable powder as that 
in the main chasm. A strong light now 
broke upon us, and, turning a short 
bend, we found ourselves in another 
lofty chamber, similar to the one we 
had left in every respect but longi- 
tudinal form. Its general figure is 
here given. (See fig. 2.) | 

The total length of this chasm, com- © 





mencing at the opening a and proceeds | 
ing round the curve 0 to the extremity | 
d, is five hundred and fifty yards. At — 
c we discovered a small aperture simi- 
lar to the one through which we had 
issued from the other chasm, and this | 
was choked up in the same manner 
with brambles and a quantity of the | 
white arrow-head flints. We forced our 
way through it, finding it about forty 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


feet long, and emerged into a third 
chasm. This, too, was precisely like 
the first, except in its longitudinal 
shape, which was thus. (See fig. 3.) 


\\ 


ee 





Era. 5} 


We found the entire length of the 
third chasm three hundred and twenty 
yards. At the point @ was an opening 
about six feet wide, and extending fif- 
teen feet into the rock, where it ter- 
minated in a bed of marl, there being 
no other chasm beyond, as we had 
expected. We were about leaving this 
fissure, into which very little light was 
admitted, when Peters called my atten- 
tion to a range of singular-looking in- 
dentures in the surface of the marl 
rorming the termination of the cwul-de- 
sac. With a very slight exertion of 
the imagination, the left, or most north- 
ern of these indentures might have been 
taken for the intentional, although rude, 
representation of a human figure stand- 
ing erect, with out-stretched arm. The 
rest of them bore also some little re- 
semblance to alphabetical characters, 
and Peters was willing, at all events, to 
adopt the idle opinion that they were 
really such. I convinced him of his 
error, finally, by directing his attention 
to the floor of the fissure, where, among 
the powder, we picked up, piece by 


piece, several large flakes of the marl, 


which had evidently been broken off 
by some convulsion from the surface 
where the indentures were found, and 
which had projecting points exactly 
fitting the indentures: 


thus proving - 


545 


them to have been the work of nature. 
Fig. 4 presents an accurate copy of the 
whole. 


<—=- 
iy So LAL 
& mn Dee 
Wetypys 
Fic. 4. i 


After satisfying ourselves that these 
singular caverns afforded us no means 
of escape from our prison, we made our 
way back, dejected and dispirited, to 
the summit of the hill. Nothing worth 
mentioning occurred during the next 
twenty-four hours, except that, in ex- 
amining the ground to the eastward of 
the third chasm, we found two triangu- 
lar holes of great depth, and also with 
black granite sides. Into these holes 
we did not think it worth while to at- 
tempt descending, as they had the ap- 
pearance of mere natural wells, with- 
out outlet. They were each about 
twenty yards in circumference, and 
their shape, as well as relative position 
in regard to the third chasm, is shown 
in figure 5, this page. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


On the twentieth of the month, find- 
ing it altogether impossible to subsist 
any longer upon the filberts, the use of 
which occasioned us the most excruciat- 
ing torment, we resolved to make a 
desperate attempt at descending the 
southern declivity of the hill.- The face 
of the precipice was here of the softest 
species of soapstone, although nearly 
perpendicular throughout its whole ex- 
tent (a depth of a hundred and fifty 


546 


feet at the least), and in many places 
even overarching. After a long search 
we discovered a narrow ledge about 
‘ twenty feet below the brink of the gulf; 
upon this Peters contrived to leap, 
with what assistance I could render him 
by means of our pocket-handkerchiefs 
tied together. With somewhat more 
difficulty I also got down; and we then 
saw the possibility of descending the 
whole way by the process in which we 
had clambered up from the chasm when 
we had been buried by the fall of the 
hill—that is, by cutting steps in the 
face of the soapstone with our knives. 
The extreme hazard of the attempt 
can scarcely be conceived; but, as there 
was no other resource, we determined 
to undertake it. 

Upon the ledge where we stood there 
grew some filbert-bushes; and to one 
of these we made fast an end of our 
rope of handkerchiefs. The other end 
being tied round Peters’ waist, I low- 
ered him down over the edge of the 
precipice until the handkerchiefs were 
stretched tight. He now proceeded to 
dig a deep hole in the soapstone (as 
far in as eight or ten inches), sloping 
away the rock above to the height of 
a foot, or thereabout, so as to allow 
of his driving, with the butt of a 
pistol, a tolerably strong peg into the 
levelled surface. I then drew him up 
for about four feet, when he made a 
hole similar to the one below, driving 
in a peg as before, and having thus a 
resting-place for both feet and hands. 
I now unfastened the handkerchiefs 
from the bush, throwing him the end, 
which he tied to the peg in the upper- 
most hole, letting himself down gently 
to a station about three feet lower than 
he had yet been—that is, to the full 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


extent of the handkerchiefs. Here he 
dug another hole, and drove another 
peg. He then drew himself up, so as 
to rest his feet in the hole just cut, 
taking hold with his hands upon the 
peg in the one above. It was now 
necessary to untie the handkerchiefs 
from the topmost peg, with the view of 
fastening them to the second; and here 
he found that an error had been com- 
mitted in cutting the holes at so great 
a distance apart. However, after one 
or two unsuccessful and dangerous at- 
tempts at reaching the knot (having 
to hold on with his left hand while he 
labored to undo the fastening with his 
right), he at length cut the string, leav- 
ing six inches of it affixed to the peg. 
Tying the handkerchiefs now to the sec- 
ond peg, he descended to a station be- 
low the third, taking care not to go 
too far down. By these means (means 
which I should never have conceived 
of myself, and for which we were in- 
debted altogether to Peters’ ingenuity — 
and resolution) my companion finally — 
succeeded, with the occasional aid of | 
projections in the cliff, in reaching the | 
bottom without accident. 

It was some time before I could sum- 
mon sufficient resolution to follow him; 
but I did at length attempt it. Peters 
had taken off his shirt before descend- © 
ing, and this, with my own, formed the © 
rope necessary for the adventure. After © 
throwing down the musket found in the 
chasm, I fastened this rope to the 
bushes, and let myself down rapidly, 
striving, by the vigor of my move- 
ments, to banish the trepidation which I 
could overcome in no other manner. 
This answered sufficiently well for the 
first four or five steps; but presently 
I found my imagination growing ter- | 











THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


ribly excited by thoughts of the vast 
depths yet to be descended, and the 
‘recarious nature of the pegs and soap- 
stone holes which were my only sup- 
port. It was in vain I endeavored to 
banish these reflections, and to keep my 
eyes steadily bent upon the flat surface 
of the cliff before me. The more earn- 
estly I struggled not to think, the more 
intensely vivid became my conceptions, 
and the more horribly distinct. At 
length arrived that crisis of fancy, so 
fearful in all similar cases, the crisis in 
which we began to anticipate the feel- 
ings with which we shall fall—to picture 
to ourselves the sickness, and dizziness, 
and the last struggle, and the half 
swoon, and the final bitterness of the 
rushing and headlong descent. And 
now I found these fancies creating 
their own realities, and all imagined 
horrors crowding upon me in fact. I 
felt -my knees strike violently together, 
while my fingers were gradually but 
certainly relaxing their grasp. There 
was a ringing in my ears, and T said, 
“This is my knell of death!” And now 
I was consumed with the irrepressible 
desire of looking below. T could not, I 
would not, confine my glances to the 
cliff; and, with a wild, indefinable emo- 
tion, half of horror, half of a relieved 
oppression, I threw my vision far down 
into the abyss. For one moment my 
fingers clutched convulsively upon their 
hold, while, with the movement, the 
faintest possible idea of ultimate es- 
cape wandered, like a shadow, through 
my mind—in the next my whole soul 
was pervaded with a longing to fall; a 
desire, a yearning, a passion utterly un- 
controllable. I let go at once my grasp 
upon the peg, and, turning half round 
from the precipice, remained tottering 


547 


for an instant against its naked face. 
But now there came a spinning of the 
brain; a shrill-sounding and phantom 
voice screamed within my ears; a 
dusky, fiendish, and filmy figure stood 
immediately beneath me; and, sighing, 
IT sunk down with a bursting heart, and 
plunged within its arms. 

I had swooned, and Peters had caught 
me as I fell. He had observed my pro- 
ceedings from his station at the bottom 
of the cliff; and perceiving my immi- 
nent danger, had endeavored to inspire 
me with courage by every suggestion 
he could devise; although my confusion 
of mind had been so great as to prevent 
my hearing what he said, or being con- 
scious that he had even spoken to me 
at all. At length, seeing me totter, he 
hastened to ascend to my rescue, and 
arrived just in time for my preserva- 
tion. Had I fallen with my full weight, 
the rope of linen would inevitably have 
snapped, and I should have been pre- 
cipitated into the abyss; at it was, he 
contrived to let me down gently, so 
as to remain suspended without danger 
until animation returned. This was in 
about fifteen minutes. On recovery, 
my trepidation had entirely vanished; 
T felt a new being, and, with some 
little further aid from my companion, 
reached the bottom also in safety. 

We now found ourselves not far 
from the ravine which had proved the 
tomb of our friends, and to the south- 
ward of the spot where the hill had 
fallen. The place was one of singular 
wildness, and its aspect brought to my 
mind the descriptions given by travel- 
lers of those dreary regions marking the 
site of degraded Babylon. Not to speak 
of the ruins of the disrupted cliff, which 
formed a chaotic barrier in the vista 


948 


to the northward, the surface of the 
ground in every other direction was 
strewn with huge tumuli, apparently the 
wreck of some gigantic structures of 
art; although, in detail, no semblance 
of art could be detected. Scoria were 
abundant, and large shapeless blocks 
of the black granite, intermingled with 
others of marl,* and both granulated 
with metal. Of vegetation there were 
no traces whatsoever throughout the 
whole of the desolate area within sight. 
Several immense scorpions were seen, 
and various reptiles not elsewhere to 
be found in the high latitudes. As food 
was our most immediate object, we 
resolved to make our way to the sea- 
coast, distant not more than half a mile, 
with a view of catching turtle, several 
of which we had observed from our 
place of concealment on the hill. We 
had proceeded some hundred yards, 
threading our route cautiously between 
the huge rocks and tumuli, when, upon 
turning a corner, five savages sprung 
upon us from a small cavern, felling 
Peters to the ground with a blow from 
a club. As he fell the whole party 
rushed upon him to secure their victim, 
leaving me time to recover from my 
astonishment. I still had the musket, 
but the barrel had received so much 
injury in being thrown from the preci- 
pice that I cast it aside as useless, 
preferring to trust my pistols, which 
had been carefully preserved in order. 
With these I advanced upon the assail- 
ants, firing one after the other in quick 
succession. Two savages fell, and one, 
who was in the act of thrusting a spear 


* The marl was also black; indeed, 
we noticed no light colored substances 
of any kind upon the island. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


into Peters, sprung to his feet without 
accomplishing his purpose. My com- 
panion being thus released, we had no 
further difficulty. He had his pistols 
also, but prudently declined using them, 
confiding in his great personal strength, 
which far exceeded that of any per- 
son I have ever known. Seizing a 
club from one of the savages who had 
fallen, he dashed. out the brains of the 
three who remained, killing each in- 
stantaneously with a single blow of the 
weapon, and leaving us completely mas- 
ters of the field. 

So rapidly had these events passed, 
that we could scarcely believe in their 
reality, and were standing over the 
bodies of the dead in a species of 
stupid contemplation, when we were 
brought to recollection by the sound of 
shouts in the distance. It was clear 
that the savages had been alarmed by 
the firing, and that we had little chance 
of avoiding discovery. To regain the 
cliff, it would be necessary to proceed 
in the direction of the shouts; and 
even should we succeeded in arriving 
at its base, we should never be able to 
ascend it without being seen. Our 
situation was one of the greatest peril, 
and we were hesitating in which path 
to commence a flight, when one of the 
savages whom I had shot, and supposed 
dead, sprang briskly to his feet, and 
attempted to make his escape. We 
overtook him, however, before he had 
advanced many paces, and were about 
to put him to death, when Peters sug- 
gested that we might derive some bene- 
fit from forcing him to accompany us 
in our attempt to escape. We therefore 
dragged him with us, making him under- 
stand that we would shoot him if he 
offered resistance. In a few minutcg 











THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


he was perfectly submissive, and ran by 
our sides as we pushed in among the 
rocks, making for the sea-shore. 

So far, the irregularities of the ground 
we had been traversing hid the sea, 
except at intervals, from our sight, and, 
when we first had it fairly in view, it 
was perhaps, two hundred yards dis- 
tant. As we emerged into the open 
beach we saw, to our great dismay, 
an immense crowd of the natives pour- 
ing from the village, and from all visi- 
ble quarters of the island, making to- 
ward us with gesticulations of extreme 
fury, and howling like wild beasts. We 
were upon the point of turning upon 
our steps, and trying to secure a retreat 
among the fastnesses of the rougher 
ground, when I discovered the bows of 
two canoes projecting from behind a 
large rock which ran out into the water. 
Toward these we now ran with all 
speed, and, reaching them, found them 
unguarded, and without any other 
freight than three of the large Galli- 
pago turtles and the usual supply of 
paddles for sixty rowers. We instantly 
took possession of one of them, and, 
forcing our captive on board, pushed 
out to sea with all the strength we 
could command. 

We had not made, however, more 
than fifty yards from the shore before 
we became sufficiently calm to _ per- 
ceive the great oversight of which we 
had been guilty in leaving the other 
canoe in the power of the savages, 
who, by this time, were not more than 
twice as far from the beach as our- 
selves, and were rapidly advancing to 
the pursuit. No time was now to be 
fost. Our hope was, at best, a forlorn 
one, but we had none other. It was 
very doubtful whether, with the utmost 


549 


exertion, we could get back in time to 
anticipate them in taking possession of 
the canoe; but yet there was a chance 
that we could. We might save our- 
selves if we succeeded, while not to 
make the attempt was to resign our- 
selves to inevitable butchery. 

The canoe was modelled with the 
bow and stern alike, and, in place of 
turning it around, we merely changed 
our position in paddling. As soon as 
the savages perceived this they redou- 
bled their yells, as well as their speed, 
and approached with inconceivable rap- 
idity. We pulled, however, with all the 
energy of desperation, and arrived at 
the contested point before more than 
one of the natives had attained it. This 
man paid dearly for his superior agility, 
Peters shooting him through the head 
with a pistol as he approached the 
shore. The foremost among the rest 
of his party were probably some twenty 
or thirty paces distant as we seized upon 
the canoe. We at first endeavored to 
pull her into the deep water, beyond 
the reach of the savages, but, finding 
her too firmly aground, and there being 
no time to spare, Peters, with one or 
two heavy strokes from the butt of the 
musket, succeeded in dashing out a 
large portion of the bow and of one 
side. We then pushed off. Two of the 
natives by this time had got hold of 
our boat, obstinately refusing to let go, 
until we were forced to dispatch them 
with our knives. We were now clear 
off, and making great way out to sea. 
The main body of the savages, upon 
reaching the broken canoe, set up the 
most tremendous yell of rage and dis- 
appointment conceivable. In truth, 
from every thing I could see of these 
wretches, they appeared to be the most 


550 


wicked, hypocritical, vindictive, blood- 
thirsty, and altogether fiendish race of 
men upon the face of the globe. It is 
clear we should have had no mercy had 
we fallen into their hands. They made 
a mad attempt at following us in the 
fractured canoe, but, finding it useless, 
again vented their rage in a series of 
hideous vociferations, and rushed up 
into the hills. ) 
We were thus relieved from imme- 
diate danger, but our situation was still 
sufficiently gloomy. We knew that four 
canoes of the kind we had were at one 
time in the possession of the savages, 
and were not aware of the fact (after- 
ward ascertained from our captive) 
that two of these had been blown to 
pieces in the explosion of the Jane Guy. 
We calculated, therefore, upon being 


yet pursued, as soon as our enemies - 


could get round to the bay (distant 
about three miles) where the boats 
were usually laid up. Fearing this, we 
made every exertion to leave the island 
behind us, and went rapidly through 
the water, forcing the prisoner to take 
a paddle. In about half an hour, when 
we had gained probably, five or six 
miles to the southward, a large fleet of 
the flat-bottomed canoes or rafts were 
seen to emerge from the bay evidently 
with the design of pursuit. Presently 
they put back, despairing to over- 
take us. 


CHAPTER XXV 


WE now found ourselves in the wide 
and desolate Antarctic Ocean, in a lati- 
tude exceeding eighty-four degrees, in 
a frail canoe, and with no provision 
but the three turtles. The long polar 
winter. too. could not be considered 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


as far distant, and it became necessary 
that we should deliberate well upon the 
course to be pursued. There were six 
or seven islands in sight belonging to 
the same group, and distant from eack 
other about five or six leagues; but 
upon neither of these had we any in 
tention to venture. In coming from 
the northward in the Jane Guy we had 
been gradually leaving behind us the 
severest regions of ice—this, however, 
little it may be in accordance with the 
generally received notions respecting 
the Antarctic, was a fact experience 
would not permit us to deny. To at: 
tempt, therefore, getting back would be 
folly—especially at so late a period of 
the season. Only one course seemed to 
be left open for hope. We resolved 
to steer boldly to the southward, where 
there was at least a probability of dis- 
covering lands, and more than a prob- 
ability of finding a still milder climate. 

So far we had found the Antarctic, 
like the Arctic Ocean, peculiarly free 
from violent storms or immoderately 
rough water; but our canoe was, at 
best, of frail structure, although large, 
and we set busily to work with a view 
of rendering her as safe as the limited 
means in our possession would admit. 
The body of the boat was of no better 
material than bark—the bark of a tree 
unknown. The ribs were of a tough 
osier, well adapted to the purpose for 
which it was used. We had fifty feet 
room from stem to stern. from four 
to six in breadth, and in depth through- 
out four feet and a half—the boats 
thus differing vastly in shape from 
those of any other inhabitants of the 
Southern Ocean with whom civilized 
nations are acquainted. We never did 
believe them the workmanship of the 




















THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


ignorant islanders who owned them; 
and some days after this period dis- 
covered, by questioning our captive, 
that they were in fact made by the na- 
tives of a group to the southwest of 
the country where we found them, hav- 
ing fallen accidentally into the hands 
of our barbarians. What we could do 
for the security of our boat was very 
little indeed. Several wide rents were 
discovered near both ends, and these we 
contrived to patch up with pieces of 
woollen jacket. With the help of the 
superfluous paddles, of which there were 
a great many, we erected a kind of 
framework about the bow, so as to 
break the force of any seas which might 
threaten to fill us in that quarter. We 
also set up two paddle-blades for masts, 
placing them opposite each other, one 
by each gunwale, thus saving the neces- 
sity of a yard. To these masts we 
attached a sail made of our shirts— 
doing this with some difficulty, as here 
we could get no assistance from our 
prisoner whatever, although he had been 
willing enough to labor in all the other 
operations. The sight of the linen 
seemed to affect him in a very singular 
manner. He could not be prevailed 
upon to touch it or go near it, shud- 
dering when we attempted to force him, 
and shrieking out, “Tekel-li!” 

Having completed our arrangements 
in regard to the security of the canoe, 
we now set sail to the south-southeast 
for the present, with the view of 
weathering the most southerly of the 
group in sight. This being done, we 
turned the bow full to the southward. 
The weather could by no means be 
considered disagreeable. We had a pre- 
vailing and very gentle wind from the 
northward, a smootb sea, and continual 


551 


daylight. No ice whatever was to be 
seen; nor did I ever see one particle 
of this after leaving the parallel of 
Bennet’s Islet. Indeed, the temperature 
of the water was here far too warm for 
its existence in any quantity. Having 
killed the largest of our tortoises, and 
obtained from him not only food but 
a copious supply of water, we continued 
on our course, without any incident of 
moment, for perhaps seven or eight 
days, during which period we must have 
proceeded a vast distance to the south- 
ward, as the wind blew constantly with 
us, and a very strong current set con- 
tinually in the direction we were pur- 
suing. 

March 1st.*—Many unusual _phe- 
nomena now indicated that we were 
entering upon a region of novelty and 
wonder. A high range of light gray 
vapor appeared constantly in the south- 
ern horizon, flaring up occasionally in 
lofty streaks, now darting from east 
to west, now from west to east, and 
again presenting a level and uniform 
summit—in short, having all the wild 
variations of the Aurora Borealis. The 
average height of this vapor, as appar- 
ent from our station, was about twenty- 
five degrees. The temperature of the 
sea seemed to be increasing momentarily, 
and there was a very perceptible altera- 
tion in its color. 

March 2d.—To-day by repeated ques- 
tioning of our captive, we came to the 
knowledge of many particulars in re- 
gard to the island of the massacre, its 


* For obvious reasons I cannot pre- 
tend to strict accuracy in these dates. 
They are given principally with a view 
to perspicuity of narration, and as set 
down in my pencil memorandum. 


592 


inhabitants, and customs—but with 
these how can I now detain the reader? 
I may say, however, that we learned 
there were eight islands in the group— 
that they were governed by a common 
king, named Tsalemon or Psalemoun, 
who resided in one of the smallest of 
the islands; that the black skins form- 
ing the dress of the warriors came from 
an animal of huge size to be found only 
in a valley near the court of the king— 
that the inhabitants of the group fabri- 
cated no other boats than the flat-bot- 
tomed rafts; the four canoes being all 
of the kind in their possession, and these 
having been obtained, by mere accident, 
from some large island in the southwest 
—that his own name was Nu-Nu—that 
he had no knowledge of Bennet’s Islet-— 
and that the appellation of the island 
he had left was Tsalal. The commence- 
ment of the words Tsalemon and Tsalel 
was given with a _ prolonged hissing 
sound, which we found it impossible to 
imitate, even after repeated endeavors, 
and which was precisely the same with 
the note of the black bittern we had 
eaten up on the summit of the hill. 
March 3d—The heat of the water 
was now truly remarkable, and in color 
was undergoing a rapid change, being 
no longer transparent, but of a milky 
consistency and hue. In our imme- 
diate vicinity it was usually smooth, 
never so rough as to endanger the 
canoe—but we were frequently sur- 
prised at perceiving, to our right and 
left, at different distances, sudden and 
extensive agitations of the surface— 
these, we at length noticed, were always 
preceded by wild flickerings in the 
region of vapor to the southward. 
March 4th—To-day, with the view 
of widening our sail, the breeze from 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the northward dying away perceptibly, 
I took from my coat-pocket a white 
handkerchief. Nu-Nu was seated at 
my elbow, and the linen accidently flar- 
ing in his face, he became violently 
affected with convulsions. These were 
suceeded by drowsiness and_ stupor, 
and low murmurings of “Tekeli-li! 
Tekeli-li!” 

March 5th—The wind had entirely 
ceased, but it was evident that we were 
still hurrying on to the southward, 
under the influence of a powerful cur- 
rent. And now, indeed, it would seem 
reasonable that we should experience 
some alarm at the turn events were 
taking—but we felt none. The coun- 
tenance of Peters indicated nothing of 
this nature, although it wore at times 
an expression I could not fathom. The. 
polar winter appeared to be coming on 
—but coming without its terrors. I 
felt a numbness of body and mind—a 
dreaminess of sensation—but this was 
all. 

March 6th—The gray vapor had 
now arisen many more degrees above 
the horizon, and was gradually losing its 
grayness of tint. The heat of the water 
was extreme, even unpleasant to the 
touch, and its milky hue was more 
evident than ever. To-day a violent 
agitation of the water occurred very 
close to the canoe. It was attended, as 
usual, with a wild flaring up of the 
vapor at its summit, and a momentary 
division at its base. A fine white 
powder, resembling ashes—but certainly 
not such—fell over the canoe and over 
a large surface of the water, as the 
flickering died away among the vapor 
and the commotion subsided in the sea. 
Nu-Nu now threw himself on his face 








THE NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM 


in the bottom of the boat, and no per- 
suasions could induce him to arise. 

March 7th—This day we questioned 
Nu-Nu concerning the motives of his 
countrymen in destroying our compan- 
ions; but he appeared to be too utterly 
overcome by terror to afford us any 
rational reply. He still obstinately lay 
in the bottom of the boat; and, upon 
reiterating the questions as to the mo- 
tive, made use only of idiotic gesticu- 
lations, such as raising with his fore- 
finger the upper lip, and displaying the 
teeth which lay beneath it. These were 
black. We had never before seen the 
teeth of an inhabitant of Tsalal. 

March 8th—rTo-day there floated by 
us one of the white animals whose ap- 
pearance upon the beach at Tsalal had 
occasioned so wild a commotion among 
the savages. I would have picked it 
up, but there came over me a sudden 
listlessness, and I forbore. The heat 
of the water still increased, and the 
hand could no longer be endured within 
it. Peters spoke little, and I knew not 
what to think of his apathy. Nu-Nu 
breathed, and no more. 

March 9th—The whole ashy mate- 
tial fell now continually around us, and 
in vast quantities. The range of vapor 
to the southward had arisen prodigi- 
ously in the horizon, and began to as- 
sume more distinctness of form. I 
can liken it to nothing but a limitless 
cataract, rolling silently into the sea 
from some immense and _ far-distant 
rampart in the heaven. ‘The gigantic 
curtain ranged along the whole extent 
of the southern horizon. It emitted 
no sound. 

March 21st—A sullen darkness now 


553 


hovered above us—but from out the 
milky depths of the ocean a luminous 
glare arose, and stole up along the bul- 
warks of the boat. We were nearly 
overwhelmed by the white ashy shower 
which settled upon us and upon the 
canoe, but melted into the water as it 
fell. The summit of the cataract was 
utterly lost in the dimness and the dis- 
tance. Yet we were evidently approach- 
ing it with a hideous velocity. At 
intervals there were visible in it wide, 
yawning, but momentary rents, and 
from out these rents, within which was 
a chaos of flitting and indistinct images, 
there came rushing and mighty, but 
soundless winds, tearing up the en- 
kindled ocean in their course. 

March 22d—The darkness had ma- 
terially increased, relieved only by the 
glare of the water thrown back from 
the white curtain before us. Many 
gigantic and pallidly white birds flew 
continuously now from beyond the veil, . 
and their scream was the eternal Tekelz- 
li! as they retreated from our vision. 
Hereupon Nu-Nu stirred in the bot- 
tom of the boat; but upon touching 
him, we found his spirit departed. And 
now we rushed into the embraces of the 
cataract, where a chasm threw itself 
open to receive us. But there arose 
in our pathway a shrouded human fig- 
ure, very far larger in its proportions 
than any dweller among men. And the 
hue of the skin of the figure was of the 
perfect whiteness of the snow.* 





* Poe refused to finish this tale be- 
cause of the inaccuracy of the facts 
supplied to him.—KEd. 


Note 


THE circumstances connected with 
the late sudden and distressing death 
of Mr. Pym are already well known to 
the public through the medium of the 
daily press. It is feared that the few 
remaining chapters which were to have 
completed his narrative, and which were 
retained by him, while the above were 
in type, for the purpose of revision, have 
been irrecoverably lost through the ac- 
cident by which he perished himself. 

But as the facts in relation to all 
the figures are most singular (especially 
when taken in connection with state- 
ments made in the body of the narra- 
tive), it may be as well to say a word or 
two concerning them all—this, too, the 
more especially as the facts in question 
have, beyond doubt, escaped the atten- 
tion of Mr. Poe. 

_ Figure 1, then, figure 2, figure 3, and 
figure 5, when conjoined with one an- 
other in the precise order which the 
chasms themselves presented, and when 
deprived of the small lateral branches 
or arches (which, it will be remembered, 
served only as a mass of communication 
between the main chambers, and were 
of totally distinct character), constitute 
an Ethiopian verbal root—the root 

AWS? “To be shady’—whence 
all the inflections of shadow or dark- 
ness. . 

In regard to the “left or most north- 
wardly” of the indentures in figure 4, it 
is more than probable that the opinion 


of Peters was correct, and that the hi- 
eroglyphical appearance was really the 
work of art, and intended as the repre- 
sentation of a human form. The deline 
ation is before the reader, and he may, 
or may not, perceive the resemblance 
suggested; but the rest of the indentures 
afford strong confirmation of Peters’ 
idea. The upper range is evidently the 


Arabic verbal root ~XLAQ “To be 
white,” whence all the inflections of 
brilliiancy and whiteness. The lower 
range is not so immediately perspicuous. 
The characters are somewhat broken 
and disjointed; nevertheless, it cannot 
be doubted that, in their perfect state, 
they formed the full Egyptian word 

II8UYPHC. “The region of the 
south.” It should be observed that 
these interpretations confirm the opinion 
of Peters in regard to the “most north- 
wardly” of the figures. The arm is out- 
stretched towards the south. 

Tekeli-li! was the cry of the affrighted 
natives of Tsalal upon discovering the 
carcass of the white animal picked up 
at sea. This also was the shuddering 
exclamation of the captive Tsalalian 
upon encountering the white materials 
in possession of Mr. Pym. This also 
was the shriek of the  swift-flying, 
white, and gigantic birds which issued 
from the vapoury white curtain of the 
South. Nothing white was to be found 
at Tsalal, and nothing otherwise in the 
subsequent voyage to the region beyond. 


554 














VOLUME Vr 








j 
; 

4 c? 

sa wito & ane 

; ina f cy Vi ict nie 

‘ a) \ : ‘ ted i : wiht ! 
7 : J tinct 

bes (whith, it will be remembered, 

‘ - 1tues3 0 TOI: stion 

het wer: The. <b it en be oS; un i were 

a fis ine Cparacver }’, constitute 

' : t “ta ro inl He roo 

Pi Qer ed 720 stray" —wwhencr 

ill the infloctines of shadow or det 


Tn rogard (io the “ett oe rmdst norths 
wardly” of the indgavaret 2 aire re 4, it 


Me more’ thats Daa that the opiition 


4 


AMV VON 


eager oiion “of «thejeam ie 
wae:  parhountaniyp ne Mh 
Gn" pawty don eth — 




























Ni uy Was correct, ang ts 


if IC. a | Tiltiy BK, 
and ate nied § 


oT 2 hum a) F 


r> postin 


wi, _eitelve theta 
« Gut che gest aes 
sLPORg comticm@lome « 
Phe Upper range aa 
vertuad roo. pin key 
whence call- the ap AM -cfians (4 
nd whilencsg.™ The.) lower. 
jot so immediately ver picuow ~~ b 
racters are SORewRe tb woken. 
nted: neverthetegey a Ve ani t 
| that, in: their BeRReeia ths 
the full Egy 
LAGYP ACe “The. egig 
it showd bev a] ser 
férpretations conn r re 


i 


ve os in-regiré tothe ie 
dawiv’ of the igure, GRR 


7.4» Hed Aeiisieers the sou nh pa, 


Toot wag thecrron 
twutiews of Fealals wpa 
Cari i spt {he whites 
at ann. This also: was th 


- 


was ie 





| 


A Descent Into the Maelstrom 


(Published in Carpenter’s Penny Book, London, under the title, 


oT yy a 


Maelstrom.’’—Ed.) 


The ways of God in Nature, as in 
Providence, are not as our ways; nor 
are the models that we frame in any 
way commensurate to the vastness, pro- 
fundity, and unsearchableness of His 
works, which have a depth in them 
greater than the well of Democritus. 

—Joseph Glanville. 


WE had now reached the summit of 
the loftiest crag. For some minutes the 
old man seemed too much exhausted to 
speak. 

“Not long ago,” said he at length, 
“and I could have guided you on this 
route as well as the youngest of my 


_ sons; but, about three years past, there 


happened to me an event such as never 
happened before to mortal man—or at 
least such as no man ever survived to 
tell of—and the six hours of deadly ter- 
ror which [ then endured have broken 
me up body and soul. You suppose me 
a very old man—but I am not. It took 
less than a single day to change these 


_ hairs from a jetty black to white, to 
weaken my limbs, and to unstring my 
_ nerves, so that I tremble at the least ex- 
_ ertion, and am frightened at a shadow. 
Do you know I can scarcely look over 
this little cliff without getting giddy?” 


The “‘little cliff,’ upon whose edge 


he had so carelessly thrown himself 


down to rest that the weightier portion 


_of his body hung over it, while he was 


only kept from falling by the tenure of 


539 


his elbow on its extreme and slippery 
edge—this “‘little cliff’ arose, a sheer 
unobstructed precipice of black shining 
rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred 
feet from the world of crags beneath us. 
Nothing would have tempted me to be 
within half dozen yards of its brink. 
In truth so deeply was I excited by the 
perilous position of my companion, that 
I fell at full length upon the ground, 
clung to the shrubs around me, and 
dared not even glance upward at the 
sky—while I struggled in vain to divest 
myself of the idea that the foundations 
of the mountain were in danger from 
the fury of the winds. It was long be- 
fore I could reason myself into suffi- 
cient courage to sit up and look out into 
the distance. 

“You must get over these fancies,” 
said the guide, “for I have brought you 
here that you might have the best pos- 
sible view of the scene of that event I 
mentioned—and to tell you the whole 
story with the spot just under your 
eye.” 

“We are now,” he continued, in that 
particularizing manner which distin- 
guished him—‘‘we are now close upon 
the Norwegian coast—in the sixty-eighth 
degree of latitude—in the great prov- 
ince of Nordland—and in the dreary 
district of Lofoden. The mountain 
upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the 
Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little 
higher—hold on to the grass if you 


556 


feel giddy—so—and look out, beyond 
the belt of vapor beneath us, into the 
sea.” : 

I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide 
expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so 
inky a hue as to bring at once to my 
mind the Nubian geographer’s account 
of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama 
more deplorably desolate no human im- 
agination can conceive. To the right 
and left, as far as the eye could reach, 
there lay outstretched, like ramparts of 
the world, lines of horribly black and 
beetling cliff, whose character of gloom 
was but the more forcibly illustrated 
by the surf which reared high up 
against it its white and ghastly crest, 
howling and shrieking for ever. Just 
opposite the promontory upon whose 
apex we were placed, and at a distance 
of some five or six miles out at sea, 
there was visible a small, bleak-looking 
island; or, more properly, its position 
‘was discernible through the wilderness 
of surge in which it was enveloped. 
About two miles nearer the land, arose 
another of smaller size; hideously 
craggy and barren, and encompassed at 
various intervals by a cluster of dark 
rocks. 

The appearance of the ocean, in the 
space between the more distant island 
and the shore, had something very un- 
usual about it. Although, at the time, 
so strong a gale was blowing landward 
that a brig in the remote offing lay to 
under a double-reefed trysail, and con- 
stantly plunged her whole hull out of 
sight, still there was here nothing like 
a regular swell, but only a short, quick, 
angry cross dashing of water in every 
direction—as well in the teeth of the 
wind as otherwise. Of foam there was 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


little except in the immediate vicinity 
of the rocks. 

“The island in the distance,”’ resumed 
the old man, “is called by the Nor- 
wegians Vurrgh. ‘The one midway is 
Moskoe. That a mile to the northward 
is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, 
Hotholm, Keildhelm, Suarven, and 
Buckholm. Further off—between Mos- 
koe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm, Fli- 
men, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These 
are the true names of the places—but 
why it has been thought necessary to 
name them at all, is more than either 
you or I can understand. Do you hear 
anything? Do you see any change in 
the water?” 

We had now been about ten min- 
utes upon the top of Helseggen, to 
which we had ascended from the in- 
terior of Lofoden so that we had caught 
no glimpse of the sea until it had burst 
upon us from the summit. As the old 
man spoke, I became aware of a loud 
and gradually increasing sound, like the 
moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes 
upon an American prairie; and at the 
same moment I perceived that what 
seamen term the chopping character of 
the ocean beneath us, was rapidly 
changing into a current which set to the 
eastward. Even while I gazed, this cur- 


rent acquired a monstrous velocity. — 
Each moment added to its speed—to its | 


headlong impetuosity. In five minutes 
the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was 
lashed into ungovernable fury; but it 
was between Moskoe and the coast that 
the main uproar held its sway. Here 
the vast bed of the waters, seamed 
and scarred into a thousand conflicting 
channels, burst suddenly into phrensied 
convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing— 
gyrating in gigantic and innumerable 











A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 


vortices, and all whirling and plunging 
on to the eastward with a rapidity 
which water never elsewhere assumes, 
except in precipitous descents. 

In a few minutes more, there came 
over the scene another radical altera- 
tion. The general surface grew some- 
what more smooth, and the whirlpools, 
one by one, disappeared, while prodigi- 
ous streaks of foam became apparent 
where none had been seen before. 
These streaks, at length, spreading out 
to a great distance, and entering into 
combination, took unto themselves the 
gyratory motion of the subsided vor- 
tices, and seemed to form the germ of 
another more vast. Suddenly—very 
suddenly—this assumed a distinct and 
definite existence, in a circle of more 
than a mile in diameter. The edge of 


‘the whirl was represented by a broad 


belt of gleaming spray; but no particle 
of this slipped into the mouth of the 
terrific funnel, whose interior, as far 
as the eye could fathom it, was a 
smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of 
water, inclined to the horizon at an 
angle of some forty-five degrees, speed- 
ing dizzily round and round with a 
swaying and sweltering motion, and 
sending forth to the winds an appalling 
voice, half shriek, half roar, such as 
not even the mighty cataract of Niagara 
ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. 

The mountain trembled to its very 
base, and the rock rocked. I threw 
myself upon my face, and clung to the 
scant herbage in an excess of nervous 
agitation. 

“This,” said I at length, to the old 
man—“this can be nothing else than the 
great whirlpool of the maelstrom.” 

“So it is sometimes termed,” said he. 
“We Norwegians call it the Moskoe- 


557 


strom, from the island of Moskoe in 
the midway.” 

The ordinary account of this vortex 
had by no means prepared me for what 
I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which 
is perhaps the most circumstantial of 
any, cannot impart the faintest con- 
ception either of the magnificence, or 
of the horror of the scene—or of the 
wild bewildering sense of the novel 
which confounds the beholder. I am 
not sure from what point of view the 
writer in question surveyed it, nor at 
what time; but it could neither have 
been from the summit of Helseggen, 
nor during a storm. There are some 
passages of this description, neverthe- 
less, which may be quoted for their de- 
tails, although their effect is exceeding- 
ly feeble in conveying an impression of 
the spectacle. 

“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he 
says, “the depth of the water is be- 
tween thirty-six and forty fathoms; 
but on the other side, toward Ver 
(Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not 
to afford a convenient passage for a 
vessel, without the risk of splitting on 
the rocks, which happens even in the 
calmest weather. When it is flood, the 
stream runs up the country between 
Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous 
rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous 
ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the 
loudest and most dreadful cataracts; 
the noise being heard several leagues 
off, and the vortices or pits are of such 
an extent and depth, that if a ship 
comes within its attraction, it is in- 
evitably absorbed and carried down to 
the bottom, and there beat to pieces 
against the rocks; and when the water 
relaxes, the fragments thereof are 
thrown up again. But these intervals 


558 


of tranquility are only at the turn of 
the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, 
and last but a quarter of an hour, its 
violence gradually returning. When 
the stream is most boisterous, and its 
fury heightened by a storm, it is dan- 
gerous to come within a Norway mile 
of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have 
been carried away by not guarding 
against it before they were carried with- 
in its reach. It likewise happens fre- 
quently, that whales come too near the 
stream, and are overpowered by its 
violence; and then it is impossible to 
describe their howlings and bellowings 
in their fruitless struggles to disengage 
themselves. A bear once, attempting 
to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was 
caught by the stream and borne down, 
while he roared terribly, so as to be 
heard on shore. Large stocks of firs 
and pine trees, after being absorbed by 
the current, rise again broken and torn 
to such a degree as if bristles grew 
upon them. This plainly shows the 
bottom to consist of craggy rocks, 
among which they are whirled to and 
fro. This stream is regulated by the 
flux and reflux of the sea—it being con- 
stantly high and low water every six 
hours. In the year 1645, early in the 
morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged 
with such noise and impetuosity that 
the very stones of the houses on the 
coast fell to the ground.” 

In regard to the depth of the water, 
I could not see how this could have 
been ascertained at all in the immediate 
vicinity of the vortex. The “forty 
fathoms” must have reference only to 
portions of the channel close upon the 
shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. 
The depth in the centre of the Mos- 
koe-strom must be unmeasurably great- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


er: and no better proof of this fact is 
necessary than can be obtained from 
even the sidelong glance into the abyss 
of the whirl which may be had from 
the highest crag of Helseggen. Look- 
ing down from this pinnacle upon the 
howling Phlegethon below, I could not 
help smiling at the simplicity with 
which the honest Jonas Ramus records, 
as a matter difficult of belief, the anec- 
dotes of the whales and the bears, for 
it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident 
thing, that the largest ships of the line 
in existence, coming within the influence 
of that deadly attraction, could resist 
it as little as a feather the hurricane, 
and must disappear bodily and at once. 

The attempts to account for the phe- 
nomenon—some of which I remember, 
seemed to me sufficiently plausible in 
perusal—now wore a very different and 
unsatisfactory aspect. The idea gen- 
erally received is that this, as well as 
three smaller vortices among the Ferroe 
Islands, “have no other cause than the 
collision of waves rising and falling, at 
flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks 
and shelves, which confines the water so 
that it precipitates itself like a cataract; 
and thus the higher the flood rises, the 
deeper must the fall be, and the natural 
result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, 
the prodigious suction of which is suffi- 
ciently known by lesser experiments.”— 
These are the words of the Encyclo- 
paedia Brittanica. Kircher and others 
imagine that in the centre of the chan- 
nel of the Maelstrom is an abyss pene- 
trating the globe, and issuing in some 
very remote part—the Gulf of Bothnia 
being somewhat decidedly named in one 
instance. This opinion, idle in itself, 
was the one to which, as I gazed, my 
imagination most readily assented; and 











A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 


mentioning it to the guide, I was rather 
surprised to hear him say that, although 
it was the view almost universally en- 
tertained of the subject by the Nor- 
wegians, it nevertheless was not his 
own. As to the former notion he con- 
fessed his inability to comprehend it; 
and here I agreed with him—for, how- 
ever conclusive on paper, it becomes 
altogether unintelligible, and even ab- 
surd, amid the thunder of the abyss. 

“You have had a good look at the 
whirl now,” said the old man, “and if 
you will creep round this crag, so as 
to get in its lee, and deaden the roar 
of the water, I will tell you a story 
that will convince you I ought to know 
something of the Moskoe-strom.” 

I placed myself as desired, and he 
proceeded. 

“Myself and my two brothers once 
owned a schooner-rigged smack of about 
seventy tons burthen, with which we 
were in the habit of fishing among the 
islands beyond Mboskoe, nearly to 
Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea 
there is good fishing, at proper oppor- 
tunities, if one has only the courage to 
attempt it; but among the whole of 
the Lofoden coastmen, we three were 
the only ones who made a regular busi- 
ness of going out to the islands, as I 
tell you. The usual grounds are a great 
way lower down to the southward. 
There fish can be got at all hours, 
without much risk, and therefore these 
places are preferred. The choice spots 
over here among the rocks, however, 
not only yield the finest variety, but in 
far greater abundance; so that we often 
got in a single day, what the more timid 
of the craft could not scrape together 
in a week. In fact, we made it a matter 
of desperate speculation—the risk of 


559 


life standing instead of labor, and cour- 
age answering for capital. 

“We kept the smack in a cove about 
five miles higher up the coast than this; 
and it was our practice, in fine weather, 
to take advantage of the fifteen min- 
utes’ slack to push across the main 
channel of the Moskoe-strom, far above 
the pool, and then drop down upon an- 
chorage somewhere near Otterholm, or 
Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so 
violent as elsewhere. Here we used to 
remain until nearly time for slack- 
water again, when we weighed and made 
for home. We never set out upon this 
expedition without a steady side wind 
for going and coming—one that we felt 
sure would not fail us before our re- 
turn—and we seldom made a miscalcu- 
lation upon this point. Twice, during 
six years, we were forced to stay all 
night at anchor on account of a dead 
calm, which is a rare thing indeed just 
about here; and once we had to remain 
on the grounds nearly a week, starving 
to death, owing to a gale which blew 
up shortly after our arrival, and made 
the channel too boisterous to be 
thought of. Upon this occasion we 
should have been driven out to sea in 
spite of every thing, (for the whirlpools 
threw us round and round so violently, 
that, at length we fouled our anchor 
and dragged it) if it had not been that 
we drifted into one of the innumerable 
cross currents—here today and gone to- 
morrow—which drove us under the lee 
of Flimen, where, by good luck, we 
brought up. - 

“T could not tell you the twentieth 
part of the difficulties we encountered 
‘on the ground’—it is a bad spot to be 
in, even in good weather—but we make 
shift always to run the gauntlet of the 


560 


Moskoe-strom itself without accident; 
although at times my heart has been in 
my mouth when we happened to be a 
minute or so behind or before the slack. 
The wind sometimes was not as strong 
as we thought it at starting, and then 
we made rather less way than we could 
wish, while the current rendered the 
smack unmanageable. My eldest broth- 
er had a son eighteen years old, and I 
had two stout boys of my own. These 
would have been of great assistance at 
such times, in using the sweeps as well 
as afterward in fishing—but somehow, 
although we ran the risk ourselves, we 
had not the heart to let the young ones 
pet into the danger—for, after all said 
and done, it was a horrible danger, and 
that is the truth. 

“Tt is now within a few days of three 
years since what I am going to tell you 
occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 
18—, a day which the people of this 
part of the world will never forget— 
for it was one in which blew the most 
terrible hurricane that ever came out of 
the heavens. And yet all the morning 
and indeed until late in the afternoon, 
there was a gentle and steady breeze 
from the southwest, while the sun shone 
brightly, so that the oldest seaman 
among us could not have foreseen what 
was to follow. 

“The three of us—my two brothers 
and myself—had crossed over to the 
islands about two o’clock p. m., and 
soon nearly loaded the smack with fine 
fish, which, we all remarked, were more 
plentiful that day than we had ever 
known them. It was just seven, by my 
watch, when we weighed and started for 
home, so as to make the worst of the 
Strom at slack water, which we knew 
would be at eight. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“We set out with a fresh wind on our 
starboard quarter, and for some time 
spanked along at a great rate, never 
dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw 
not the slightest reason to apprehend it. 
All at once we were taken aback by a 
breeze from over Helseggen. This was 
most unusual—something that had never 
happened to us before—and I began to 
feel a little uneasy, without exactly 
knowing why. We put the boat on the 
wind, but could make no headway at all 
for the eddies, and I was upon the point 
of proposing to return to the anchorage, 
when looking astern, we saw the whole 
horizon covered with a singular copper- 
colored cloud that rose with the most 
amazing velocity. 

“In the meantime the breeze that had 
headed us off fell away and we were 
dead becalmed, drifting about in every 
direction. This state of things, how- 
ever, did not last long enough to give 
us time to think about it. In less than 
a minute the storm was upon us—in 
less than two the sky was entirely over- 
cast—and what with this and the driv- 
ing spray, it became suddenly so dark 
that we could not see each other in the 
smack. 

“Such a hurricane as then blew it is 
folly to attempt describing. The old- 
est seaman in Norway never experi- 
enced any thing like it. We had let our 
sails go by the run before it cleverly 
took us; but, at the first puff, both our 
masts went by the board as if they had 
been sawed off—the mainmast taking 
with it my youngest brother, who had 
lashed himself to it for safety. 

“Our boat was the lightest feather of 
a thing that ever sat upon water. It 
had a complete flush deck, with only a. 
small hatch near the bow, and this 














A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 


hatch it had always been our custom to 
batten down when about to cross the 


Strom, by way of precaution against: 


the chopping seas. But for this circum- 
stance we should have foundered at 
once—for we lay entirely buried for 
some moments. How my elder brother 
escaped destruction I cannot say, for I 
never had an opportunity of ascertain- 
ing. For my part, as soon as I had let 
the foresail run, I threw myself flat on 
deck, with my feet against the narrow 
gunwale of the bow, and with my hands 
grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the 
foremast. It was mere instinct that 
_ prompted me to do this—which was un- 
doubtedly the very best thing I could 
have done—for I was too much flurried 
to think. 

“For some moments we were com- 
vletely deluged, as I say, and all this 
time I held my breath, and clung to the 
bolt. When I could stand it no longer 
I raised myself upon my knees, still 
_ keeping hold with my hands, and thus 
got my head clear. Presently our little 
_ boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog 
_ does in coming out of the water, and 
thus rid herself, in some measure, of the 
sea. I was now trying to get the better 
_of the stupor that had come over me, 
_and to collect my senses so as to see 
what was to be done, when I felt some- 
_ body grasp my arm. It was my elder 
brother, and my heart leaped for joy, 
for I had made sure that he was over- 
_board—but the next moment all this 
_ joy was turned into horror—for he put 
his mouth close to my ear, and 
screamed out the word ‘Moskoe-strom!’ 
“No one will ever know what my 
feelings were at that moment. I shook 
from head to foot as if I had had the 
most violent fit of the ague. I knew 


561 


what he meant by that one word well 
enough—I knew what he wished to 
make me understand. With the wind 
that now drove us on, we were bound 
for the whirl of the Strom, and nothing 
could save us! 

“You perceive that in crossing the 
Strom channel, we always went a long 
way up above the whirl, even in the 
calmest weather, and then had to wait 
and watch carefully for the slack—but 
now we were driving right upon the pool 
itself, and in such a hurricane as this! 
‘To be sure,’ I thought, ‘we shall get 
there just about the slack—there is 
some little hope in that’—but in the 
next moment I cursed myself for be- 
ing so great a fool as to dream of hope 
at all. I knew very well that we were 
doomed, had we been ten times a 
ninety-gun ship. 

“By this time the first fury of the 
tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we 
did not feel it so much, as we scudded 
before it, but at all events the seas, 
which at first had been kept down by 
the wind, and lay flat and frothing, 
now got up into absolute mountains. A 
singular change, too had come over the 
heavens. Around in every direction it 
was still as black as pitch, but nearly 
overhead there burst out, all at once, a 
circular rift of clear sky—as clear as 
I ever saw—and of a deep bright blue— 
and through it there blazed forth the 
full moon with a lustre that I never 
before knew her to wear. She lit up 
everything about us with the greatest 
distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene 
it was to light up! 

“T now made one or two attempts to 
speak to my brother—but in some mans 
ner which I could not understand, the 
din had so increased that I could not 


562 


make him hear a single word, although 
I screamed at the top of my voice in 
his ear. Presently he shook his head, 
looking as pale as death, and held up 
one of his fingers, as if to say ‘listen!’ 

“At first I could not make out what 
he meant—but soon a hideous thought 
flashed upon me. I dragged my watch 
from its fob. It was not going. I 
glanced at its face by the moonlight, 
and then burst into tears as J flung it 
far away into the ocean. Jt had run 
down at seven o’clock! We were be- 
hind the time of the slack, and the whirl 
of the Strom was in full fury! 

“When a boat is well built, properly 
trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves 
in a strong gale, when she is going large, 
seem always to slip from beneath her— 
which appears strange to a landsman— 
and this is what is called riding, in sea 
phrase. | 

“Well, so far we had ridden the swells 
very cleverly; but presently a gigantic 
sea happened to take us right under the 
sounter, and bore us with it as it rose— 
up—up—as if into the sky. I would 
not have believed that any wave could 
rise so high. And then down we came 
with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge that 
made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I 
was falling from some lofty mountain- 
top in a dream. But while we were up 
I had thrown a quick glance around— 
and that one glance was all-sufficient. 
I saw our exact position in an instant. 
The Moskoe-strom whirlpool was about 
a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but 
no more like the every-day Moskoe- 
strom than the whirl, as you now see it, 
is like a mill-race. If I had not known 
where we were, and what we had to ex- 
pect, I should not have recognized the 
place at all. As it was, I involuntarily 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


closed my eyes in horror. The lids |: 
clenched themselves together as if in a 
spasm. 


STi could not have been more than | 
two minutes afterwards until we sud- | 


denly felt the waves subside, and were > 
enveloped in foam. The boat made a 
sharp half turn to larboard, and then > 
shot off in its new direction like a 
thunderbolt. At the same moment the — 
roaring noise of the water was com-— 
pletely drowned in a kind of. shrill 
shriek—such a sound as you might im- 
agine given out by the water-pipes of 
many thousand steam-vessels letting off — 
their steam all together. We were now | 
in the belt of surf that always surrounds 
the whirl; and I thought, of course, that 
another moment would plunge us into © 
the abyss, down which we could only © 
see indistinctly on account of the amaz- © 
ing velocity with which we were borne 
along. The boat did not seem to sink 
into the water at ali, but to skim like 
an air-bubble upon the surface of the 
surge. Her starboard side was next the 
whirl, and on the larboard arose the 
world of ocean we had left. It stood 
like a huge writhing wall between us 
and the horizon. 

“Tt may appear strange, but now, 
when we were in the very jaws of the 
gulf, I felt more composed than when 
we were only approaching it. Having 
made up my mind to hope no more, I 
got rid of a great deal of that terror 
which unmanned me at first. I sup- 
posed it was despair that strung my 
nerves. 

“Tt may look like boasting—but 
what I tell you is truth—I began to 
reflect how magnificent a thing it was 
to die in such a manner, and how fool- 
ish it was in me to think of so paltry a 














A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 


consideration as my own individual life, 
In view of so wonderful a manifesta- 


tion of God’s power. I do believe that 


I blushed with shame when this idea 
crossed my mind. After a little while 
I became possessed with the keenest 
curiosity about the whirl itself. I posi- 
tively felt a wish to explore its depths, 
even at the sacrifice I was going to 


make; and my principal grief was that 


I should never be able to tell my old 
companions on shore about the mys- 
_ teries I should see. 
| were singular fancies to occupy a man’s 
mind in such extremity—and I have 
_ often thought since, that the revolutions 
_ of the boat around the pool might have 
_ rendered me a little light-headed. 


These, no doubt, 


'“There was another circumstance 


_ which tended to restore my self-pos- 
session; and this was the cessation of 


the wind, which could not reach us in 
our present situation—for, as you saw 
for yourself, the belt of the surf is con- 
siderably lower than the general bed of 
the ocean, and this latter now towered 
above us, a high black, mountainous 
ridge. If you have never been at sea 
in a heavy gale, you can form no idea 
of the confusion of mind occasioned by 
the wind and spray together. They 
blind, deafen, and strarele you, and 
take away all power of aciion or reflec- 
tion. But we were now, in a great 
measure, rid of these annoyances—just 
as death-condemned felons in prison are 
allowed petty indulgences, forbidden 
them while their doom is yet uncertain. 

“How often we made the circuit of 
the belt it is impossible to say. We 
careered round and round for perhaps 
an hour, flying rather than floating, get- 
ting gradually more and more into the 
middle of the surge, and then nearer 


563 


and nearer to its horrible inner edge. 
All this time I had never let go of the 
ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, 
holding on to a small empty water- 
cask which had been securely lashed 
under the coop of the counters, and was ~ 
the only thing on deck that had not 
been swept overboard when the gale 
first took us. As we approached the 
brink of the pit he let go his hold upon 
this, and made for the ring, from which, 
in the agony of his terror, he en- 
deavored to force my hands, as it was 
not large enough to afford us both a 
secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief 
than when I saw him attempt this act— 
although I knew he was a madman 
when he did it—a raving maniac 
through sheer fright. JI did not care, 
however, to contest the point with him. 
I knew it could make no difference 
whether either of us held on at all; so 
I let him have the bolt, and went astern 
to the cask. This there was no great 
difficulty in doing; for the smack flew 
round steadily enough, and upon an 
even keel—only swaying to and fro with 
the immense sweeps and swelters of the 
whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself 
in my new position, when we gave a 
wild lurch to starboard, and rushed 
headlong into the abyss. I muttered a 
hurried prayer to God, and thought all 
was over. 

“As I felt the sickening sweep of the 
descent, I had instinctively tightened 
my hold upon the barrel, and closed my 
eyes. For some seconds I dared not 
open them—while I expected instant 
destruction, and wondered that I was 
not already in my death-struggles with 
the water. But moment after moment 
elapsed. I still lived. The sense of 
falling had ceased; and the motion of 


564 


the vessel seemed much as it had been 
before, while in the belt of foam, with 
the exception that she now lay more 
along. I took courage and looked once 
. again upon the scene. 

“Never shall I forget the sensation of 
awe, horror, and admiration with which 
1 gazed about me. The boat appeared 
to be hanging, as if by magic, midway 
down, upon the interior surface of a 
funnel vast in circumference, prodigi- 
ous in depth, and whose perfectly 
smooth sides might have been mistaken 
for ebony, but for the bewildering 
rapidity with which they spun around, 
and for the gleaming and ghastly radi- 
ance they shot forth, as the rays of the 
full moon, from that circular rift amid 
the clouds which I have already de- 
scribed, streamed in a flood of golden 
glory along the black walls, and far 
away down into the inmost recesses of 
the abyss. 

“At first I was too much confused 
to observe any thing accurately. The 
general burst of terrific grandeur was all 
that I beheld. When I recovered my- 
self a little, however, my gaze fell in- 
stinctively downward. In this direction 
I was able to obtain an unobstructed 
view, from the manner in which the 
smack hung on the inclined surface of 
the pool. She was quite upon an even 
keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a 
plane parallel with that of the water— 
but this latter sloped at an angle of 
more than forty-five degrees, so that 
we seemed to be lying upon our beam- 
ends. I. could not help observing, 
nevertheless, that I had scarcely more 
difficulty in maintaining my hold and 
footing in this situation, than if we had 
been upon a dead level; and this, I sup- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


pose, was owing to the speed at which 
we revolved. 

“The rays of the moon seemed to 
search the very bottom of the profound 
gulf; but still I could make out nothing 
distinctly on account of a thick mist in 
which there hung a magnificent rain- 
bow, like that narrow and _ tottering 
bridge which Mussulmen say is the only 
pathway between Time and Eternity. 
This mist, or spray, was no doubt oc- 
casioned by the clashing of the great 
walls of the funnel, as they all met to- 
gether at the bottom—but the yell that 
went up to the Heavens: from out of 
that mist I dare not attempt to de- 
scribe. 

“Our first slide into the abyss itself, 
from the belt of foam above, had car- 
ried us to a great distance down the 
slope; but our father descent was by 
no means proportionate. Round and 
round we swept—not with any uniform 
movement—but in dizzying swings and 
jerks, that sent us sometimes only a 
few hundred yards—sometimes nearly 
the complete circuit of the whirl. Our 
progress downward, at each revolution, 
was slow, but very perceptible. 

“Looking about me upon the wide 
waste of liquid ebony on which we were 
thus borne, I perceived that our boat 
was not the only object in the embrace 
of the whirl. Both above and below us 
were visible fragments of vessels, large 
masses of building-timber and trunks of 
trees, with many smaller articles, such 
as pieces of house furniture, broken 
boxes, barrels and staves. I have al- 
ready described the unnatural curiosity 
which had taken the place of my orig- 
inal terrors. It appeared to grow upon 
me as I drew nearer and nearer to my 
dreadful doom. I now began to watch 





















with a strange interest, the numerous 
things that floated in our company. I 
must have been delirious, for I even 
sought amusement in speculating upon 
the relative veiocities of their several 
J descents toward the foam below. ‘This 
fir-tree, I found myself at one time 
saying, ‘will certainly be the next thing 
that takes the awful plunge and disap- 
-pears,—and then I was disappointed to 
find that the wreck of a Dutch mer- 
chant ship overtook it and went down 
before. At length, after making several 
guesses of this nature, and being de- 
ceived in all—this fact—the fact of my 
‘invariable miscalculation, set me upon 
a train of reflection that made my limbs 
again tremble, and my heart beat 
heavily once more. 

“It was not a new terror that thus 
affected me, but the dawn of a more ex- 
citing hope. This hope arose partly 
from memory, and partly from present 
observation. I called to mind the great 
variety of buoyant matter that strewed 
the coast of Lofoden, having been ab- 
sorbed and then thrown forth by the 
_Moskoe-strom. By far the greater 
number of the articles were shattered 
in the most extraordinary way—so 
_chafed and roughened as to have the 
appearance of being stuck full of splint- 
ers—but then I distinctly recollected 
that there were some of them which 
were not disfigured at all. Now I could 
not account for this difference except 
by supposing that the roughened frag- 
ments were the only ones which had 
been completely absorbed—that the 
others had entered the whirl at so late a 


period of the tide, or, from some rea-. 


son, had descended so slowly after en- 
tering, that they did not reach the bot- 
tom before the turn of the flood came, 


A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 


565 


or the ebb, as the case might be. I 
conceived it possible, in either instance, 
that they might thus be whirled up 


‘again to the level of the ocean, without 


undergoing the fate of those which had 
been drawn in more early or absorbed 
more rapidly. I made, also, three im- 
portant observations. The first was, 
that as a general rule, the larger the 
bodies were, the more rapid their de- 
scent—the second, that, between two 
masses of equal extent, the one spher- 
ical, and the other of any other shape, 
the superiority in speed of descent was 
with the sphere—the third, that, be- 
tween two masses of equal size, the one 
cylindrical, and the other of any other 
shape, the cylinder was absorbed the 
more slowly. Since mty escape, I have 
had several conversations on this sub- 
ject with an old school-master of the 
district; and it was from him that J 
learned the use of the words ‘cylinder’ 
and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—al- 
though I have forgotten the explana- 
tion—how what I observed was, in fact, 
the natural consequence of the forms of 
the floating fragments—and showed me 
how it happened that a cylinder, swim- 


‘ming in a vortex, offered more resist- 


ance to its suction, and was drawn in 
with greater difficulty than an equally 
bulky body, of any form whatever.* 
“There was one startling circum- 
stance which went a great way in en- 
forcing these observations, and render- 
ing me anxious to turn them to account, 
and this was that, at every revolution, 
we passed something like a barrel, or 
else the yard or the mast of a vessel, 
while many of these things, which had 


*See Archimedes, “De Incidentibus in 
Fluido.’”’—lib. 2. 


566 


been on our level when I first opened 
my eyes upon the wonders of the whirl- 
pool, were now high up above us, and 


-seemed to have moved but little from’ 


their original station. 

“T no longer hesitated what to do. 
I resolved to lash myself securely to 
the water-cask upon which I now held, 
to cut it loose from the counter, and 
to throw myself with it into the water. 
I attracted my brother’s attention by 
signs, pointed to the floating barrels that 
came near us, and did everything in my 
power to make him understand what I 
was about to do. I thought at length 
that he comprehended my design—but, 
whether this was the case or not, he 
shook his head despairingly, and refused 
to move from His station by the ring- 
bolt. It was impossible to reach him; 
the emergency admitted of no delay; 
end so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned 
him to his fate, fastened myself to the 
cask by means of the lashings which 
secured it to the counter, and precipi- 
tated myself with it into the sea, with- 
out another moment’s hesitation. 

“The result was precisely what I had 
hoped it might be. As it is myself who 


now tell you this tale—as you see that: 


I did escape—and as you are already in 
possession of the mode in which this 
escape was effected, and must therefore 
anticipate all that I have farther to 
say—I will bring my story quickly to 
conclusion. It might have been an 
hour, or thereabout, after my quitting 
the smack, when, having descended to 
a vast distance beneath me, it made 
three or four wild gyrations in rapid 
succession, and, bearing my loved broth- 
er with it, plunged headlong, at once 
and forever, into the chaos of foam be- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


low. The barrel to which I was at- 


tached sunk very little farther than. 


half the distance between the bottom of 
the gulf and the spot at which I leaped 


overboard before a great change took 
place in the character of the whirlpool. | 
The slope of the sides of the vast fun-— 
nel became momently less and less 
steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew, 


gradually, less and less violent. 


By de- | 
grees, the froth and the rainbow dis-— 


=~ 


appeared, and the bottom of the gulf. 


seemed slowly to uprise. 
clear, and the winds had gone down, and 


The sky was | 


the full moon was setting radiantly in 
the west, when I found myself on the 
surface of the ocean, in full view of 


the shores of Lofoden, and above the | 
spot where the pool of the Moskoe- 


strom had been. It was the hour of the 


slack—but the sea still heaved in moun-— 
tainous waves from the effects of the 


hurricane. 


I was borne violently into 


the channel of the Strom, and in a few 
minutes, was hurried down the coast . 
into the ‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A 
boat picked me up—exhausted from 


fatigue—and (now that the danger was 
removed) speechless from the memory 
of its horror. Those who drew me on 
board were my old mates and daily 


companions—but they knew me no. 


more than they would have known a 
traveller from the spirit-land. My hair, — 


which had been raven black the day be- 


fore, was as white as you see it now. 
They say too that the whole expression — 
of my countenance had changed. I told 
them my story—they did not believe it. — 


I now tell it to you—and I can 


scarcely expect you to put more faith — 


in it than did the merry fishermen of 
Lofoden.” 





Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre 
N’a plus rien a dissimuler. 
Quinault—Atys. 






OF my country and of my family I 
have little to say. Ill-usage and length 
of years have driven me from the one, 
and estranged me from the other. 
Hereditary wealth afforded me an edu- 
cation of no common order, and a con- 
templative turn of mind enabled me to 
methodise the stores which early study 
very diligently garnered up. Beyond 
all things, the works of the German 
moralists gave me great delight: not 
from any ill-advised admiration of their 
eloquent madness, but from the ease 
with which my habits of rigid thought 
enabled me to detect their falsities. I 
have often been reproached with the 
aridity of my genius; a deficiency of 
imagination has been imputed to me as 
a crime; and the Pyrrhonism of my 
opinions has at all times rendered me 
notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for 
physical philosophy has, I fear, tinc- 
tured my mind with a very common 
error of this age—I mean the habit of 
referring occurrences, even the least 
susceptible of such reference, to the 
principles of that science. Upon the 
whole, no person could be less liable 
than myself to be led away from the 
severe precincts of truth by the zgnes 
fatuz of superstition. I have thought 
proper to premise thus much, lest the 
incredible tale I have to tell should be 
considered rather the raving of a crude 
imagination, than the positive experi- 


Ms. Found in a Bottle 


(First published in Baltimore Saturday Visitor, October, 1833.--Ed.) 


ence of a mind to which the reveries of 
fancy have been a dead letter and a 
nullity. { 

After many years spent in foreign 
travel, I sailed in the year 18—, from 
the port of Batavia, in the rich and 
populous island of Java, on a voyage 
to the Archipelago Islands. I went as 
passenger—having no other inducement 
than a kind of nervous restlessness 
which haunted me as a fiend. 

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of 
about four hundred tons, copper-fast- 
ened, and built at Bombay of Malabar 
teak. She was freighted with cotton- 
wool and oil, from the Lachadive 
Islands. We had also on board coir, 
jaggeree, ghee, cocoanuts, and a few 
cases of opium. The stowage was 
clumsily done, and the vessel conse- 
quently crank. 

We got under way with a mere breath 
of wind, and for many days stood along 
the eastern coast of Java, without any 
other incident to beguile the monotony 
of our course than the occasional mcet- 
ing with some of the small crabs of the 
Archipelago to which we were bound. 

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, 
I observed a very singular isolated 
cloud, to the N. W. It was remarkable, 
as well from its color as from its be- 
ing the first we had seen since our de- 
parture from Batavia. JI watched it 
attentively until sunset, when it spread 
all at once to the eastward and west- 
ward, girding in the horizon with a nar- 
row strip of vapor, and looking like a 
long line of low beach. My notice was 


567 


‘568 


soon afterward attracted by the dusky- 
red appearance of the moon, and the 
peculiar character of the sea. The lat- 
ter was undergoing a rapid change, and 
the water seemed more than usually 
transparent. Although I could distinct- 
ly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, 
I found the ship in fifteen fathoms. 
The air now became intolerably hot, 
and was loaded with spiral exhalations 
similar to those arising from heated 
iron. As night came on, every breath 
of wind died away, and a more entire 
calm it is impossible to conceive. The 
flame of a candle burned upon the poop 
without the least perceptibile motion, 
and a long hair, held between the 
finger and thumb, hung without the 
possibility of detecting a vibration. 
However, as the captain said he 
could perceive no indication of dan- 
ger, and as we were drifting in bodily 
to shore, he ordered the sails to be 
furled, and the anchor let go. No 
watch was set, and the crew, consisting 
principally of Malays, stretched them- 
selves deliberately upon deck. I went 
below—not without a full presentiment 
of evil. Indeed, every appearance war- 
ranted me in apprehending a Simoon. 
I told the captain of my fears; but he 
paid no attention to what I said, and 
left me without deigning to give a re- 
ply. My wumeasiness, however, pre- 
vented me from sleeping, and about 
midnight I went upon deck. As I 
placed my foot upon the upper step 
of the companion-ladder, I was startled 
by a loud, humming noise, like that oc- 
casioned by the rapid revolution of a 
mill-wheel, and before I could ascer- 
tain its meaning, I found the ship quiv- 
ering to its center. In the next instant 
a wilderness of foam hurled us upon 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


our beam-ends, and, rushing over us | 
fore and aft, swept the entire decks) 
from stem to stern. 


The extreme fury of the blast proved, |. 


in a great measure, the salvation of the |’ 
ship. Although completely water-log- 
ged, yet, as her masts had gone by the | 
board, she rose, after a minute, heavily 
from the sea, and, staggering awhile be- 
neath the immense pressure of the» 
tempest, finally righted. | 
By what miracle I escaped destruc- 
tion, it is impossible to say. Stunned — 
by the shock of the water, I found my- © 
self, upon recovery, jammed in between — 
the stern-post and rudder. With great — 
difficulty I regained my feet, and look- | 
ing dizzily around, was at first struck © 
with the idea of our being among break- — 
ers; so terrific, beyond the widest — 
imagination, was the whirlpool of moun- © 
tainous and foaming ocean within which © 
we were engulfed. After a while I 
heard the voice of an old Swede, who 
had shipped with us at the moment of 
leaving port. I hallooed to him with all 
my strength, and presently he came 
reeling aft. We soon discovered that 
we were the sole survivors of the acci- 
dent. All on deck, with the exception 
of ourselves, had been swept overboard; 
the captain and mates must have per- 
ished while they slept, for the cabins — 
were deluged with water. Without as- — 
sistance we could expect to do little 
for the security of the ship, and our ex- 


ertions were at first paralyzed by the 


momentary expectation of going down. 
Our cable had, of course, parted like 
pack-thread, at the first breath of the 
hurricane, or we should have been in- 
stantaneously overwhelmed. We scud- 
ded with frightful velocity before the 
sea, and the water made clear breaches 












| 
| 
| 
(4 
\ 
! 
{ 
| 
\ 





Ms. FOUND IN A BOTTLE 


over us, The frame-work of our stern 
was shattered excessively, and, in al- 
most every respect, we had received 
considerable injury; but to our extreme 
joy we found the pumps unchoked, 


and that we had made no great shifting 
of our ballast. 
blast had already blown over, and we 
apprehended little danger from the vio- 
lence of the wind; but we looked for- 
ward to its total cessation with dismay; 
_well believing, that in our shattered con- 
dition, we should inevitably perish in 
_the tremendous swell which would en- 
sue. 
seemed by no means likely to be soon 
_ verified. 
_ nights—during which our only subsist- 
ence was a small quantity of jaggeree, 
| procured with great difficulty from the 
_ forecastle—the hulk flew at a rate de- 
_ fying computation, before rapidly suc- 


The main fury of the 


But this very just apprehension 


For five entire days and 


ceeding flaws of wind, which, without 
equalling the first violence of the 
Simoon, were still more terrific than 


any tempest I had before encountered. 


Our course for the first four days was, 


_ with trifling variations, S. E. and by S.; 
and we must have run down the coast 


of New Holland. On the fifth day the 
cold became extreme, although the wind 
had hauled round a point more to the 
northward. ‘The sun arose with a sickly 
yellow lustre, and clambered a very few 
degrees above the horizon-—emitting no 
decisive light. There were no clouds 
apparent, yet the wind was upon the 
increase, and blew with a fitful and un- 
steady fury. About noon, as nearly as 
we could guess, our attention was again 
arrested by the appearance of the sun. 
It gave out no light, properly so called, 
but a dull and sullen glow without re- 
flection, as if all its rays were polarized. 


565 


Just before sinking within the turgid 
sea, its central fires suddenly went out, 
as if hurriedly extinguished by some 
unaccountable power. It was dim, sil- 
ver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down 
the unfathomable ocean. 

We waited in vain for the arrival of the 
sixth day—that day to me has not yet 
arrived—to the Swede never did arrive. 
Thenceforward we were enshrouded 
in pitchy darkness, so that we could not 
have seen an object at twenty paces from 
the ship. Eternal night continued to 
envelope us, all unrelieved by the phos- 
phoric sea-brilliancy to which we had 
been accustomed in the tropics. We 
observed, too, that, although the temp- 
est continued to rage with unabated 
violence, there was no longer to be 
discovered the usual appearance of surf, 
or foam, which had hitherto attended 
us. All around were horror, and thick 
gloom, and a black sweltering desert of 
ebony. Superstitious terror crept by 
degrees into the spirit of the old Swede, 
and my own soul was wrapt in silent 
wonder. We neglected all care of the 
ship, as worse than useless, and securing 
ourselves as well as possible, to the 
stump of the mizzen-mast, looked out 
bitterly into the world of ocean. We 
had no means of calculating time, nor 
could we form any guess of our situa- 
tion. We were, however, well aware of 
having made further to the southward 
than any previous navigators, and felt 
great amazement at not meeting with 
the usual impediments of ice. In the 
meantime every moment threatened to 
be our last—every mountainous billow 
hurried to overwhelm us. The swell 
surpassed anything I had imagined pos- 
sible, and that we were not instantly 
buried is a miracle My companion 


570 


spoke of the lightness of our cargo, and 
reminded me of the excellent qualities 
of our ship; but I could not help feel- 
ing the utter hopelessness of hope itself, 
and prepared myself gloomily for that 
death which I thought nothing could 
defer beyond an hour, as, with every 
knot of way the ship made, the swelling 
of the black stupendous seas became 
more dismally appalling. At times we 
gasped for breath at an elevation be- 
yond the albatross—at times became 
dizzy with the velocity of our descent 
into some watery hell, where the air 
grew stagnant, and no sound disturbed 
the slumbers of the kraken. 

We were at the bottom of one of 
these abysses, when a quick scream 
from my companion broke fearfully 
upon the night. “See! see!” cried he, 
shrieking in my ears, “Almighty God! 
see! see!” As he spoke I became aware 
of a dull sullen glare of red light which 
streamed down the sides of the vast 
chasm where we lay, and threw a fitful 
brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my 
eyes upwards, I beheld a_ spectacle 
which froze the current of my blood. 
At a terrific height directly above us, 
and upon the very verge of the precip- 
itous descent, hovered a gigantic ship of 
perhaps four thousand tons. Although 
upreared upon the summit of a wave 
more than a hundred times her own al- 
titude, her apparent size still exceeded 
that of any ship of the line or East In- 
diaman in existence. Her huge huil 
was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved 
by any of the customary carvings of a 
ship. A single row of brass cannon pro- 
truded from her open ports, and dashed 
from the polished surfaces the fires of 
innumerable battle-lanterns which swung 
to and fro about her rigging. But 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


what mainly inspired us with horror 
and astonishment, was that she bore up 
under a press of sail in the very teeth 
of that supernatural sea, and of that un- 
governable hurricane. When we first 
discovered her, her bows were alone to 
be seen, as she rose slowly from the dim 
and horrible gulf beyond her. For a 
moment of intense terror she paused 
upon the giddy pinnacle as if in con- 
templation of her own sublimity, then 
trembled, and _ tottered, and—came 
down. 

At this instant, I know not what sud- 
den self-possession came over my spirit. 
Staggering as far aft as I could, I 
awaited fearlessly the ruin that was to 
overwhelm. Our own vessel was at 
length ceasing from her struggles, and 
sinking with her head to the sea. The 
shock of the descending mass struck 
her, consequently, in that portion of her 
frame which was nearly under water, 
and the inevitable result was to hurl me, 
with irresistible violence, upon the rig- 
ging of the stranger. 

As I fell, the ship hove in stays, 
and went about; and to the confusion 
ensuing I attributed my escape from the 
notice of the crew. With little diffi- 
culty I made my way, unperceived, to 
the main hatchway, which was partially 
open, and soon found an opportunity 
of secreting myself in the hold. Why 
I did so I can hardly tell. An indefinite 
sense of awe, which at first sight of the 
navigators of the ship had taken hold 
of my mind, was perhaps the principle 
of my concealment. I was unwilling to 
trust myself with a race of people whe 
had offered, to the cursory glance « had 
taken, so many points of vague novelty, 
doubt, and apprehension. I therefore 
thought proper to contrive a_hiding- 








MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE 


place in the hold. This I did by remov- 
ing a small portion of the shifting- 
boards, in such a manner as to afford 
me a convenient retreat between the 
huge timbers of the ship. 

I had scarcely completed my work, 
when a footstep in the hold forced me 
to make use of it. A man passed by 
my place of concealment with a feeble 
and unsteady gait. I could not see his 
face, but had an opportunity. of observ- 
ing his general appearance. There was 
about it an evidence of great age and 
infirmity. His knees tottered beneath 
a load of years, and his entire frame 
quivered under the burden. He mut- 
_ tered to himself, in a low broken tone, 
sonie words of a language which I could 
not understand, and groped in a corner 
among a pile of singular-looking instru- 
ments, and decayed charts of naviga- 
tion. His manner was a wild mixture 
_ of the peevishness of second childhood, 
and the solemn dignity of a God. He 
at length went on deck, and I saw him 
no more. 

2 ey Kt 2 oe TK * 

A feeling, for which I have no name, 
has taken possession of my soul—a 
sensation which will admit of no analy- 
sis, to which the lessons of by-gone 
time are inadequate, and for which I 
fear futurity itself will offer me no key. 
To a mind constituted like my own, 
the latter consideration is an evil. I 
shall never—I know that I shall never— 
be satisfied with regard to the nature of 
my conceptions. Yet it is not wonder- 
ful that these conceptions are indefinite, 
since they have their origin in sources 
so utterly novel. A new sense—a new 
entity is added to my soul. 

* * * * teas oh * 


It is long since I first trod the deck 


571 


of this terrible ship, and the rays of 
my destiny are, I think, gathering to a 
focus. Incomprehensible men! Wrap- 
ped up in meditations of a kind which 
I cannot divine, they pass me by un- 
noticed. Ccncealment is utter folly on 
my part, for the people will not see. 
It is but just now that I passed directly 
before the eyes of the mate; it was no 
long while ago that I ventured into the 
captain’s own private cabin, and took 
thence the materials with which I write, 
and have written. I shall from time to 
time continue this journal. It is true 
that I may not find an opportunity of 
transmitting it to the world, but I will 
not fail to make the endeavor. At the 
last moment I will enclose the MS. in 
a bottle, and cast it within the sea. 
X* * * * noc * 

An incident has occurred which has 
given me new room for meditation. 
Are such things the operation of un- 
governed chance? I had ventured upon 
deck and thrown myself down, without 
attracting any notice, among a pile of 
ratlin-stuff and old sails, in the bottom 
of the yawl. While musing upon the 
singularity of my fate, I unwittingly 
daubed with a tar-brush the edges of a 
neatly-folded studding-sail which lay 
near me on a barrel. The studding-sail 
is now bent upon the ship, and the 
thoughtless touches of the brush are 
spread out in the word Discovery. 

I have made my observations lately 
upon the structure of the vessel. Al 
though well armed, she is not, I think, a 
ship of war. Her rigging, build, and 
general equipment, all negative a sup. 
position of this kind. What she is not, 
I can easily perceive; what she is, ] 
fear it is impossible to say. I know not 
how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange 


Siz 


model and singular cast of spars, her 
huge size and overgrown suits of canvas, 
her severely simple bow and antiquated 
stern, there will occasionally flash across 
my mind a sensation of familiar things, 
and there is always mixed up with such 
indistinct shadows of recollection, an 
unaccountable memory of old foreign 
chronicles and ages long ago. * * * 

I have been looking at the timbers of 
the ship. She is built of a material to 
which I am a stranger. There is a pe- 
culiar character about the wood which 
strikes me as rendering it unfit for the 
purpose to which it has been applied. 
I mean its extreme porousness, consid- 
ered independently of the worm-eaten 
condition which is a consequence of 
navigation in these seas, and apart from 
the rottenness attendant upon age. It 
will appear perhaps an_ observation 
somewhat over-curious, but this would 
have every characteristic of Spanish 
oak, if Spanish oak were distended by 
any unnatural means. 

In reading the above sentence, a curi- 
ous apothegm of an old weather-beaten 
Dutch navigator comes full upon my 
recollection. “It is as sure,’ he was 
wont to say, when any doubt was en- 
tered of his veracity, ‘as sure as there 
is a sea where the ship itself will grow 
in bulk like the living body of the sea- 
man sail Be 

About an hour ago, I made bold to 
trust myself among a group of the 
crew. ‘They paid no manner of atten- 
tion, and, although I stood in the very 
midst of them all, seemed utterly un- 
conscious of my presence. Like the one 
I had at first seen in the hold, they all 
bore about them the marks of a hoary 
old age. Their knees trembled with in- 
firmity; their shoulders were bent 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


double with decrepitude; their shrivelled 
skins rattled in the wind; their voices 
were low, tremulous, and broken; their 
eyes glistened with the rheum of years; 
and their gray hairs streamed terribly 
in the tempest. 


and obsolete construction. * * * 


I mentioned, some time ago, the 
bending of a studding-sail. From that 


period, the ship, being thrown dead off 1 


the wind, has continued her terrific 


course due south, with every rag of | 


canvas packed upon her, from her truck 
to her lower studding-sail booms, and 
rolling every moment her top-gallant 
yard-arms into the most appalling hell 
of water which it can enter into the 
mind of man to imagine. I have just 
left the deck, where I find it impos- 
sible to maintain a footing, although the 
crew seem to experience little incon- 
venience. It appears to me a miracle 
of miracles that our enormous bulk is 
not swallowed up at once and forever, 
We are surely doomed to hover con- 
tinually upon the brink of eternity, 
without taking a final plunge into the 
abyss. From billows a thousand times 
more stupendous than any I have ever 
seen, we glide away with the facility 
of the arrowy sea-gull; and the colossal 
waters rear their heads above us like 
demons of the deep, but like demons 
confined to simple threats, and forbid- 
den to destroy. I am led to attribute 
these frequent escapes to the only nat- 
ural cause which can account for such 
effect. I must suppose the ship to be 
within the influence of some strong 
current, or impetuous under-tow. * * * 

I have seen the captain face to face, 
and in his own cabin—but, as I ex- 


Around them, on every © 
part of the deck, lay scattered mathe- | 
matical instruments of the most quaint | 











MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE 


pected, he paid me no attention. Al- 
though in his appearance there is, to a 
casual observer, nothing which might 
bespeak him more or less than man, still 
a feeling of irrepressible reverence and 
awe mingled with the sensation of won- 
der with which I regarded him. In 
stature, he is nearly my own height; 
that is, about five feet eight inches. He 
is of a well-knit and compact frame 
of body, neither robust nor remarkable 
otherwise. But it is the singularity 
of the expression which reigns upon the 
face—it is the intense, the wonderful, 
the thrilling evidence of old age so ut- 
ter, so extreme, which excites within 
my spirit a sense—a sentiment ineffa- 
ble. His forehead, although little 
wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the 
stamp of a myriad of years. His gray 
hairs are records of the past, and his 
grayer eyes are sybils of the future. 
The cabin floor was thickly strewn with 
strange, iron-clasped folios and moul- 
dering instruments of science, and ob- 
solete, long-forgotten charts. His head 
was bowed down upon his hands, and he 
pored, with a fiery, unquiet eye, over 
a paper which I took to be a commis- 
sion, and which, at all events, bore the 
signature of a monarch. He murmured 
to himself—as did the first seaman 
whom I saw in the hold—some low 
peevish syllables of a foreign tongue; 
and although the speaker was close at 
my elbow, his voice seemed to reach my 
ears from the distance of a mile. * * * 

The ship and all in it are imbued with 
the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to 
and fro like the ghosts of buried cen- 
turies; their eyes have an eager and un- 
easy meaning; and when their fingers 
fall athwart my path in the wild 
glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I 


573 


have never felt before, although I have 
been all my life a dealer in antiquities, 
and have imbibed the shadows of fallen 
columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and 
Persepolis, until my very soul has be- 
come ‘a. riiny) |)" 9%! 

When I look around me, I feel 
ashamed of my former apprehension. 
If I trembled at the blast which has 
hitherto attended us, shall I not stand 
aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, 
to convey any idea of which, the words 
tornado and simoon are trivial and in- 
effective? All in the immediate vicinity 
of the ship, is the blackness of eternal 
night, and a chaos of foamless water; 
but, about a league on either side of us, 
may be seen, indistinctly and at inter- 
vals, stupendous ramparts of ice, tower- 
ing away into the desolate sky, and 
looking like the walls of the universe. 
ok Ok 

As I imagined, the ship proves to be 
in a current—if that appellation can 
properly be given to a tide which, howl- 
ing and shrieking by the white ice, 
thunders on to the southward with a 
velocity like the headlong dashing of a 
cataract.am. 1.2% 

To conceive the horror of my sensa- 
tions is, I presume, utterly impossible; 
yet a curiosity to penetrate the mys- 
teries of these awful regions, predomi- 
nates even over my despair, and will 
reconcile me to the most hideous aspect 
of death. It is evident that we are 
hurrying onward to some exciting 
knowledge—some _never-to-be-imparted 
secret, whose attainment is destruction. 
Perhaps this current leads us to the 
southern pole itself. It must be con- 
fessed that a supposition apparently so 
wild has every probability in its fa- 
Vorae 0% be 


574 


The crew pace the deck with unquiet 
and tremulous step; but there is upon 
their countenance and expression more 
of the eagerness of hope than of the 
apathy of despair. 

In the meantime the wind is still in 
our poop, and, as we carry a crowd of 
canvas, the ship is at times lifted 
bodily from out the sea! Oh, horror 
upon horror!—the ice opens suddenly 
to the right, and to the left, and we are 
whirling dizzily, in immense concentric 
circles, round and round the borders 
of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit 
of whose walls is lost in the darkness 
and the distance. But little time will 
be left me to ponder upon my destiny! 
The circles rapidly grow small—we are 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


plunging madly within the grasp of the | 
whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and bel- | 
lowing, and thundering of ocean and | 


tempest, the ship is quivering—oh God! 
and—going down! 





The “MS. Found in a Bottle,” was 


originally published in 1831, and it was 


not until many years afterward that I | 
became acquainted with the maps of | 
Mercator, in which the ocean is repre- | 
sented as rushing, by four mouths, into | 
the (northern) Polar Gulf, to be abs | 
sorbed into the bowels of the earth; the | 


Pole itself being represented by a black 


rock, towering to a prodigious height.— | 


EMA RE 


The S Phin 


Durtnec the dread reign of cholera 
in New York, I had accepted the invi- 
tation of a relative to spend a fortnight 
with him in the retirement of his cot- 
tage ornee on the banks of the Hudson. 
We had here around us all the ordinary 
means of summer amusement; and 
what with rambling in the woods, 
sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, 
music, and books, we should have 
passed the time pleasantly enough, but 
for the fearful intelligence which 
reached us every morning from the 
populous city. Not a day elapsed which 
did not bring us news of the decease of 
some acquaintance. Then, as the fatal- 
ity increased, we learned to expect 
daily the loss of some friend. At length 
we trembled at the approach of every 
messenger. The very air from the 
South seemed to us redolent with death. 


That palsying thought, indeed, took en- | 


tire possession of my soul. I could 
neither speak, think, nor dream of any 


thing else. My host was of a less ex- 
citable temperament, and, although 
greatly depressed in spirits, exerted 


himself to sustain my own. His richly — 


philosophical intellect was not at any 
time affected by unrealities. To the 
substances of terror he was sufficiently 
alive, but of its shadows he had no 
apprehension. 

His endeavors to arouse me from the 
condition of abnormal gloom into which 
I had fallen, were frustrated, in great 
measure, by certain volumes which I 
had found in his library. These were 
of a character to force into germina- 
tion whatever seeds of hereditary super- 
stition lay latent in my bosom. I had 
been reading these books without his 


| 











THE SPHINX 


knowledge, and thus he was often at a 
loss to account for the forcible impres- 
sions which had been made upon my 
fancy. 

A favorite topic with me was the 
popular belief in omens—a belief which, 
at this one epoch of my life, I was al- 
most seriously disposed to defend. On 
this subject we had long and animated 
discussions; he maintaining the utter 
_ groundlessness of faith in such matters, 
I contending that a popular sentiment 

arising with absolute spontaneity—that 
is to say, without apparent traces of 
suggestion—had in itself the unmistak- 
able elements of truth, and was entitled 
to much respect. 

The fact is, that soon after my ar- 
rival at the cottage there had occurred 
to myself an incident so entirely inex- 
plicable, and which had in it so much 
of the portentous character, that I 
might well have been excused for re- 
garding it as an omen. It appalled, and 
at the same time so confounded and 
bewildered me, that many days elapsed 
before I could make up my mind to 
communicate the circumstances-to my 
friend. 

Near the close of an exceedingly 
warm day, I was sitting, book in hand, 
at an open window, commanding, 
through a long vista of the river banks, 
a view of a distant hill, the face of 
which nearest my position had been de- 
nuded by what is termed a land-slide, 
of the principal portion of its trees. 
My thoughts had been long wandering 
from the volume before me to the 
gloom and desolation of the neighbor- 
ing city. Uplifting my eyes from the 
page, they fell upon the naked face of 
the hill, and upon an object—upon 
some living monster of hideous confor- 


575 


mation, which very rapidly made its 
way from the summit to the bottom, 
disappearing finally in the dense forest 
below. As this creature first came in 
sight, I doubted my own sanity—or at 
least the evidence of my own eyes; and 
many minutes passed before I suc- 
ceeded in convincing myself that I 
was neither mad nor in a dream. Yet 
when I described the monster (which I 
distinctly saw, and calmly surveyed 
through the whole period of its prog- 
ress), my readers, I fear, will feel more 
difficulty in being convinced of these 
points than even I did myself. 
Estimating the size of the creature by 
comparison with the diameter of the 
large trees near which it passed—the 
few giants of the forest which had 
escaped the fury of the land-slide—I 
concluded it to be far larger than any 
ship of the line in existence. I say ship 
of the line, because the shape of the 
monster suggested the idea—the hull of 
one of our seventy-four might convey 
a very tolerable conception of the gen- 
eral outline. The mouth of the animal 
was situated at the extremity of a pro- 
boscis some sixty or seventy feet in 
length, and about as thick as the body 
of an ordinary elephant. Near the root 
of this trunk was an immense quantity 
of black shaggy hair—more than could 
have been supplied by the coats of a 
score of buffaloes; and projecting from 
this hair downwardly and _ laterally, 
sprang two gleaming tusks not unlike 
those of the wild boar, but of infinitely 
greater dimensions. Extending forward, 
parallel with the proboscis, and on each 
side of it, was a gigantic staff, thirty or 
forty feet in length, formed seemingly of 
pure crystal, and in shape a _ perfect 
prism,—it reflected in the most gor- 


576 


geous manner the rays of the declining 
sun. The trunk was fashioned like a 
wedge with the apex to the earth. 
From it there were outspread two pairs 
of wings—each wing nearly one hun- 
dred yards in length—one pair being 
placed above the other, and all thickly 
covered with metal scales; each scale 
apparently some ten or twelve feet in 
diameter. J observed the upper and 
lower tiers of wings were connected by 
a strong chain. But the chief peculiar- 
ity of this horrible thing was the repre- 
sentation of a Death’s Head, which 
covered nearly the whole surface of its 
breast, and which was as accurately 
traced in glaring white, upon the dark 
ground of the body, as if it had been 
there carefully designed by an artist. 
While I regarded the terrific animal, 
and more especially the appearance on 
its breast, with a feeling of horror and 
awe—with a sentiment of forthcoming 
evil, which I found it impossible to 
quell by any effort of the reason, I 
perceived the huge jaws at the extrem- 
ity of the proboscis suddenly expand 
themselves, and from them there pro- 
ceeded a sound so loud and so expres- 
Sive of woe, that it struck upon my 
nerves like a knell, and as the monster 
disappeared at the foot of the hill, I 
fell at once, fainting, to the floor. 

Upon recovering, my first impulse, of 
course, was to inform my friend of what 
I had seen and heard—and I can scarce- 
ly explain what feeling of repugnance 
it was which, in the end, operated to 
prevent me. 

At length, one evening, some three 
or four days after the occurrence, we 
were sitting together in the room in 
which I had seen the apparition—I oc- 
cupying the same seat at the same win- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


dow, and he lounging on a sofa near at — 
hand. The association of the place and © 
time impelled me to give him an ac- | 
count of the phenomenon. He heard — 
me to the end—at first laughed heart- 
ily—and then lapsed into an excessively 
grave demeanor, as if my insanity was | 
a thing beyond suspicion. At this in- 
stant I again had a distinct view of the 
monster—to which, with a shout of ab- 

solute terror, I now directed his atten- | 
tion. He looked eagerly—but main- 
tained that he saw nothing—although I © 
designated minutely the course of the 
creature, as it made its way down the | 
naked face of the hill. | 

I was now immeasurably alarmed, © 
for I considered the vision either as an © 
omen of my death, or, worse, as the 
forerunner of an attack of mania. I 
threw myself passionately back in my 
chair, and for some moments buried 
my face in my hands. When I un- 
covered my eyes, the apparition was no 
longer visible. 

My host, however, had in some de- 
gree resumed the calmness of his de- 
meanor, and questioned me very rigor- 
ously in respect to the conformation of 
the visionary creature. When I had 
fully satisfied him on this head, he 
sighed deeply, as if relieved of some 
intolerable burden, and went on to talk, 
with what I thought a cruel calmness, 
of various points of speculative phi- 
losophy, which had heretofore formed 
subject of discussion between us. I re- 
member his insisting very especially 
(among other things) upon the idea 
that the principal source of error in all 
human investigations lay in the liability 
of the understanding to underrate or to 
overvalue the importance of an object, 
through mere misadmeasurement of its 





A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS 


propinquity. “To estimate properly, 
for example,” he said, “the influence to 
be exercised on mankind at large by the 
thorough diffusion of Democracy, the 
distance of the epoch at which such dif- 
fusion may possibly be accomplished 
should not fail to form an item in the 
estimate. Yet can you tell me one 
writer on the subject of government 
who has ever thought this particular 
branch of the subject worthy of discus- 
sion at all?” 

He here paused for a moment, 
stepped to a book-case, and brought 
forth one of the ordinary synopses of 
Natural History. Requesting me then 
to exchange seats with him, that he 
might the better distinguish the fine 
print of the volume, he took my arm- 
chair at the window, and, opening the 
book, resumed his discourse very much 
in the same tone as before. 

“But for your exceeding minuteness,” 
he said, “in describing the monster, I 
might never have had it in my power 
to demonstrate to you what it was. In 
the first place, let me read to you a 
school-boy account of the genus Sphinx, 
of the family Crepuscularia, of the order 
Lepidoptera, of the class of Insecta—or 
insects. The account runs thus: 

“ “Four membranous wings covered 


Sz 


with little colored scales of metallic ap- 
pearance; mouth forming a rolled pro- 
boscis, produced by an elongation of 
the jaws, upon the sides of which are 
found the rudiments of mandibles and 
downy palpi; the inferior wings re- 
tained. to the superior by a stiff hair; 
antennae in the form of an elongated 
club, prismatic; abdomen pointed, The 
Death’s-headed Sphinx has occasioned 
much terror among the vulgar, at times, 
by the melancholy kind of cry which 
it utters, and the insignia of death 
which it wears upon its corslet.’” 

He here closed the book and leaned 
forward in the chair, placing ‘himself 
accurately in the position which I had 
occupied at the moment of beholding 
“the monster.” 

“Ah, here it is,” he presently ex- 
claimed—‘it is reascending the face of 
the hill, and a very remarkable looking 
creature I admit it to be. Still, it is by 
no means so large or so distant as you 
imagined it; for the fact is that, as it 
wriggles its way up this thread, which 
some spider has wrought along the win- 
dow-sash, I find it to be about the 
sixteenth of an inch in its extreme 
length, and also about the sixteenth of 
an inch distant from the pupil of my 
eye. 


A fale of the Ragged Mountains 


(First published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, April, 1844.—Ed.) 


Durinc the fall of the year 1827, 
while residing near Charlottesville, Vir- 
ginia, I casually made the acquaintance 
of Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This young 
gentleman was remarkable in every re- 
spect, and excited in me a profound in- 


terest and curiosity. I found it im- 
possible to comprehend him either in 
his moral or his physical relations. Of 
his family I could obtain no satisfac- 
tory account. Whence he came, I 
never ascertained. Even about his age 


578 


—although I call him a young gen- 
tleman—there was something which 
perplexed me in no little degree. He 
certainly seemed young—and he made 
a point of speaking about his youth— 
yet there were moments when I should 
have had little trouble in imagining 
him a hundred years of age. But in no 
regard was he more peculiar than in his 
personal appearance. He was singu- 
larly tall and thin. He stooped much. 
His limbs were exceedingly long and 
emaciated. His forehead was broad and 
low. His complexion was absolutely 
‘bloodless. His mouth was large and 
flexible, and his teeth were more widely 
uneven, although sound, than I had 
ever before seen teeth in a human head. 
The expression of his smile, however, 
was by no means unpleasing, as might 
be supposed; but it had no variation 
whatever. It was one of profound mel- 
ancholy—of a phaseless and unceasing 
gloom. His eyes were abnormally large, 
and round like those of a cat. The 
pupils, too, upon any accession or 
diminution of light, underwent contrac- 
tion or dilation, just such as is observed 
in the feline tribe. In moments of 
excitement the orbs grew bright to a 
degree almost inconceivable; seeming 
to emit luminous rays, not of a reflected 
but of an intrinsic lustre, as does a 
candle or the sun; yet their ordinary 
' condition was so totally vapid, filmy, 
and dull, as to convey the idea of the 
eyes of a long-interred corpse. 

These peculiarities of person appeared 
to cause him much annoyance, and he 
was continually alluding to them in a 
sort of half explanatory, half apologetic 
strain, which, when I first heard it, im- 
pressed me very painfully. I soon, 
however, grew accustomed to it, and my 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be 
his design rather to insinuate than di- 
rectly to assert that, physically, he had 
not always been what he was—that a 
long series of neuralgic attacks had re- 
duced him from a condition of more 
than usual personal beauty, to that 
which I saw. For many years past he 
had been attended by a_ physician, 
named Templeton—an old gentleman, 
perhaps seventy years of age—whom he 
had first encountered at Saratoga, and 
from whose attention, while there, he 
either received, or fancied that he re- 
ceived, great benefit. The result was 
that Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made 
an arrangement with Dr. Templeton, by 
which the latter, in consideration of a 
liberal annual allowance, had consented 
to devote his time and medical ex- 
perience exclusively to the care of the 
invalid. 

Doctor Templeton had been a travel- 
ler in his younger days, and at Paris 
had become a convert, in great meas- 
ure, to the doctrines of Mesmer. It 
was altogether by means of magnetic 
remedies that he had succeeded in al- 
leviating the acute pains of his patient; 
and this success had very naturally 
inspired the latter with a certain degree 
of confidence in the opinions from 
which the remedies had been educed. 
The Doctor, however, like all enthusi- 


-asts, had struggled hard to make a thor- 


ough convert of his pupil, and finally 
so far gained his point as to induce 
the sufferer to submit to numerous ex- 
periments. By a frequent repetition of 
these, a result had arisen, which of late 
days has become so common as to at- 
tract little or no attention, but which, 
at the period of which I write, had very 
rarely been known in America. I mean 




















A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS 


to say, that between Doctor Templeton 
and Bedioe there had. grown up, little 
by little, a very distinct and strongly 
marked rapport, or magnetic relation. 
I am not prepared to assert, however, 
that this rapport extended beyond the 
limits of the simple sleep-producing 
power; but this power itself had at- 
tained great intensity. At the first 
attempt te induce the magnetic som- 
nolency, the mesmerist entirely failed. 
In the fifth or sixth he succeeded very 
partially, and after long-continued ef- 
fort. Only at the twelfth was the tri- 
umph complete. After this the will of 
the patient succumbed rapidly to that 
of the physician, so that, when I first 
became acquainted with the two, sleep 
was brought about almost instantane- 
ously by the mere volition of the opera- 
tor, even when the invalid was unaware 
of his presence. It is only now, in the 
year 1845, when similar miracles are 
witnessed daily by thousands, that I 
dare venture to record this apparent 
impossibility as a matter of serious fact. 

The temperature of Bedloe was, in 
the highest degree sensitive, excitable, 
enthusiastic. His imagination was singu- 
larly vigorous and creative; and no 
doubt it derived additional force from 
the habitual use of morphine, which 
he swallowed in great quantity, and 
without which he would have found it 
impossible to exist. It was his practice 
to take a very large dose of it imme- 
diately after breakfast each mornine— 
or, rather, immediately after a cup of 
strong coffee, for he ate nothing -in the 
forenoon—and then set forth alone, or 
attended only by a dog, upon a long 
ramble among the chain of wild and 
dreary hills that lie westward and south- 
ward of Charlottesville, and are there 


579 


dignified by the title of the Ragged - 
Mountains. 

Upon a dim, warm, misty day, tos 
ward the close of November, and dur- 
ing the strange interregnum of thre sea- 
sons which in America is termed the 
Indian summer, Mr. Bedloe departed 
as usual for the hills. The day passed, 
and still he did not return. 

About eight o’clock at night, having 
become seriously alarmed at his pro- 
tracted absence, we were about setting 
out in search of him, when he unex- 
pectedly made his appearance, in health 
no worse than usual, and in rather more 
than ordinary spirits. The account 
which he gave of his expedition, and of 
the events which had detained him, 
was a singular one indeed. 

“Vou will remember,” said he, ‘‘that 
it was about nine in the morning when 
I left Charlottesville. I bent my steps 
immediately to the mountains, and, 
about ten, entered a gorge which was 
entirely new to me. I followed the 
windings of this pass with much inter- 
est. The scenery which presented itself 
on all sides, although scarcely entitled 
to be called grand, had about it an 
indescribable and to me a delicious as- 
pect of dreary desolation. The solitude 
seemed absolutely virgin. I could not 
help believing that the green sods and 
the gray rocks upon which I trod had 
been trodden never before by the foot 
of a human being. So entirely secluded, 
and in fact inaccessible, except through 
a series of accidents, is the entrance of 
the ravine, that it is by no means im- 
possible that I was indeed the first 
adventurer—the very first and sole ad- 
venturer who had ever penetrated its 
recesses. 

“The thick and peculiar mist, ot 


580 


. smoke, which distinguishes the Indian 
summer, and which now hung heavily 
over all objects, served, no doubt, to 
deepen the vague impressions which 
these objects created. So dense was 
this pleasant fog that I could at no time 
see more than a dozen yards of the 
path before me.. This path was ex- 
cessively sinuous, and as the sun could 
not be seen, I soon lost all idea of the 
direction in which I journeyed. In the 
meantime the morphine had its cus- 
tomary effect—that of enduing all the 
external world with an intensity of 
interest. In the quivering of a leaf— 
in the hue of a blade of grass—in the 
shape of a trefoil—in the humming of 
a bee—in the gleaming of a dew-drop— 
in the breathing of the wind—in the 
faint odors that came from the forest— 
there came a whole universe of sug- 
gestion—a gay and motley train of 
rhapsodical and immethodical thought. 

“Busied in this, I walked on for sev- 
eral hours, during which the mist deep- 
ened around me to so great an extent 
that at length I was reduced to an 
absolute groping of the way. And now 
an indescribable uneasiness possessed 


me—a species of nervous hesitation . 


and tremor. I feared to tread, lest I 
should be precipitated into some abyss. 
IT remembered, too, strange stories told 
about these Ragged Hills, and of the 
uncouth and fierce races of men, who 
tenanted their groves and caverns. A 
thousand vague fancies oppressed and 
disconcerted me—fancies the more dis- 
tressing because vague. Very suddenly 
my attention was arrested by the loud 
beating of a drum. 

“My amazement was, of course, ex- 
treme. A drum in these hills was a 
thing unknown. I could not have been 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


more surprised at the sound of the 
trump of the Archangel. But a new 
and still more astounding source of 
interest and perplexity arose. There 
came a wild rattling or jingling sound, 
as if of a bunch of large keys, and upon 
the instant a dusky-visaged and _half- 
naked man rushed past me with a 
shriek. He came so close to my per- 
son that I felt his hot breath upon my 
face. He bore in one hand an instru- 
ment composed of an assemblage of 
steel rings, and shook them vigorously 
as he ran. Scarcely had he disappeared 
in the mist before, panting after him, 
with open mouth and glaring eyes, there 
darted a huge beast. I could not be 
mistaken in its character. It was a 
hyena. 

“The sight of this monster rather 
relieved than heightened my terrors— 
for I now made sure that I dreamed, 
and endeavored to arouse myself to 
waking consciousness. I stepped boldly 
and briskly forward. I rubbed my 
eyes. I called aloud. I pinched my 
limbs. A small spring of water pre- 
sented itself to my view, and here, 
stooping, I bathed my hands and my 
head and neck. This seemed to dissipate 
the. equivocal sensations which had 
hitherto annoyed me. I arose, as I 
thought, a new man, and proceeded 
steadily and complacently on my un- 
known way. 

“At length, quite overcome by exer- 
tion, and by a certain oppressive close- 
ness of the atmosphere, I seated myself 
beneath a tree. Presently there came 
a feeble gleam of sunshine, and the 
shadow of the leaves of the tree fell 
faintly but definitely upon the grass. 
At this shadow I gazed wonderingly for 
many minutes. Its character stupefied 














A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS 


me with astonishment. I looked up- 
ward. The tree was a palm. 

“T now arose hurriedly, and in a state 
of fearful agitation—for the fancy that 
I dreamed would serve me no longer. 
I saw—I felt that I had perfect com- 
mand of my senses—and these senses 
now brought to my soul a world of 
novel and singular sensation. The heat 
became all at once intolerable. A 
strange odor loaded the breeze. A 
low, continuous murmur, like that aris- 
ing from a full, but gently flowing river, 
came to my ears, intermingled with 
the peculiar hum of multitudinous hu- 
man voices. 

“While I listened in an extremity of 
astonishment which I need not attempt 
to describe, a strong and brief gust of 
wind bore off the incumbent fog as if 
by the wand of an enchanter. 

“T found myself at the foot of a high 
mountain, and looking down into a vast 
plain, through which wound a majestic 
river. On the margin of this river stood 
an Eastern-looking city, such as we read 
of in the Arabian Tales, but of a char- 
acter even more singular than any there 
described. From my position, which 
was far above the level of the town, I 
could perceive its every nook and cor- 
ner, as if delineated on a map. The 
streets seemed innumerable, and crossed 
each other irregularly in all directions, 
but were rather long winding alleys 
than streets, and absolutely swarmed 
with inhabitants. The houses were 
wildly picturesque. On every hand was 
a wilderness of balconies, of verandas, 
of minarets, of shrines, and fantas- 
tically carved oriels. Bazaars abounded; 
and there were displayed rich wares in 
infinite variety and profusion—silks, 
muslins, the most dazzling cutlery. the 


581 


most magnificent jewels and gems. Be- 
sides these things, were seen, on all 
sides, banners and palanquins, litters 
with stately dames close—veiled, ele- 
phants gorgeously caparisoned, idols 
grotesquely hewn, drums, banners, and 
gongs, spears, silver and gilded maces. 
And amid the crowd, and the clamor, 
and the general intricacy and confusion 
—amid the million of black and yellow 
men, turbaned and robed, and of flow- 
ing beard, there roamed a countless 
multitude of holy filleted bulls, while 
vast legions of the filthy but sacred 
ape clambered, chattering and shriek- 
ing, about the cornices of the mosques, 
or clung to the minarets and oriels. 
From the swarming streets to the banks 
of the river, there descended innumer- 
able flights of steps leading to bathing 
places, while the river itself seemed to 
force a passage with difficulty through 
the vast fleets of deeply burdened ships 
that far and wide encountered its sur- 
face. Beyond the limits of the city 
arose, in frequent majestic groups, the 
palm and the cocoa, with other gigantic 
and weird trees of vast age; and here 
and there might be seen a field of rice, 
the thatched hut of a peasant, a tank, 
a stray temple, a gypsy camp, or a 
solitary graceful maiden taking her way, 
with a pitcher upon her head, to the 
banks of the magnificent river. 

“Vou will say now, of course, that J! 
dreamed; but not so. What I saw— 
what i heard—what I felt—what I 
thought—had about it nothing of the 
unmistakable idiosyncrasy of the dream. 
All was rigorously self-consistent. At 
first, doubting that I was really awake, 
I entered into a series of tests, which 
soon convinced me that I really was. 
Now, when one dreams, and, in the 


582 


dream, suspects that he dreams, - the 
suspicion never fails to confirm itself, 
and the sleeper is almost immediately 
aroused. Thus Novalis errs not in say- 
ing that ‘we are near waking when we 
dream that we dream.’ Had the vision 
occurred to me as I describe it, without 
my suspecting it as a dream, then a 
dream it might absolutely have been, 
but, occurring as it did, and suspected 
as it was, I am forced to class it among 
other phenomena.” 

“Tn this I am not sure that you are 
wrong,” observed Dr. Templeton, “but 
proceed. You arose and descended into 
the city.” 

“T arose,” continued Bedloe, regard- 
ing the Doctor with an air of profound 
astonishment, “I arose, aS you say, 
and descended into the city. On my 
way I fell in with an immense populace, 
crowding through every avenue, all in 
the same direction, and exhiliting in 
every action the wildest excitement. 
Very suddenly, and by some _ incon- 
ceivable. impulse, I became intensely 
imbued with personal interest in what 
was going on. I seemed to feel that 
I had an important part to play, with- 
out exactly understanding what it was. 
Against the crowd which environed me, 
however, I experienced a deep senti- 
ment of animosity. I shrank from amid 
them, and, swiftly, by a circuitous path, 
reached and entered the city. Here all 
was the wildest tumult and contention. 
A small party of men, clad in garments 
half Indian, half European, and of- 
ficered by gentlemen in a uniform partly 
British, were engaged, at great odds, 
with the swarming rabble of the alleys. 
I joined the weaker party, arming my- 
self with the weapons of a fallen officer, 
and fighting I knew not whom with the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nervous ferocity of despair. We were 
soon overpowered by numbers, and 
driven to seek refuge in a species of 
kiosk. Here we barricaded ourselves, 
and, for the present, were secure. From 
a loop-hole near the summit of the 
kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in 
furious agitation, surrounding and as- 
saulting a gay palace that overhung the 
river. Presently, from an upper win- 
dow of this place, there descended an 
effeminate-looking person, by means of 
a string made of the turbans of his at- 
tendants. A boat was at hand, in which 
he escaped to the opposite bank of the 
river. 

“And now a new object took pos- 
session of my soul. I spoke a few hur- 
ried but energetic words to my compan- 
ions, and, having succeeded in gaining 
over a few of them to my purpose made 
a frantic sally from the kiosk. We 
rushed amid the crowd that surrounded 
it. They retreated, at first, before us. 
They rallied, fought madly, and re- 
treated again. In the meantime we 
were borne far from the kiosk, and be- 
came bewildered and entangled among 
the narrow streets of tall, overhanging 
houses, into the recesses of which the 
sun had never been able to shine. The 
rabble pressed impetuously upon us, 
harrassing us with their spears, and 
overwhelming us with flights of arrows. 
These latter were very remarkable, and 
resembled in some respects the writhing 
creese of the Malay. They were made 
to imitate the body of a creeping ser- 
pent, and were long and black, with a 
poisoned barb. One of them struck 
me upon the right temple. I reeled 
and fell. An instantaneous and dread- 
ful sickness seized me. I struggled—t 
gasped—I died.” 





A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS 


“Vou will hardly persist now,” said 
I smiling, “that the whole of your ad- 
venture was not a dream. You are not 
prepared to maintain that you are 
dead?” 

When I said these words, I of course 
expected some lively sally from Bedloe 
in reply; but, to my astonishment, he 
hesitated, trembled, became fearfully 
pallid, and remained silent. I looked 
toward Templeton. He sat erect 
and rigid in his chair—his teeth chat- 
tered, and his eyes were starting from 
their sockets. “Proceed!” he at length 
said hoarsely to Bedloe. 

“For many minutes,” continued the 
latter, “my sole sentiment—my sole 
feeling—was that of darkness and non- 
entity, with the consciousness of death. 
At length there seemed to pass a vio- 
lent and sudden shock through my soul, 
as if of electricity. With it came the 
sense of elasticity and of light. This 
latter I felt—not saw. In an instant 
I seemed to rise from the ground. But 
I had no bodily, no visible, audible, or 
palpable presence. The crowd had de- 
parted. The tumult had ceased. The 
city was in comparative repose. Be- 
neath me lay my corpse, with the arrow 
in my temple, the whole head greatly 
swollen and disfigured. But all these 
things I felt—not saw. I took interest 
in nothing. Even the corpse seemed a 
matter in which I had no concern. 
Volition I had none, but appeared to 
be impelled into motion, and flitted 
buoyantly out of the city, retracing the 
circuitous path by which I had entered 


it. When I had attained that point of | 


the ravine in the mountains at which I 
had encountered the hyena, I again 
experienced a shock as of a galvanic 


583 


battery; the sense of weight, of voli- 
tion, of substance, returned. I became 
my original self, and bent my steps eag- 
erly homeward—but the past had not 
lost the vividness of the real—and not 
now, even for an instant, can I compel 
my understanding to regard it as a 
dream.” 

“Nor was it,” said Templeton, with 
an air of deep solemnity, “yet it would 
be difficult to say how otherwise it 
should be termed. Let us suppose only, 
that the soul of the man of to-day is 
upon the verge of some stupendous 
psychal discoveries. Let us content 
ourselves with this supposition. For 
the rest I have some explanation to 
make. Here is a water-color drawing, 
which I should have shown you before, 
but which an unaccountable sentiment 
of horror has hitherto prevented me 
from showing.” 

We looked at the picture which he 
presented. I saw nothing in it of an 
extraordinary character; but its effect 
upon Bedloe was prodigious. He nearly 
fainted as he gazed. And yet it was 
but a miniature portrait—a miracu- 
lously accurate one, to be sure—of his 
own very remarkable features. At least 
this was my thought as I regarded it. 

“You will perceive,’ said Templeton, 
“the date of ‘this picture—it is here, 
scarcely visible, in this corner—1780. 
In this year was the portrait taken. 
It is the likeness of a dead friend—a 
Mr. Oldeb—to whom I became much 
attached at Calcutta, during the ad- 
ministration of Warren Hastings. I 
was then only twenty years old. When 
I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at Sara- 
toga, it was the miraculous similarity 
which existed between yourself and the 


584 


painting which induced me to accost 
you, to seek your friendship, and to 
bring about those arrangements which 
resulted in my becoming your constant 
companion. In accomplishing this 
point, I was urged partly, and perhaps 
principally, by a regretful memory of 
the deceased, but also, in part, by an 
uneasy, and not altogether horrorless 
curiosity respecting yourself. 

“In your detail of the vision which 
presented itself to you amid the hills, 
you have described, with the minutest 
accuracy, the Indian city of Benares, 
upon the Holy River. The riots, the 
combat, the massacre, were the actual 
events of the insurrection of Cheyte 
Sing, which took place in 1780, when 
Hastings was put in imminent peril of 
his life. The man escaping by the 
string of turbans was Cheyte Sing him- 
self. The party in the kiosk were 
sepoys and British officers, headed by 
Hastings. Of this party I was one, 
and did all I could to prevent the 
rash and fatal sally of the officer who 
fell, in the crowded alleys, by the poi- 
soned arrow of a Bengalee. That off- 
cer was my dearest friend. It was 
Oldeb. You will perceive by these 
manuscripts,” (here the speaker pro- 
duced a note-book in which several 
pages appeared to have been freshly 
written,) “that at the very period in 
which you fancied these things amid 
the hills, I was engaged in detailing 
them upon paper here at home.” 

In about a week after this conversa- 
tion, the following paragraphs appeared 
in a Charlottesville paper: 

“We have the painful duty of an- 
nouncing the death of Mr. Aucustus 
BEDLO, a gentleman whose amiable 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


manners and many virtues have long 
endeared him to the citizens of Char- 
lottesville. 

“Mr. B., for some years past, has 
been subject to neuralgia, which has 
often threatened to terminate fatally; 
but this can be regarded only as the 
mediate cause of his decease. The 
proximate cause was one of especial 
singularity. In an excursion to the 
Ragged Mountains, a few days since, a 
slight cold and fever were contracted, 
attended with great determination of 
blood to the head. To relieve this, Dr. 
Templeton resorted to topical bleeding. 
Leeches were applied to the temples. 
In a fearfully brief period the patient 
died, when it appeared that, in the 
jar containing the leeches, had been in- 
troduced, by accident, one of the 
venomous vermicular sangsues which 
are now and then found in the neigh- 
boring ponds. This creature fastened 
itself upon a small artery in the right 
temple. Its close resemblance to the 
medicinal leech caused the mistake to 
be overlooked until too late. 

“N. B.—-The poisonous sangsue of 
Charlottesville may always be distin- 
guished from the medicinal leech by its 
blackness, and especially by its writhing 
or vermicular motions, which very 
nearly resemble those of a snake.” 

I was speaking with the editor of the 
paper in question, upon the topic of 
this remarkable accident, when it oc- 
curred to me to ask how it happened 
that the name of the deceased had been 
given as Bedlo. 

“T presume,” I said, “you have au- 
thority for this spelling, but I have al- 
ways supposed the name to be written 
with an e at the end.” 





THE SPECTACLES 585 


“‘Authority?—no,” he replied. “It is 
a@ mere typographical error. The name 
is Bedlo with an e, all the world over, 
and I never knew it to be spelt other- 
wise in my life.” 

“Then,” said I mutteringly, as I 


turned upon my heel, “then indeed has 
it come to pass that one truth is stranger 
than any fiction—for Bedloe, without 
the e, what is it but Oldeb conversed! 
And this man tells me that it is a typo- 
graphical error.” 


The Spectacles 


(Published in Broadway Journal, Vol. 2:20.—Ed.) 


MANy years ago, it was the fashion 
to ridicule the idea of “love at first 
sight;” but those who think, not less 
than those who feel deeply, have always 
advocated its existence. Modern dis- 
coveries, indeed, in what may be termed 
ethical magnetism or magnetoesthetics, 
render it probable that the most nat- 
ural, and, consequently, the truest and 
most intense of the human affections 
are those which arise in the heart as 
if by electric sympathy—in a word, 
that the brightest and most enduring 
of the psychal fetters are those which 
are riveted by a glance. The confession 
I am about to make will add another 
to the already almost innumerable in- 
stances of the truth of the position. 

My story requires that I should be 
somewhat minute. I am still a very 
young man—not yet twenty-two years 
of age. My name, at present, is a very 
usual and rather plebeian one—Simp- 
son. I say “at present;” for it is only 
lately that I have been so called— 
having legislatively adopted this sur- 
name within the last year in order to 
receive a large inheritance left me by 
a distant male relative, Adolphus Simp- 
son, Esq. The bequest was conditioned 
upon my taking the name of the testa- 


tor—the family, not the Christian name; 
my Christian name is Napoleon Bonae 
parte—or, more properly, these are my 
first and middle appellations. 

I assumed the name, Simpson, with 
some reluctance, aS in my true pac 
tronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardon~- 
able pride—believing that I could trace 
a descent from the immortal author of 
the “Chronicles.” While on the sub- 
ject of names, by the by, I may mens 
tion a singular coincidence of sound 
attending the names of some of my 
immediate predecessors. My father was 
a Monsieur Froissart, of Paris. His 
wife—my mother, whom he married at 
fifteen—was a Mademoiselle Croissart, 
eldest daughter of Croissart the banker; 
whose wife, again being only sixteen 
when married, was the eldest daughter 
of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur Vois- 
sart, very singularly, had married a 
lady of similar name—a Mademoiselle 
Moissart. She, too, was quite a child 
when married; and her mother, also, 
Madame Moissart, was only fourteen 
when led to the altar. These early mare 
riages are usual in France. Here, howe 
ever, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, 
and Froissart, all in the direct line of 
descent. My own name, though, as I 


586 


say, became Simpson, by act of Legis- 
lature, and with so much repugnance on 
my part, that, at ene period, I actually 
hesitated about accepting the legacy 
with the useless and annoying proviso 
attached. 

As to personal endowments, I am by 
no means deficient. On the contrary, I 
believe that I am weil made, and pos- 
sess what nine tenths of the world 
would call a handsome face. In height 
I am five feet eleven. My hair is black 
and curling. My nose is sufficiently 
good. My eyes are large and gray; 
and although, in fact, they are weak 
to a very inconvenient degree, still no 
defect in this regard would be suspected 
from their appearance. ‘The weakness 
itself, however, has always much an- 
noyed me, and I have resorted to every 
remedy—short of wearing glasses. Be- 
ing youthful and good-looking, I nat- 
urally dislike these, and have resolutely 
refused to employ them. I know noth- 
ing, indeed, which so disfigures the 
countenance of a young person, or so 
impresses every feature with an air of 
demureness, if not altogether of sanc- 
timoniousness and of age. An eye- 
glass, on the other hand, has a savor 
of downright foppery and affectation. 
I have hitherto managed as well as I 
could without either. But something 
too much of these merely personal de- 
tails, which, after all, are of little 
importance. I will content myself with 
saying, in addition, that my tempera- 
ment is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthu- 
siastic—and that all my life I have been 
g devoted admirer of the women. 

One night last winter I entered a box 
at the P. Theatre, in company with 
a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an opera 
night, and the bills presented a very 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


rare attraction, so that the house was 
excessively crowded. We were in time, 
however, to obtain the front seats which | 
had been reserved for us, and into © 
which, with some little difficulty, we | 
elbowed our way. 

For two hours my companion, who 
was a musical fanatico, gave his un- 
divided attention to the stage; and, in 
the meantime, I amused myself by ob- 
serving the audience, which consisted, 
in chief part, of the very elite of the 
city. Having satisfied myself upon this 
point, I was about turning my eyes toa 
the prima donna, when they were ar- 
rested and riveted by a figure in one of 
the private’ boxes which had escaped 
my observation. 

If I live a thousand years I can never 
forget the intense emotion with which 
I regarded this figure. It was that of 
a female, the most exquisite I had ever 
beheld. The face was so far turned 
toward the stage that, for some min- 
utes, I could not obtain a view of it— 
but the form was divine; no other 
word can sufficiently express its mag- 
nificent proportion—and even the term 
“divine” seems ridiculously feeble as J 
write it. 

The magic.of a lovely form in woman 
—the necromancy of female graceful- 
ness—was always a power waich I had 
found it impossible to resist; but here 
was grace personified, incarnate, the 
beau ideal of my wildest and most 
enthusiastic visions. The figure, almost 
all of which the construction of the 
box permitted to be seen, was some- 
what above the medium height, and 
nearly approached, without positively 
reaching, the majestic. Its perfect ful- 
ness and tournure were delicious. The 
head of which only the back was visi- 








THE SPECTACLES 


ble, rivalled in outline that of the 
Greek Psyche, and was rather displayed 
than concealed by an elegant cap of 
gaze aerienne, which put me in mind of 
the ventum textilem of Apuleius. The 
right arm hung over the balustrade of 
the box, and thrilled every nerve of my 
frame with its exquisite symmetry. Its 
upper portion was draperied by one of 
the loose open sleeves now in fashion. 
This extended but little below the el- 
bow. Beneath it was worn an under 
one of some frail material, close-fitting, 
and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, 


which fell gracefully over the top of. 


the hand, revealing only the delicate 
fingers, upon one of which sparkled a 
diamond ring, which I at once saw was 
of extraordinary value. The admirable 
roundness of the wrist was well set off 
by a bracelet which encircled it, and 
which also was ornamented and clasped 
by a magnificent aigrette of jewels— 
telling, in words that could not be mis- 
taken, at once of the wealth and fastidi- 
ous taste of the wearer. 

I gazed at this queenly apparition for 
at least half an hour, as if I had been 
suddenly converted to stone; and, dur- 
ing this period, I felt the full force and 
truth of all that has been said or sung 
concerning “love at first sight.” My 
feelings were totally different from any 
which I had hitherto experienced, in 
the presence of even the most cele- 
brated specimens of female loveliness. 
An unaccountable, and what I am com- 
pelled to consider a magnetic, sympathy 
of soul for soul, seemed to rivet, not 
only my vision, but my whole powers 
of thought and feeling, upon the ad- 
mirable object before me. I saw—I 
felt—I knew that I was deeply, madly, 
irrevocably in love—and this even be- 


587 


fore seeing the face of the person 
beloved. So intense, indeed, was the 
passion that consumed me, that I really 
believe it would have received little if 
any abatement had the features, yet 
unseen, proved of merely ordinary char- 
acter; so anomalous is the nature of the 
only true love—of the love at first sight 
—and so little really dependent is it 
upon the external conditions which only 
seem to create and control it. 

While I was thus wrapped in admira- 
tion of this lovely vision, a sudden dis- 
turbance among the audience caused 
her to turn her head partially toward 
me, so that I beheld the entire profile 
of the face. Its beauty even exceeded 
my anticipations—and yet there was 
something about it which disappointed 
me without my being able to tell exactly 
what it was. I said “disappointed,” 
but this is not altogether the word. My 
sentiments were at once quieted and 
exalted. They partook less of trans- 
port and more of calm enthusiasm—of 
enthusiastic repose. This state of feel- 
ing arose, perhaps, from the Madonna- 
like and matronly air of the face; and 
yet I at once understood that it could 
not have arisen entirely from this. 
There was something else—some mys- 
tery which I could not develop—some 
expression about the countenance which 
slightly disturbed me while it greatly 
heightened my interest. In fact, I 
was just in that condition of mind 
which prepares a young and susceptible 
man for any act of extravagance. Had 
the lady been alone, I should undoubt- 
edly have entered her box and accosted 
her at all hazards; but, fortunately, she 
was attended’ by two companions—a 
gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful 


588 


woman, to all appearance a few years 
younger than herself. 

I revolved in my mind a thousand 
schemes by which I might obtain, here- 
after, an introduction to the elder lady, 
or, for the present, at all events, a more 
distinct view of her beauty. I would 
have removed my position to one nearer 
her own, but the crowded state of the 
theatre rendered this impossible; and 
the stern decrees of Fashion had, of 
late, imperatively prohibited the use of 
the opera-glass in a case such as this, 
even had I been so fortunate as to have 
one with me—but I had not—and was 
thus in despair. 

At length I bethought me of applying 
to my companion. 

“Talbot,” I said, “you have no opera- 
glass. Let me have it.” 

“An opera-glass!—no!—what do you 
suppose J would be doing with an opera- 
glass?” Here he turned impatiently 
toward the stage. 

“But, Talbot,” I continued, pulling 
him by the shoulder, “listen to me will 
your Do you see the stage-boxP— 
there!—-no, the next—Did you ever 
behold as lovely a woman?” 

“She is very beautiful, no doubt,” 
he said. 

“T wonder who she can be?” 

“Why, in the name of all that is 
angelic, don’t you know who she is? 
‘Not to know her argues yourself un- 
known.’ She is the celebrated Madame 
Lalande—the beauty of the day par 
excellence, and the talk of the whole 
town. Immensely wealthy too—a widow 
—and a great match—has just arrived 
from Paris.” 

“Do you know her?” 

“Ves—I have the honor.” 

“Will you introduce mee” 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“Assuredly—with the greatest pleas- 
ure; when shall it be?” 

“To-morrow, at one, I will call upon 
you at B ‘sdi 

“Very good; and now do hold your 
tongue, zf you can.” 

In this latter respect I was forced 
to take Talbot’s advice; for he re- 
mained obstinately deaf to every fur- 
ther question or suggestion, and occu- 
pied himself exclusively for the rest 
of the evening with what was trans- 
acting upon the stage. 

In the meantime I kept my eyes riv- 
eted on Madame Lalande, and at length 
had the good fortune to obtain a full 
front view of her face. It was ex- 
quisitely lovely: this, of course, my 
heart had told me before, even had not 
Talbot fully satisfied me upon the point 
—hbut still the unintelligible something 
disturbed me. I finally concluded that 
my senses were impressed by a certain 
air of gravity, sadness, or, still more 
properly, of weariness, which took 
something from the youth and fresh- 
ness of the countenance, only to endow 
it with a seraphic tenderness and maj- 
esty, and thus, of course, to my en- 
thusiastic and romantic temperament, 
with an interest tenfold. 

While I thus feasted my eyes, I per- 
ceived, at last, to my great trepidation, 
by an almost imperceptible start on the 
part of the lady, that she had become 
suddenly aware of the intensity of my 
gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated, 
and could not withdraw it, even for an 
instant. She turned aside her face, and 
again I saw only the chiselled contour 
of the back portion of the head. After 
some minutes, as if urged by curiosity 
to see if I was still looking, she gradu- 
ally brought her face again around and 

















THE SPECTACLES 


again encountered my burning gaze. 
Her large dark eyes fell instantly, and 
a deep blush mantled her cheek. But 
what was my astonishment at perceiv- 
ing that she not only did not a second 
time avert her head, but that she ac- 
tually took from her girdle a double 
eye-glass—elevated it—adjusted it—and 
then regarded me through it, intently 
and deliberately, for the space of sev- 
eral minutes. 

Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet 
I could not have been more thoroughly 
astounded—astounded only—not  of- 
fended or disgusted in the slightest de- 
gree; although an action so bold in any 
other woman would have been likely to 
offend or disgust. But the whole thing 
was done with so much quietude—so 
much nonchalance—so much repose— 
with so evident an air of the highest 
breeding, in short—that nothing of mere 
effrontery was perceptible, and my sole 
sentiments were those of admiration 
and surprise. 

I observed that, upon her first ele- 
vation of the glass, she had seemed 
satisfied with a momentary inspection 
of my person, and was withdrawing the 
instrument, when, as if struck by a 
second thought, she resumed it, and so 
continued to regard me with fixed at- 
tention for the space of several min- 
utes—for five minutes, at the very least, 
I am sure. 

This action, so remarkable in an 
American theatre, attracted very gen- 
eral observation, and gave rise to an 
indefinite movement, or buzz, among 
the audience, which for a moment filled 
me with confusion, but produced no 
visible effect upon the countenance of 
Madame Lalande. 

_ Having satisfied her curiosity—if such 


589 


it was—she dropped the glass, and 
quietly gave her attention again to the 
stage; her profile now being turned to- 
ward myself, as before. I continued to 
watch her unremittingly, although I 
was fully conscious of my rudeness in 
so doing. Presently I saw the head 
slowly and slightly change its position; 
and soon I became convinced that the 
lady, while pretending to look at the 
stage was, in fact, attentively regarding 
myself. It is needless to say what 
effect this conduct, on the part of so 
fascinating a woman, had upon my ex- 
citable mind. 

Having thus scrutinized me for per- 
haps a quarter of an hour, the fair 
object of my passion addressed the gen- 
tleman who attended her, and while she 
spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances 
of both, that the conversation had ref- 
erence to myself. 

Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande 
again turned toward the stage, and for 
a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the 
performance. At the expiration of this 
period, however, I was thrown into an 
extremity of agitation by seeing her 
unfold, for the second time, the eye- 
glass which hung at her side, fully con- 
front me as before, and, disregarding 
the renewed buzz of the audience, sur- 
vey me, from head to foot, with the 
same miraculous composure which had 
previously so delighted and confounded 
my soul. 

This extraordinary behavior, by throw- 
ing me into a perfect fever of excite- 
ment—into an absolute delirium of love - 
—served rather to embolden than to 
disconcert me. In the mad _ intensity 
of my devotion, I forgot every thing 
but the presence and the majestic love- 
liness of the vision which confronted 


590 


my gaze. Watching my opportunity, 
when I thought the audience were fully 
engaged with the opera, I at length 
caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, 
and, upon the instant, made a slight but 
unmistakable bow. 

She blushed very deeply—then averted 
her eyes—then slowly and cautiously 
looked around, apparently to see if my 
rash action had been noticed—then 
leaned over toward the gentleman who 
sat by her side. 

I now felt a burning sense of the 
impropriety I had committed, and ex- 
pected nothing less than instant ex- 
posure; while a vision of pistols upon 
the morrow floated rapidly and un- 
comfortably through my brain. I was 
greatly and immediately relieved, how- 
ever, when I saw the lady merely hand 
the gentleman a play-bill, without 
speaking; but the reader may form 
some feeble conception of my aston- 
ishment—of my profound amazement— 
my delirious bewilderment of heart and 
soul—when, instantly afterward, having 
again glanced furtively around, she al- 
lowed her bright eyes to set fully and 
steadily upon my own, and then, with 
a faint smile, disclosing a bright line 
of her pearly teeth, made two distinct, 
pointed, and unequivocal affirmative in- 
clinations of the head. 

It is useless, of course, to dwell upon 


my joy—upon my transport—upon my 


illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever 
man was mad with excess of happiness, 
it was myself at that moment. I loved. 
- This was my first love—so I felt it to 
be. It was love supreme—indescrib- 
able. It was “love at first sight;” and 
at first sight, too, it had been appre- 
ciated and returned. 

Yes, returned. How and why should 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I doubt it for an instant. What other 
construction could I possibly put upon 
such conduct, on the part of a lady so 
beautiful—so wealthy—evidently so ac- 
complished—of so high breeding—of 
so lofty a position in society—in every 
regard so entirely respectable as I felt 
assured was Madame Lalande? Yes, 
she loved me—she returned the enthu- 
siasm of my love, with an enthusiasm 
as blind—as uncompromising—as un- 
calculating—as abandoned—and as _ ut- 
terly unbounded as my own! These 
delicious fancies and reflections, how- 
ever, were now interrupted by the fall- 
ing of the drop-curtain. The audience 
arose; and the usual tumult imme- 
diately supervened. Quitting Talbot 
abruptly, I made every effort to force 
my way into closer proximity with Ma- 
dame Lalande. Having failed in this, 
on account of the crowd, I at length 
gave up the chase, and bent my steps 
homeward; consoling myself for my dis- 
appointment in not having been able to 
touch even the hem of her robe, by 
the reflection that I should be’ intro- 
duced by Talbot, in due form, upon the 
morrow. 

This morrow at last came; that is to 
say, a day finally dawned upon a long 
and weary night of impatience; and 
then the hours until “one” were snail- 
paced, dreary, and innumerable. But 
even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an 
end, and there came an end to this 
long delay. The clock struck. As the 
last echo ceased, I stepped into B——’s 
and inquired for Talbot. 

“Out,” said the footman—-Talbot’s 
own. 

“Out!” I replied, staggering back 
half a dozen paces—“let me tell you, 
my fine fellow, that this thing is thor- 











THE SPECTACLES 591 


oughly impossible and impracticable; 


Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you 
mean?” 
“Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not 


in, that’s all. He rode over to S 5 
immediately after breakfast, and left 
word that he would not be in town 
again for a week.” 

I stood petrified with horror and 
rage. I endeavored to reply, but my 
tongue refused its office. At length I 
turned on my heel, livid with wrath, 
and inwardly consigning the whole tribe 
of the Talbots to the innermost regions 
of Erebus. It was evident that my con- 
siderate friend, i fanatico, had quite 
forgotten his appointment with myself 
—had forgotten it as soon as it was 
made. At no time was he a very scru- 
pulous man of his word. There was 
no help for it; so smothering my vexa- 
tion as well as I could, I strolled 
moodily up the street, propounding 
futile inquiries about Madame Lalande 
to every male acquaintance I met. By 
report she was known, I found, to all 
—to many by sight—but she had been 
in town only a few weeks, and there 
were very few, therefore, who claimed 
her personal acquaintance. These few, 
being still comparatively strangers, 
could not, or would not, take the lib- 
erty of introducing me through the 
formality of a morning call. While I 
stood thus in despair, conversing with 





a trio of friends upon the all-absorbing ~ 


subject of my heart, it so happened 
that the subject itself passed by. 

“As I live, there she is!” cried one. 

“Surprisingly beautiful!” exclaimed a 
second. 

“An angel upon earth!” ejaculated a 
third. I looked; and in an open car- 
tiage which approached us, passing 


slowly down the street, sat the enchant- 
ing vision of the opera, accompanied by 
the younger lady who had occupied a 
portion of her box. 

“Her companion also wears remark- 
ably well,” said the one of my trio who 
had spoken first. 

“Astonishingly,’ said the second; 
“still quite a brilliant air; but art will. 
do wonders. Upon my word, she looks 
better than she did at Paris five years 
ago. A beautiful woman still:—don’t 
you think so, FroissartPp—Simpson, I 
mean.” 

“Still!” said I, “and why shouldn’t 
she be? But compared with her friend 
she is as a rush-light to the evening star 
—a glow-worm to Antares.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you 
have an astonishing tact at making dis- 
coveries—original ones, I mean.” And 
here we separated, while one of the trio 
began humming a gay vaudeville, of 
which I caught only the lines— 


* Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas— 
A bas Ninon De L’Enclos! 


During this little scene, however, one 
thing had served greatly to console me, 
although it fed the passion by which I 
was consumed. As the carriage of Ma- 
dame Lalande rolled by our group, I 
had observed that she recognized me; 
and more than this, she had blessed 
me, by the most seraphic of all imagin- 
able smiles, with no equivocal mark of 
the recognition. 

As for an introduction, I was obliged 
to abandon all hope of it, until such 


time as Talbot should think proper to 


* A celebrated beauty of France and 
patroness of Voltaire-—Ed. 


592 


return from the country. In the mean- 
time I perseveringly frequented every 
reputable place of public amusement; 
and, at length, at the theatre, where I 
first saw her, I had the supreme bliss 
of meeting her, and of exchanging 
glances with her once again. This did 
not occur, however, until the lapse of 
a fortnight. Every day, in the interim, 
I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, 
and every day had been thrown into a 
spasm of wrath by the everlasting “Not 
come home yet” of his footman. 

Upon the evening in question, there- 
fore, I was in a condition little short 
of madness. Madame Lalande, I had 
been told, was a Parisian—had lately 
arrived from Paris—might she not sud- 
dently returnP—return before Talbot 
came back—and might she not be thus 
lost to me forever? The thought was 
too terrible to bear. Since my future 
happiness was at issue, I resolved to 
act with a manly decision. In a word, 
upon the breaking up of the play, I 
traced the lady to her residence, noted 
the address, and the next morning sent 
her a full and elaborate letter, in which 
I poured out my whole heart. 

I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I 
spoke with passion. I concealed noth- 
ing—nothing even of my weakness. I 
alluded to the romantic circumstances 
of our first meeting—even to the glances 
which had passed between us. I went 
so far as to say that I felt assured of 
her love; while I offered this assurance, 
and my own intensity of devotion, as 
two excuses for my otherwise unpardon- 
able conduct. As a third, I spoke of 
my fear that she might quit the city 
before I could have the opportunity 
of a formal introduction. I concluded 
the most wildly enthusiastic epistle ever 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


penned, with a frank declaration of my 
worldly circumstances—of my affluence 
—and with an offer of my heart and of 
my hand. 

In an agony of expectation I awaited © 
the reply. After what seemed the lapse 
of a century it came. 

Yes, actually came. Romantic as all 
this may appear, I really received a 
letter from Madame Lalande—the beau- 
tiful, the wealthy, the idolized Ma- 
dame Lalande. Her eyes—her mag- 
nificent eyes, had not belied her noble 
heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as 
she was she had obeyed the frank dic- 
tates of her reason—the generous im- 
pulses of her nature—despising the con- 
ventional pruderies of the world. She 
had not scorned my proposals. She had 
not sheltered herself in silence. She 
had not returned my letter unopened. 
She had even sent me, in reply, one 
penned by her own exquisite fingers. 
It ran thus: 

“Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me 
for not compose de butefulle tong of 
his contree so vell as might. It is only 
de late dat I am arrive, and not yet 
ave do opportunite for to—l’etudier. 

“Vid dis apologie for the maniere, I 
vill now say dat, helas!—Monsieur 
Simpson ave guess but de too true. 
Need I say de more? Helas! am I not 
ready speak de too moshe? _ 

“EUGENIE LALANDE.” 


This noble-spirited note I kissed a 
million times, and committed, no doubt, 
on its account, a thousand other ex- 
travagances that have now escaped my 
memory. Still Talbot would not re- 
turn. Alas! could he have formed even 
the vaguest idea of the suffering his 
absence had occasioned his friend, would 








THE SPECTACLES 


not his sympathizing nature have flown 
immediately to my relief? Still, how- 
ever, he came not. I wrote. He re- 
plied. He was detained by urgent 
business—but would shortly return. He 
begged me not to be impatient—to 
moderate my transports—to read sooth- 
ing books—to drink nothing stronger 
than Hock—and to bring the consola- 
tions of philosophy to my aid. The 
fool! if he could not come himself, 
why, in the name of every thing ra- 
tional, could he not have enclosed me a 
letter of presentation? I wrote him 
again, entreating him to forward one 
forthwith. My letter was returned by 
that footman, with the following en- 
dorsement in pencil. The scoundrel had 
joined his master in the country: 


“Left S yesterday, for parts un- 
known—did not say where—or when be 
back—so thought best to return letter, 
knowing your handwriting, and as how 
you is always, more or less, in a hurry. 

“Yours sincerely, 





“STUBBS.” 


After this, it is needless to say, that 
I devoted to the infernal deities both 
master and valet:—but there was little 
use in anger, and no consolation at all 
in complaint. 

But I had yet a resource left, in my 
constitutional audacity. Hitherto it had 
served me well, and I now resolved 
to make it avail me to the end. Be- 
sides, after the correspondence which 
had passed between us, what act of 
mere informality could I commit, with- 
in bounds, that ought to be regarded 
as indecorous by Madame Lalande? 
Since the affair of the letter, I had 
been in the habit of watching her house, 
and thus discovered that, about twi- 


-recency of this date. 


593 


light, it was her custom to promenade, 
attended only by a negro in livery, in a 
public square overlooked by her win- 
dows. .Here, amid the luxuriant and 
shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of 
a sweet mid-summer evening, I ob- 
served my opportunity and accosted 
her. 

The better to deceive the servant in 
attendance, I did this with the assured 
air of an old and familiar acquaintance. 
With a presence of mind truly Parisian, 
she took the cue at once, and, to greet 
me, held out the most bewitchingly little 
of hands. The valet at once fell into 
the rear; and now, with hearts full to 
overflowing, we discoursed long and 
unreservedly of our love. 

As Madame Lalande spoke English 
even less fluently than she wrote it, our 
conversation was necessarily in French. 
In this sweet tongue, so adapted to pas- 
sion, I gave loose to the impetuous en- 
thusiasm of my nature, and, with all 
the eloquence I could command, be- 
sought her to consent to an immediate 
marriage. 

At this impatience she smiled. She 
urged the old story of decorum—that 
bug-bear which deters so many from 
bliss until the opportunity for bliss has 
forever gone by. I had most impru- 
dently made it known among my friends, 
she observed, that I desired her ac- 
quaintance—thus that I did not possess 
it—thus, again, there was no possibility 
of concealing the date of our first 
knowledge of each other. And then she 
adverted, with a blush, to the extreme 
To wed imme- 
diately would be improper—would be 
indecorous—would be outre. All this 
she said with a charming air of naivete 
which enraptured while it grieved and 


594 


convinced me. She went even so far 
as to accuse me, laughingly, of rashness 
—of imprudence. She bade me remem- 
ber that I really even know not who 
she was—what were her prospects, her 
connections, her standing in society. 
She begged me, but with a sigh, to re- 
consider my proposal, and termed my 
love an infatuation—a will o’ the wisp 
—a fancy or fantasy of the moment— 
a baseless and unstable creation rather 
of the imagination than of the heart. 
These things she uttered as the shadows 
of the sweet twilight gathered darkly 
and more darkly around us—and then, 
with a gentle pressure of her fairy-like 
-Yand, overthrew, in a single sweet in- 
stant, all the argumentative fabric she 
had reared. 

I replied as best I could—as only a 
true lover can. I spoke at length, and 
perseveringly of my devotion, of my 
passion—of her exceeding beauty, 
and of my own enthusiastic admiration. 
In conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing 
energy, upon the perils that encompass 
the course of love—that course of true 
love that never did run smooth—and 
thus deduced the manifest danger of 
rendering that course unnecessarily long. 

This latter argument seemed finally 
to soften the rigor of her determina- 
tion. She relented; but there was yet 
an obstacle, she said, which she felt as- 
sured I had not properly considered. 
This was a delicate point—for a woman 
to urge, especially so; in mentioning 
it, she saw that she must make a sac- 
rifice of her feelings; still, for me, every 
sacrifice should be made. 
to the topic of age. Was I aware—was 
I fully aware of the discrepancy be- 
tween us? That the age of the husband. 


She alluded: 


tical reply of her own. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


should surpass by a few years—even 
by fifteen or twenty—the age of the 
wife, was regarded by the world as ad- 
missible, and, indeed, as even proper; | 
but she had always entertained the be- 
lief that the years of the wife should 
never exceed in number those of the © 
husband. A discrepancy of this un- 
natural kind gave rise, too frequently, 
alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now 
she was aware that my own age did not © 
exceed two and twenty; and I, on the 
contrary, perhaps, was not aware that — 
the years of my Eugenie extended very 
considerably beyond that sum. | 
About all this there was a nobility of | 
soul—a dignity of candor—which de- | 
lighted—which enchanted me—which © 
eternally riveted my chains. I could | 
scarcely restrain the excessive transport | 
which possessed me. A 
“My sweetest Eugenie,’ I cried, | 
“what is all this about which you are | 
discoursing? Your years surpass in | 
some measure my own. But what then? | 
The customs of the world are so many © 
conventional follies. To those who 
love as ourselves, in what respect dif- | 
fers a year from an hour? I am twenty- © 
two, you say; granted: indeed, you may 
as well call me, at once, twenty-three. 
Now you yourself, my dearest Eu- 
genie, can have numbered no more than 
—can have numbered no more than— 
no more than—than—than—than—” 
Here I paused for an instant, in the 
expectation that Madame Lalande would 
interrupt me by supplying her true age. 
But a French-woman is seldom direct, 
and has always, by way of answer to 
an embarrassing query, some little prac- 
In the present 
instance, Eugenie, who for a few mo- 




















THE SPECTACLES 


ments past had seemed to be searching 
for something in her bosom, at length 
let fall upon the grass a miniature, which 


I immediately picked up and presented - 


to her. 

“Keep it!” she said, with one of her 
most ravishing smiles. ‘Keep it for 
my sake—for the sake of her whom 
it too flatteringly represents. Besides, 
upon the back of the trinket you may 
discover, perhaps, the very information 
you seem to desire. It is now, to be 
sure, growing rather dark—but you can 
examine it at your leisure in the morn- 
ing. In the meantime, you shall be my 
escort home to-night. My friends are 
about holding a little musical levee. I 
can promise you, too, some good sing- 
ing. We French are not nearly so 
punctilious as you Americans, and I 
shall have no difficulty in smuggling 
you in, in the character of an old 
acquaintance.” 

With this, she took my arm, and I 
attended her home. The mansion was 
quite a fine one, and, I believe, fur- 
nished in good taste. Of this latter 
point, however, I am scarcely qualified 
to judge; for it was just dark as we 
arrived; and in American mansions of 
the better sort lights seldom, during the 
heat of summer, make their appear- 
ance at this, the most pleasant period 
of the day. In about an hour after 
my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded 
solar lamp was lit in the principal 
drawing-room; and this apartment, I 
could thus see, was arranged with un- 
usual good taste and even splendor; 
but two other rooms of the suite, and 
in which the company chiefly assem- 
bled, remained, during the whole eve- 
ning, in a very agreeable shadow. This 
is a well-conceived custom, giving the 


595 


party at least a choice of light or 
shade, and one which our friends over 
the water could not do better than 
immediately adopt. 

The evening thus spent was unques- 
tionably the most delicious of my life. 
Madame Lalande had not overrated 
the musical abilities of her friends; 
and the singing I here heard I had 
never heard excelled in any private 
circle out of Vienna. The instrumental 
performers were many and of superior 
talents. The vocalists were chiefly 
ladies, and no individual sang less than 
well. At length, upon a peremptory 
call for ‘““Madame Lalande,” she arose 
at once, without affectation or demur, 
from the chaise longue upon which she 
had sat by my side, and, accompanied 
by one or two gentlemen and her fe- 
male friend of the opera, repaired to 
the piano in the main drawing-room. 
I would have escorted her myself, but 
felt that, under the circumstances of 
my introduction to the house, I had 
better remain unobserved where I was. 
I was thus deprived of the pleasure of 
seeing, although not of hearing, her 
sing. 

The impression she produced upon 
the company seemed electrical—but 
the effect upon myself was something 
even more. I know not how ade- 
quately to describe it. It arose in part, 
no doubt, from the sentiment of love 
with which I was imbued; but chiefly 
from my conviction of the extreme 
sensibility of the singer. It is beyond 
the reach of art to endow either air or 
recitative with more impassioned ex- 
pression than was hers. Her utterance 
of the romance in Otello—the tone with 
which she gave the words “Sul mio 
sasso,” in the Capuletti—is ringing in 


596 


my memory yet. Her lower tones were 
absolutely miraculous. Her voice em- 
braced three complete octaves, extend- 
ing from the contralto D to the D 
upper soprano, and, though sufficiently 
powerful to have filled the San Carlos, 
executed, with the minutest precision, 
every difficulty of vocal composition— 
ascending and descending scales, ca- 
dences, or fiorituri. In the finale of 
the Somnambula, she brought about a 
most remarkable effect at the words: 


Ah! non guinge uman pensiero 
Al contento ond ’io son piena. 


Here, in imitation of Malibran, she 
modified the original phrase of Bellini, 
so as to let her voice descend to the 
tenor G, when, by a rapid transition, 
she struck the G above the treble stave, 
springing over an interval of two oc- 
taves. 

Upon rising from the piano after 
these miracles of vocal execution, she 
resumed her seat by my side; when I 
expressed to her, in terms of the 
deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her 
performance. Of my surprise I said 
nothing, and yet was I most unfeign- 
edly surprised; for a certain feebleness, 
or rather a certain tremulous indecision 
of voice in ordinary conversation, had 
prepared me to anticipate that, in sing- 
ing, she would not acquit herself with 
any remarkable ability. 

Our conversation was now long, earn- 
est, uninterrupted, and totally unre- 
served. She made me relate many of 
the earlier passages of my life, and 
listened with breathless attention to 
every word of the narrative. I con- 
cealed nothing—felt that I had a right 
to conceal nothing—from her confiding 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


affection. Encouraged by her candor 
upon the delicate point of her age, I 
entered, with perfect frankness, not 


only into a detail of my many minor 


vices, but made full confession of those 
moral and even of those physical in- 
firmities, the disclosure of which, in 
demanding so much higher a degree of 
courage, is so much surer an evidence 
of love. I touched upon my college 
indiscretions—upon my _ extravagances 
—upon my carousals—upon my debts 
—upon my flirtations. I even went so 
far as to speak of a slightly hectic cough 
with which, at one time, I had been 
troubled—of a chronic rheumatism—of 
a twinge of hereditary gout—and, in 
conclusion, of the disagreeable and in- 
convenient, but hitherto carefully con- 
cealed, weakness of my eyes. 

“Upon this latter point,’ said Ma- 
dame Lalande, laughingly, “you have 
been surely injudicious in coming to 
confession; for, without the confession, 
I take it for granted that no one would 
have accused you of the crime. By the 
by,” she continued, “have you any 
recollection—” and here I fancied that 
a blush, even through the gloom of the 
apartment, became distinctly visible 
upon her cheek—‘“‘have you any recol- 
lection, mon cher ami, of this little 
ocular assistant which now depends 
from my neck?” 

As she spoke she twirled in her fin- 
gers the identical double eye-glass 
which had so overwhelmed me with 
confusion at the opera. 

“Full well—alas! do I remember it,” 
T exclaimed, pressing passionately the 
delicate hand which offered the glasses 
for my inspection. They formed a 
complex and magnificent toy, richly 
chased and filigreed, and gleaming with 








THE SPECTACLES 


jewels which, even in the deficient 
light, I could not help perceiving were 
of high value. 

“Eh bien! mon ami,’ she resumed 
with a certain empressment of manner 
that rather surprised me—“Eh bien! 
mon ami, you have earnestly besought 
of me a favor which you have been 
pleased to denominate priceless. You 
have demanded of me my hand upon 
the morrow. Should I yield to your 
entreaties—and, I may add, to the 
pleadings of my own bosom—would I 
not be entitled to demand of you a 
very—a very little boon in return?” 

“Name it!” I exclaimed with an 
energy that had nearly drawn upon us 
the observation of the company, and 
restrained by their presence alone from 
throwing myself impetuously at her 
feet. ‘Name it, my beloved, my Eu- 
genie, my own!—name it!—but, alas! 
it is already yielded ere named.” 

“You shall conquer, then, mon ami,” 
said she, “for the sake of the Eugenie 
whom you love, this little weakness 
which you have at last confessed—this 
weakness more moral than physical— 
and which, let me assure you, is so 
unbecoming the nobility of your real 
nature—so inconsistent with the candor 
of your usual character—and which, 
if permitted further control, will as- 
suredly involve you, sooner or later, in 
some very disagreeable scrape. You 
shall conquer, for my sake, this affecta- 
tion which leads you, as you yourself 
acknowledge, to the tacit or implied 
denial of your infirmity of vision. For, 
this infirmity you virtually deny, in 
refusing to employ the customary 
means for its relief. You will under- 
stand me to say, then, that I wish you 
to wear spectacles;—ah, hush!—you 


597 


have already consented to wear them, 
for my sake. You shall accept the 
little toy which I now hold in my hand, 
and which, though admirable as an aid 
to vision, is really of no very immense 
value as a gem. You perceive that, by 
a trifling modification thus—or thus— 
it can be adapted to the eyes in the 
form of spectacles, or worn in the 
waistcoat pocket as an eye-glass. It is 
in the former mode, however, and 
habitually, that you have already con- 
sented to wear it for my sake.” 

This request—must I confess it?P— 
confused me in no little degree. But 
the condition with which it was coupled 
rendered hesitation, of course, a matter 
altogether out of the question. 

“Tt is done!” I cried, with all the 
enthusiasm that I could muster at the 
moment. ‘It is done—it is most cheer- 
fully agreed. TI sacrifice every feeling 
for your sake. To-night I wear this 
dear eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and 
upon my heart; but with the earliest 
dawn of that morning which gives me 
the pleasure of calling you wife, I will 
place it upon my—upon my nose,—and 
there wear it ever afterward, in the less 
romantic, and less fashionable, but cer- 


tainly in the more serviceable, form 


which you desire.” 

Our conversation now turned upon 
the details of our arrangements for 
the morrow. Talbot, I learned from 
my betrothed, had just arrived in 
town. I was to see him at once, and 
procure a carriage. The soiree would 
scarcely break up before two; and by 
this hour the vehicle was to be at the 
door; when, in the confusion occa- 
sioned by the departure of the com- 
pany, Madame L. could easily enter it 
unobserved. We were then to call at 


508 | WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the house of a clergyman who would 
be in waiting; there be married, drop 
Talbot, and proceed on a short tour 
to the East, leaving the fashionable 
world at home to make whatever com- 
ments upon the matter it thought best. 

Having planned all this, I immedi- 
ately took leave, and went in search 
of Talbot, but, on the way, I could 
not refrain from stepping into a hotel, 
for the purpose of inspecting the 
miniature; and this I did by the 
powerful aid of the glasses. The 
countenance was a surpassingly beau- 
tiful one! Those large luminous eyes! 
—that proud Grecian nose!—those 
dark luxuriant curls!—‘“Ah!” said I, 
exultingly to myself, “this is indeed 
the speaking image of my beloved!” 
I turned the reverse, and discovered 
the words—‘‘Eugenie Lalande—aged 
twenty-seven years and seven months.” 

I found Talbot at home, and pro- 
ceeded at once to acquaint him with 
my good fortune. He professed ex- 
cessive astonishment, of course, but 
congratulated me most cordially, and 
proffered every assistance in his power. 
In a word, we carried out our arrange- 
ment to the letter, and, at two in the 


morning, just ten minutes after the 


ceremony, I found myself in a close 
carriage with Madame Lalande—with 
Mrs. Simpson, I should say—and driv- 
ing at a great rate out of town, in a 
direction northeast by north, half- 
north. 

It had been determined for us by 
Talbot, that, as we were to be up all 
night, we should make our first stop 
at C , a village about twenty miles 
from the city, and there get an early 
breakfast and some repose, before pro- 
ceeding upon our route. At four 





precisely, therefore, the carriage drew 
up at the door of the principal inn. 
I handed my adored wife out, and 
ordered breakfast forthwith. In the 
meantime we were shown into a small 
parlor, and sat down. A 

It was now nearly if not altogether 
daylight; and, as I gazed, enraptured, 
at the angel by my side, the singular 
idea came, all at once, into my head, 
that this was really the very first mo- 
ment since my acquaintance with the 
celebrated loveliness of Madame La- 
lande, that I had enjoyed a near in- 
spection of that loveliness by daylight 
at all. 

“And now, mon ami,” said she, tak- 
ing my hand, and so interrupting this 
train of reflection, “and now, mon 
cher ami, since we are indissolubly 
one—since I have yielded to your 
passionate entreaties, and performed 
my portion of our agreement—I pre- 
sume you have not forgotten that you 
also have a little favor to bestow—a 
little promise which it is your inten- 
tion to keep. Ah! let me see! Let 
me remember! Yes; full easily do I 
call to mind the precise words of the 
dear promise you made to Eugenie 
last night. Listen! You spoke thus: 
‘It is done!—it is most cheerfully 
agreed! TI sacrifice every feeling for 
your sake. To-night I wear this dear 
eye-glass as an eye-glass, and upon my 
heart; but with the earliest dawn of 
that morning which gives me the 
privilege of calling you wife, I will 
place it upon my—upon my nose,—and 
there wear it ever afterward, in the 
less romantic, and less fashionable, but 
certainly in the more serviceable, form 
which you desire.’ These were the 








THE SPECTACLES 


exact words, my beloved husband, 
were they not?” 

“They were,’ I said; “you have an 
excellent memory; and assuredly, my 
beautiful Eugenie, there is no dispo- 
sition on my part to evade the per- 
formance of the trivial promise they 
imply. See! Behold! They are be- 
~coming—rather—are they not?” And 
here, having arranged the glasses in 
the ordinary form of spectacles, I 
applied them gingerly in their proper 
position; while Madame Simpson, ad- 
justing her cap, and folding her arms, 
sat bolt upright in her chair, in a 
somewhat stiff and prim, and indeed, 
in a somewhat undignified position. 

“Goodness gracious me!” I ex- 
claimed, almost at the very instant 
that the rim of the spectacles had 
settled upon my nose—“My!/ goodness 
gracious me!—why, what can be the 
matter with these glasses?” and tak- 
ing them quickly off, I wiped them 
carefully with a silk handkerchief, and 
adjusted them again. 

But if, in the first instance, there 
had occurred something which occa- 
sioned me surprise, in the second, this 
surprise became elevated into aston- 
ishment; and this astonishment was 
profound—was extreme—indeed I may 
say it was horrific. What, in the 
name of everything hideous, did this 
mean? Could I believe my eyes?P— 
could 1?—that was the question. Was 
that—was that—was that rouge? And 
were those—and were those—were 
those wrinkles, upon the visage of 
Eugenie Lalande? And oh! Jupiter, 
and every one of the gods and god- 
desses, little and big!—what—what— 
what—what had become of her teeth? 
1 dashed the spectacles violently to 


599 


the ground, and, leaping to my feet, 
stood erect in the middle of the floor, 
confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my 
arms set a-kimbo, and grinning and 
foaming, but, at the same time, ut- 
terly speechless with terror and with 
rage. 

Now I have already said that Ma. 
dame Eugenie Lalande—that is to say, 
Simpson—spoke the English language 
but very little better than she wrote 
it; and for this reason she very prop- 
erly never attempted to speak it upon 
ordinary occasions. But rage will 
carry a lady to any extreme; and in 
the present case it carried Mrs. Simp- 
son to the very extraordinary extreme 
of attempting to hold a conversation 
in a tongue that she did not altogether 
understand. 

“Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after 
surveying me, in great apparent as- 
tonishment, for some moments—“Vell, 
MonsieurP—and vat den?—vat de 
matter now? Is it de dance of de 
Saint Vitusse dat you ave? If not 
like me, vat for vy buy de pig in de 
poke?” 

“You wretch!” said I, catching my 
breath — ‘‘you— you—— you villainous 
old hag!” 

“Ag?—ole?-—me not so ver ole, 
after all! Me not one single day more 
dan de eighty-doo.” 

“KEighty-two!” I ejaculated, stagger- 
ing to the wall—‘“eighty-two hundred 
thousand baboons! The miniature 
said twenty-seven years and _ seven 
months!” 

“To be sure!—dat is so!—ver true! 
but den de portraite has been take 
for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go 
marry my segonde usbande, Monsieur 
Lalande, at dat time I had de por- 


1? 


600 


traite take for my daughter by my 
first usbande, Monsieur Moissart!” 

“Moissart!” said J. 

“Ves, Moissart,’ said she, mimick- 
ing my pronunciation, which to speak 
the truth, was none of the best; “and 
vat den? Vat you know about de 
Moissart ?” 

“Nothing, you old fright!—I know 
nothing about him at all; only I had 
an ancestor of that name, once upon 
a time.” 

“Dat name! and vat you ave for 
say to dat name? °Tis ver goot name; 
and so is Voissart—dat is ver goot 
name too. My daughter, Mademoi- 
selle Moissart, she marry von Mon- 
sieur Voissart; and de name is both 
ver respectaable name.” 

“Moissart?” I exclaimed, “and Vois- 
sart! Why, what is it you mean?” 

“Vat I mean?—I mean Moissart 
and Voissart; and for de matter of 
dat, I mean Croissart and Froissart, 
too, if I only tink proper to mean it. 
My daughter’s daughter, Mademoiselle 
Voissart, she marry von Monsieur 
Croissart, and den agin, my daughter’s 
grande daughter, Mademoiselle Crois- 
sart, she marry von Monsieur Frois- 
sart; and I suppose you say dat dat 
is not von ver respectaable name.” 

“Froissart!”? said JI, beginning to 
faint, “why, surely you don’t say 
Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, 
and Froissart?” 

“Yes,” she replied, leaning fully 
back in her chair, and stretching out 
her lower limbs at great length; ‘“‘yes, 
Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, 
and Froissart. But Monsieur Frois- 
sart, he vas von ver big vat you call 
fool—he vas von ver great big donce 
like vourself—for he lef la belle 


pigeon-wings, | 
Froissart!” as she completed another — 
—‘‘Moissart and Voissart and Crois- | 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


France for come to dis stupide Ame- 


rique—and ven he get here he vent | 


and ave von ver stupide, von ver, Ver 
stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I not 
yet av ad de plaisir to meet vid him— 
neither me nor my companion, de Ma- 
dame Stephanie Lalande. He is name 
de Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart, and 
I suppose you say dat dat, too, is not 
von ver respectable name.” 

Either the length or the nature of 
this speech, had the effect of working 
up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraor- 
dinary passion indeed; and as_ she 
made an end of it, with great labor, 


she jumped up from her chair like © 
somebody bewitched, dropping upon | 
the floor an entire universe of bustle | 


as she jumped. Once upon her feet, 


she gnashed her gums, brandished her | 
sleeves, shook her © 
and concluded the © 


arms, rolled up he- 
fist in my face, 
performance by tearing the cap from 


her head, and with it an immense wig | 


of the most valuable and _ beautiful 
black hair, the whole of which she 
dashed upon the ground with a yell, 


and there trampled and danced a 


fandango upon it, in an absolute 
ecstasy and agony of rage. 

Meantime I sank aghast into the 
chair which she had vacated. ‘“Mois- 
sart and  Voissart!” I repeated, 
thoughtfully, as she cut one of her 
and “Croissart and 


sart and Napoleon Bonaparte Frois- 
sart!—why, you ineffable old serpent, 
that’s me—that’s 


that’s me”’—here I screamed at the 


top of my voicé—‘that’s me-e-e! TI | 


am Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart! and | 
if I have not married my great, great. 


me—d’ye hearP— | 












THE SPECTACLES 


grandmother, I wish I may be ever- 
lastingly confounded!” 

Madame Eugenie Lalande, quasi 
Simpson—formerly Moissart—was, in 
sober fact, my great, great, grand- 
mother. In her youth she had been 
beautiful, and even at eighty-two, re- 
tained the majestic height, the sculp- 
tural contour of head, the fine eyes 
and the Grecian nose of her girlhood. 
By the aid of these, of pearl-powder, 
or rouge, of false hair, false teeth, 
and false tournure, as well as of the 
most skilful modistes of Paris, she 
contrived to hold a respectable foot- 
ing among the beauties en peu passees 
of the French metropolis. In this 
respect, indeed, she might have been 
regarded as little less than the equal 
of the celebrated Ninon De L’Enclos. 
’ She was immensely wealthy, and 
being left, for the second time, a 
widow without children, she bethought 
herself of my existence in America, 
and for the purpose of making me 
her heir, paid a visit to the United 
States, in company with a distant 
and exceedingly lovely relative of her 
second husband’s—a Madame Stepha- 
nie Lalande. 

At the opera, my great, great, 
grandmother’s attention was arrested 
by my notice; and, upon surveying me 
through her eye-glass, she was struck 
with a certain family resemblance to 
herself. Thus interested, and knowing 
that the heir she sought was actually 
in the city, she made inquiries of her 
party respecting me. The gentleman 
who attended her knew my person, 
and told her who I was. The infor- 
mation thus obtained induced her to 
renew her scrutiny; and this scrutiny 
it was which so emboldened me that I 


601 


behaved in the absurd manner already 
detailed. She returned my bow, how- 
ever, under the impression that, by 
some odd accident, I had discovered 
her identity. When, deceived by my 
weakness of vision, and the arts of the 
toilet, in respect to the age and charms 
of the strange lady, I demanded so 
enthusiastically of Talbot who she 
was, he concluded that I meant the 
younger beauty, as a matter of course, 
and so informed me, with perfect 
truth, that she was “the celebrated 
widow, Madame Lalande.” 

In the street, next morning, my 
great, great, grandmother encountered 
Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; 
and the conversation, very naturally, 
turned upon myself. My deficiencies 
of vision were then explained; for 
these were notorious, although I was 
entirely ignorant of their notoriety; 
and my good old relative discovered, 
much to her chagrin, that she had 
been deceived in supposing me aware 
of her identity, and that I had been 
merely making a fool of myself in 
making open love, in a theatre, to an 
old woman unknown. By way of 
punishing me for this imprudence, she 
concocted with Talbot a plot. He 
purposely kept out of my way to 
avoid giving me the introduction. My 
street inquiries about “the lovely 
widow, Madame Lalande,” were sup- 
posed to refer to the younger lady, 
of course; and thus the conversation 
with the three gentlemen whom I 
encountered shortly after leaving Tal- 
bot’s hotel will be easily explained, as 
also their allusion to Ninon De L’En- 
clos. I had no opportunity of seeing 
Madame Lalande closely during day- 


602 


light, and, at her musical soiree, my 
silly weakness in refusing the aid of 
glasses effectually prevented me from 
making a discovery of her age. When 
“Madame Lalande” was called upon to 
sing, the younger lady was intended; 
and it was she who arose to obey the 
call; my great, great, grandmother, to 
further the deception, arising at the 
same moment and accompanying her 
to the piano in the main drawing- 
room. Had I decided upon escorting 
her thither, it had been her design to 
suggest the propriety of my remaining 
where I was; but my own prudential 
views rendered this unnecessary. The 
songs which I so much admired, and 
which so confirmed my impression of 
the youth of my mistress, were exe- 
cuted by Madame Stephanie Lalande. 
The eye-glass was presented by way 
of adding a reproof to the hoax—a 
sting to the epigram of the deception. 
Its presentation afforded an oppor- 
tunity for the lecture upon affectation 
with which I was so especially edified. 
It is almost superfluous to add that 
the glasses of the instrument, as worn 
by the old lady, had been exchanged 
by her for a pair better adapted to my 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


years. They suited me, in fact, to 
apr. 

The clergyman, who merely pre- 
tended to tie the fatal knot, was a 
boon companion of Talbot’s, and no 
priest. He was an excellent “whip,” 
however; and having doffed his cas- 
sock to put on a great-coat, he drove 
the hack which conveyed the “happy 
couple” out of town. Talbot took a 
seat at his side. The two scoundrels 
were thus “in at the death,’ and 
through a _ half-open window of the 
back parlor of the inn, amused them- 
selves in grinning at the denouement 
of the drama. I believe I shall be 
forced to call them hoth out. 

Nevertheless, I am not the husband 
of my great, great, grandmother; and 
this is a reflection which affords me 
infinite relief;—but I am the husband 
of Madame Lalande—of Madame Ste- 
phanie Lalande—with whom my good 
old relative, besides making me her 
sole heir when she dies—if she ever 
does—has been at the trouble of ccn- 
cocting me a match. In conclusion: 
I am done forever with billets doux, 
and am never to be met without 
SPECTACLES. 


Three Sundays in a Week 


(First published in Saturday Evening Post, November, 1841. 


This tale is also 


called A Succession of Sundays.—Ed.) 


“You hard-headed, dunder-headed, 
obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty, fusty, 
old savage!” said I, in fancy, one after- 
noon, to my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon— 
shaking my fist at him in imagination. 

Only in imagination. The fact is, 
some trivial discrepancy did exist, just 


then, between what I said and what I 
had not the courage to say—between 


- what I did and what I had half a mind 


to do. 

The old porpoise, as I opened the 
drawing-room door, was sitting with his 
feet upon the mantel-piece, and a 





























THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK 


bumper of port in his paw, making 
strenuous efforts to accomplish the 
ditty. 

Remplis ton verre vide! 

Vide ton verre plein! 
“My dear uncle,” said I, closing the 
door gently, and approaching him with 
the blandest of smiles, “‘you are always 
so very kind and considerate, and have 
evinced your benevolence in so many— 
so very many ways—that—that I feel 
I have only to suggest this little point 
to you once more to make sure of your 
full acquiescence.” 

“Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!” 

“T am sure, my dearest uncle [you 
confounded old rascal!], that you have 
no design really, seriously, to oppose 
my union with Kate. This is merely 
a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!— 
how very pleasant you are at times.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! 
yes!” 

“To be sure—of course! I knew you 
were jesting. Now, uncle, all that Kate 
and myself wish at present, is that you 
would oblige us with your advice as— 
as regards the time—you know, uncle— 
in short, when will it be most con- 
venient for yourself, that the wedding 
shall—shall—come off, you know?” 

“Come off, you scoundrel!—what do 
you mean by that?—Better wait till it 
goes on.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! 
hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh, 
that’s good!—oh that’s capital—such a 
wit! But all we want just now, you 
know, uncle, is that you would indicate 
the time precisely.” 

“Ah!—precisely?” 

“Ves, uncle—that is, if it would be 
quite agreeable to yourself.” 


603 


“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I 
were to leave it at random—some time 
within a year or so, for exampleP— 
must I say precisely?” 

“Tf you please, uncle—precisely.” 

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re 
a fine fellow, aren’t you?r—since you 
will have the exact time T’ll—why Ill 
oblige you for once.” 

“Dear uncle!” 

“Hush, sir!” [drowning my voice|— 
I'll oblige you for once. You shall have 
my consent—and the plum, we mus’n’t 
forget the plum—let me see! when 
shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it? 
Well, then, you shall be married pre- 
cisely — precisely, now mind! — when 
three Sundays come together in a 
week! Do you hear me, sir! What 
are you gaping at? I say, you shall 
have Kate and her plum when three 
Sundays come together in a week—but 
not til then—you young scapegrace— 
not till then, if I die for it. You know 
me—l’m a man of my word—now be 
off!” Here he swallowed his bumper 
of port, while I rushed from the room 
in despair. 

A very “fine old English gentleman,” 
was my granduncle Rumgudgeon, but 
unlike him of the song, he had his weak 
points. He was a little, pursy, pomp- 
ous, passionate semicircular somebody, 
with a red nose, a thick skull, a long 
purse, and a strong sense of his own 
consequence. With the best heart in 
the world, he contrived, through a pre- 
dominant whim of contradiction, to earn 
for himself, among those who only knew 
him superficially, the character of a 
curmudgeon. Like many excellent peo- 
ple, he seemed possessed with a spirit 
of tantalization, which might easily, at 
a casual glance, have been mistaken for 


604 


malevolence. To every request, a posi- 
tive “No!” was his immediate answer; 
but in the end—in the long, long end— 
there were exceedingly few requests 
which he refused. Against all attacks 
upon his purse he made the most sturdy 
defence; but the amount extorted from 
him, at last, was generally in direct 
ratio with the length of the siege and 
the stubbornness of the resistance. In 
charity no one gave more liberally or 
with a worse grace. 

For the fine arts, and especially for 
the belles-lettres, he entertained a pro- 
found contempt. With this he had 
been inspired by Casimir Perier, whose 
pert little query “A quoi un poete est 
il bon?” he was in the habit of quoting, 
with a very droll pronunciation, as the 
ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my 
own inkling for the Muses had excited 
his entire displeasure. He assured me 
one day, when I asked him for a new 
copy of Horace, that the translation of 
“Poeta nascitur non fit” was “a nasty 
poet for nothing fit’”—a remark which 
I took in high dudgeon. His repug- 
nance to “the humanities” had, also, 
much increased of late, by an acci- 
dental bias in favor of what he sup- 
posed to be natural science. Somebody 
had accosted him in the street, mistak- 
ing him for no less a personage than 
Doctor Dubble L. Dee, the lecturer on 
quack physics. This set him off at a 
tangent; and just at the epoch of this 
story—for story it is getting to be after 
all—my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon was 
accessible and pacific only upon points 
which happened to chime in with the 
caprioles of the hobby he was riding. 
For the rest, he laughed with his arms 
and legs, and his politics were stubborn 
and easily understood. He thought, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with Horsley, that “the people have 
nothing to do with the laws but te 
obey them.” 

IT had lived with the old gentleman 
all my life. My parents, in dying, haa 
bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. 
I believe the old villain loved me as his 
own child—nearly if not quite as well 
as he loved Kate—-but it was a dog’s 
existence that he led me, after all. From 
my first year until my fifth, he obliged 
me with very regular floggings. From 
five to fifteen, he threatened me, hourly, 
with the House of Correction. From 
fifteen to twenty, not a day passed in 
which he did not promise to cut me 
off with a shilling. I was a sad dog, it 
is true—but then it was a part of my 
nature—a point of my faith. In Kate, 
however, I had a firm friend, and I 
knew it. She was a good girl, and told 
me very sweetly that I might have her 
(plum and all) whenever I could badger 
my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon, into the 
necessary consent. Poor girl!—she was 
barely fifteen, and without this con- 
sent, her little amount in the funds 
was not come-at-able until five im- 
measurable summers had “dragged their 
slow length along.” What, then, to do? 
At fifteen, or even at twenty-one (for 
I had now passed my fifth olympiad) 
five years in prospect are very much 
the same as five hundred. In vain we 
besieged the old gentleman with im- 
portunities. Here was a piece de re- 
sistance (as Messieurs Ude and Carne 
would sav) which suited his perverse 
fancy to a T. It would have stirred 
the indignation of Job himself, to see 
how much like an old mouser he be- 
haved to us two poor wretched little 
mice. In his heart he wished for noth- 
ing more ardently than our union. He 











THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK 


had made up his mind to this all along. 
In fact, he would have given ten thou- 
sand pounds from his own _ pocket 
(Kate’s plum was her own) if he could 
have invented any thing like an excuse 
for complying with our very natural 
wishes. But then we had been so im- 
prudent as to broach the subject our- 
selves. Not to oppose it under such 
circumstances, I sincerely believe, was 
not in his power. 

I have said already that he had his 
weak points; but in speaking of these, 
I must not be understood as referring 


_ to his obstinacy: which was one of his 


strong points—“assurement ce n’ etait 
pas sa foible.’ When I mention his 
weakness I have allusion to a bizarre 
old-womanish superstition which beset 
him. He was great in dreams, portents, 
et id genus omne of rigmarole. He 
was excessively punctilious, too, upon 
small points of honor, and, after his 
own fashion, was a man of his word, 
beyond doubt. This was, in fact, one 
of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows 
he made no scruple of setting at naught, 
but the letter was a bond inviolable. 
Now it was this latter peculiarity in 
his disposition, of which Kate’s inge- 
nuity enabled us one fine day, not long 
after our interview in the dining-room, 
to take a very unexpected advantage, 
and, having thus, in the fashion of all 
modern bards and orators, exhausted in 
prolegomena, all the time at my com- 
mand, and nearly all the room at my 
disposal, I will sum up in a few words 
what constitutes the whole pith of the 
story. 

It happened then—so the Fates or- 
dered it—that among the naval ac- 
quaintances of my betrothed, were two 
gentlemen who had just set foot upon 


605 


the shores of England, after a year’s 
absence, each, in foreign travel. In 
company with these gentlemen, my 
cousin and I, preconcertedly paid uncle 
Rumgudgeon a visit on the afternoon 
of Sunday, October the tenth—yjust 
three weeks after the memorable deci- 
sion which had so cruelly defeated our 
hopes. For about half an hour the 
conversation ran upon ordinary topics; 
but at last, we contrived, quite natu- 
rally, to give it the following turn: 

Capt. Pratt. ‘Well I have been ab- 
sent just one year. Just one year 
to-day, as I live—let me see! yes!— 
this is October the tenth. You remem- 
ber, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day 
year to bid you good-bye. And by the 
way, it does seem something like a 
coincidence, does it not—that our 
friend, Captain Smitherton, here, has 
been absent exactly a year also—a year 
to-day!” 

Smitherton. “Yes! just one year to 
a fraction. You will remember, Mr. 
Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. 
Pratt on this very day, last year, to 
pay my parting respects.” 

Uncle. “Yes, yes, yes—I remember 
it very well—very queer indeed! Both 
of you gone just one year. A very 
strange coincidence, indeed! Just what 
Doctor Dubble L. Dee would denomi- 
nate an extraordinary concurrence of 
events. Doctor Dub—” 

Kate. [Interrupting.] “To be sure, 
papa, it zs something strange; but then 
Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton 
didn’t go altogether the same route, and 
that makes a difference, you know.” 

Uncle. “I don’t know any such 
thing, you huzzy! How should IP I 
think it only makes the matter more 
remarkable, Doctor Dubble L. Dee—” 


606 


Kate. “Why, papa, Captain Pratt 
went round Cape Horn, and Captain 
Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good 
Hope.” 

Uncle. ‘“Precisely!—the one went 
east and the other went west, you jade, 
and they both have gone quite round 
the world. By the by, Doctor Dubble 
L. Dee—” 

Myself. [Hurriedly.] ‘Captain Pratt, 
you must come and spend the evening 
with us to-morrow—you and Smither- 
ton—you can tell us all about your 
voyage, and we'll have a game of whist 
and—” 

Pratt. “Whist, my dear fellow—you 
forget. To-morrow will be Sunday. 
Some other evening—” 

Kate. ‘Oh, no. fie!—Robert’s not 
quite so bad as that. To-day’s Sunday.” 
Uncle. ‘To be sure—to be sure!” 

Pratt. “I beg both your pardons— 
but I can’t be so much mistaken. I 
know to-morrow’s Sunday, because—” 

Smitherton. {Much surprised.] “What 
are you all thinking about? Wasn’t 
yesterday Sunday, I should like to 
know?” 


All. “Yesterday, indeed! you are 
out!” 

Uncle. “To-day’s Sunday, I say— 
don’t J know?” - 

Pratt. “Oh no!—to-morrow’s Sun- 
day.” 

Smitherton. “You are all mad— 


every one of you. I am as positive 
that yesterday was Sunday as I am 
that I sit upon this chair.” 

Kate. [Jumping up eagerly.] “I see 
it—I see it all. Papa, this is a judg- 
ment upon you, about—about you know 
what. Let me alone, and I’ll explain 
it all in a minute. It’s a very simple 
thing, indeed. Captain Smitherton says 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


' that yesterday was Sunday: so it was; 


he is right. Cousin Bobby, and uncle 
and I say that to-day is Sunday: so it 
is; we are right. Captain Pratt main- 
tains that to-morrow will be Sunday: 
so it will; he is right, too. The fact 
is, we are all right, and thus three Sun- 
days have come together in a week.” 

Smitherton. [After a pause.] “By 
the by, Pratt, Kate has us completely. 
What fools we two are! Mr. Rum- 
gudgeon, the matter stands thus: the 
earth, you know, is twenty-four thoue 
sand miles in circumference. Now this 
globe of the earth turns upon its own 
axis —revolves— spins round — these 
twenty-four thousand miles of extent, 
going from west to east, in precisely 
twenty-four hours. Do you understand 
Mr. Rumgudgeon?—” 


Uncle. “To be sure—to be sure— 
Doctor Dub—” 
Smitherton. [Drowning his voice. ] 


“Well, sir; that is at the rate of one 
thousand miles per hour. Now, sup- 
pose that I sail from this position a 
thousand miles east. Of course I antici- 
pate the rising of the sun here at Lon- 
don by just one hour. I see the sun 
rise one hour before you do. Proceed- 
ing, in the same direction, yet another 
thousand miles, I anticipate the rising 
by two hours—another thousand, and 
I anticipate it by three hours, and so 
on, until I go entirely round the globe, 
and back to this spot, when, having 
gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I 
anticipate the rising of the London sun 
by no less than twenty-four hours; that 
is to say, I am a day zm advance of 
your time. Understand, eh?” 

Uncle. “But Dubble L. Dee—” 

Smitherton. [Speaking very loud.] 
“Captain Pratt, on the contrary, when 





THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


he had sailed a thousand miles west 
ef this position, was an hour, and when 
he had sailed twenty-four thousand 
miles west, was twenty-four hours, or 
one day, behind the time at London. 
Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday— 
thus, with you, to-day is Sunday—and 
thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will be 
Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rum- 


- gudgeon, it is positively clear that we 
are all right; for there can be no philo- 


The System of Dr. Tarr and 
Prof. Fether | 


(First published in Graham’s Magazine, November, 1845.—Ed.) 








_ establishment. 


Durine the autumn of 18—, while 
on a tour through the extreme southern 


_ provinces of France, my route led me 


within a few miles of a certain Maison 


_ de Sante or private Mad-house, about 
_ which I had heard much in Paris from 
my medical friends. 
visited a place of the kind, I thought 


As I had never 


the opportunity too good to be lost; 


_and so proposed to my travelling com- 
_panion (a gentleman with whom I had 
made casual acquaintance a few days 


before) that we should turn aside for 
an hour or so and look through the 
To this he objected— 
pleading haste in the first place, and in 
the second, a very usual horror at the 
sight of a lunatic. He begged me, 
however, not to let any mere courtesy 
towards himself interfere with the grati- 
fication of my curiosity, and said that 
he would ride on leisurely, so that I 
might overtake him. during the day, or 
at all events, during the next. As he 


607 


sophical reason assigned why the idea 
of one of us should have preference 
over that of the other.” 

Uncle. “My eyes!—well, Kate— 
well, Bobby!—this zs a judgment upon 
me, as you say. But I am a man of 
my word—mark that! you shail have 
her, boy, (plum and all,) when you 
please. Done up, by Jove! Three Sun- 
days all in a row! TJ’ll go, and take 
Dubble L. Dee’s opinion upon that.” 


bade me good-bye, I bethought me that 
there might be some difficulty in obtain- 
ing access to the premises, and men- 
tioned my fears on this point. He 
replied that, in fact, unless I had per- 
sonal knowledge of the superintendent, 
Monsieur Maillard, or some credential 
in the way of a letter, a difficulty might 
be found to exist, as the regulations of 
these private mad-houses were more 
rigid than the public hospital laws. For 
himself, he added, he had, some years 
since, made the acquaintance of Mail- 
lard, and would so far assist me as to 
ride up to the door and introduce me; 
although his feelings on the subject of 
lunacy would not permit of his entering 
the house. 

I thanked him, and, turning from the 
main road, we entered a grass-grown 
by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly 
lost itself in a dense forest, clothing 
the base of a mountain. Through this 
dank and gloomy wood we rode some 


608 


two miles, when the Maison de Sante 
came in view. It was a fantastic 
chateau, much dilapidated, and indeed 
scarcely tenantable through age and 
neglect. Its aspect inspired me with 
absolute dread, and, checking my horse, 
I half resolved to turn back. I soon, 
however, grew ashamed of my weak- 
ness, and proceeded. 

As we rode up to the gate-way, I 
perceived it slightly open, and the vis- 
age of a man peering through. In an 
instant afterward, this man came forth, 
accosted my companion by name, shook 
him cordially by the hand, and begged 
him to alight. It was Monsieur Mail- 
lard himself. He was a portly, fine- 
looking gentleman of the old school, 
with a polished manner, and a certain 
air of gravity, dignity, and authority 
which was very impressive. 

My friend, having presented me, 
mentioned my desire to inspect the 
establishment, and received Monsieur 
Maillard’s assurance that he would 
show me all attention, now took leave, 
and I saw him no more. 

When he had gone, the  superin- 
tendent ushered me into a small and 
exceedingly neat parlor, containing, 
among other indications of refined 
taste, many books, drawings, pots of 
flowers, and musical instruments. A 
cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. 
At a piano, singing an aria from Bellini, 
sat a young and very beautiful woman, 
who, at my entrance, paused in her 
song, and received me with graceful 
courtesy. Her voice was low, and her 
whole manner subdued. I thought, too, 
that I perceived the traces of sorrow 
in her countenance, which was exces- 
sively, although to my taste, not un- 
pleasingly, pale. She was attired in 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


deep mourning, and excited in my 
bosom a feeling of mingled respect, 
interest, and admiration. 

I had heard, at Paris, that the insti- 
tution of Monsieur Maillard was man- 
aged upon what is vulgarly termed the 
“system of soothing’—that all punish- 
ments were avoided—that even confine- 
ment was seldom resorted to—that the 
patients, while secretly watched, were 
left much apparent liberty, and that — 
most of them were permitted to roam 
about the house and grounds in the 
ordinary apparel of persons in right 
mind. 

Keeping these impressions in view, I — 
was cautious in what I said before the 
young lady; for I could not be sure 
that she was sane; and, in fact, there 
was a certain restless brilliancy about 
her eyes which half led me to imagine 
she ‘was not. I confined my remarks, 
therefore, to general topics, and to such 
as I thought would not be displeasing 
or exciting even to a lunatic. She 
replied in a perfectly rational manner 
to all that I said; and even her original 
observations were marked with the 
soundest good sense; but a long ac- 
quaintance with the metaphysics of 
mania, had taught me to put no faith 
in such evidence of sanity, and I con- 
tinued to practise, throughout the inter- 
view, the caution with which I com- 
menced it. 

Presently a smart footman in livery 
brought in a tray with fruit, wine, and 
other refreshments, of which I partook, 
the lady soon afterward leaving the 
room. As she departed I turned my 
eyes in an inquiring manner toward 
my host. 

“No,” he said, “oh, no—a member 








THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


of my family—my niece, and a most 
accomplished woman.” 

“T beg a thousand pardons for the 
suspicion,’ I replied, “but of course 
you will know how to excuse me. The 
excellent administration of your affairs 
here is well understood in Paris, and 
I thought it just possible, you know—” 

“Ves, yes—say no more—or rather it 
is myself who should thank you for 
the commendable prudence you have 
displayed. We seldom find so much of 
forethought in young men; and, more 
than once, some unhappy contre-temps 
has occurred in consequence of thought- 
lessness on the part of our visitors. 
While my former system was in opera- 
tion, and my patients were permitted 
the privilege of roaming to and fro at 
will, they were often aroused to a dan- 
gerous frenzy by injudicious persons 
who called to inspect the house. Hence 
I was obliged to enforce a rigid system 
of exclusion; and none obtained access 
to the premises upon whose discretion 
I could not rely.” 

“While your former system was in 
operation!” I said, repeating his words 
—‘‘do I understand you, then, to say 
that the ‘soothing system’ of which I 
have heard so much is no longer in 
force?” 

“Tt is now,” he replied, ‘several 
weeks since we have concluded to 
renounce it forever.” 

“Indeed! you astonish me!” 

“We found it, sir,” he said, with a 
sigh, “absolutely necessary to return to 
the old usages. The danger of the 
soothing system was, at all times, ap- 
palling; and its advantages have been 
much overrated. I believe, sir, that 
in this house it has been given a fair 
trial. if ever in any. We did every 


609 


thing that rational humanity could sug- 
gest. JI am sorry that you could not 
have paid us a visit at an earlier period, 
that you might have judged for your- 
self. But I presume you are conversant 
with the soothing practice—with its 
details.” 

“Not altogether. What I have heard 
has been at third or fourth hand.” 

“T may state the system, then, in 
general terms, as one in which the pa- 
tients were menages—humored. We 
contradicted no fancies which entered 
the brains of the mad. On the con- 
trary, we not only indulged but encour- 
aged them; and many of our most 
permanent cures have been thus ef- 
fected. There is no argument which 
so touches the feeble reason of the 
madman as the reductio ad absurdum. 
We have had men, for example, who 
fancied themselves chickens. The cure 
was, to insist upon the thing as a fact— 
to accuse the patient of stupidity in not 
sufficiently perceiving it to be a fact— 
and thus to refuse him any other diet 
for a week than that which properly 
appertains to a chicken. In this manner 
a little corn and gravel were made to 
perform wonders.” 

“But was this species of acquiescence 
all?” 

“By no means. We put much faith 
in amusements of a simple kind, such 
as music, dancing, gymnastic exercises 
generally, cards, certain classes of 
books, and so forth. We affected to 
treat each individual as if for some 
ordinary physical disorder; and the 
word ‘lunacy’ was never employed. A 
great point was to set each lunatic to 
guard the actions of all the others. To 
repose confidence in the understanding 
or discretion of a madman, is to gain 


610 


him body and soul. In this way we 
were enabled to dispense with an expen- 
sive body of keepers.” 

“And you had no punishments of any 
kind?” 

“None.” 

“And you 
patients?” 

“Very rarely. Now and then, the 
malady of some individual growing to 
a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of 
fury, we conveyed him to a secret cell, 
lest his disorder should infect the rest, 
and there kept him until we could dis- 
miss him to his friends—for with the 
taging maniac we have nothing to do. 
He is usually removed to the public 
hospitals.” 

“And you have now changed all this 
—and you think for the better?” 

“Decidedly. The system had its dis- 
advantages, and even its dangers. It 
is now, happily, exploded throughout 
all the Maisons de Sante of France.” 

“T am very much surprised,” I said, 
“at what you tell me; for I made sure 
that, at this moment, no other method 
of treatment for mania existed in any 
portion of the country.” 

“Vou are young yet, my friend,” re- 
plied my host, ‘“‘but the time will arrive 
when you will learn to judge for your- 
self of what is going on in the world, 
without trusting to the gossip of others. 
Believe nothing you hear, and only one- 
half that you see. Now about our 
Maisons de Sante, it is clear that some 
ignoramus has misled you. After din- 
ner, however, when you have sufficiently 
recovered from the fatigue of your ride, 
I will be happy to take you over the 
house, and introduce to you a system 
which, in my opinion, and in that of 
every one who has witnessed its opera- 


never confined your 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tion, is incomparably the most effectuai 
as yet devised.” 

“Your own?” I inquired—‘one of 
your own invention?” 

“T am proud,” he replied, ‘‘to ac- 
knowledge that it is—at least in some 
measure.” 

In this manner I conversed with 
Monsieur Maillard for an hour or two, 
during which he showed ine the gar- 
dens and conservatories of the place. 

“T cannot let you see my patients,” 
he said, ‘‘just at present. To a sensi- 
tive mind there is always more or less 
of the shocking in such exhibitions; 
and I do not wish to spoil your appe- 
tite for dinner. We will dine. I can 
give you some veal a la Menehoult, 
with cauliflowers in veloute sauce— 
after that a glass of Clos de Vougeot— 
then your nerves will be _ sufficiently 
steadied.” 

At six, dinner was announced; and 
my host conducted me into a large 
salle a manger, where a very numerous 
company were assembled—twenty-five 
or thirty in all. They were, apparently, 
people of rank—certainly of high breed- 
ing—although their habiliments, I 
thought, were extravagantly rich, par- 
taking somewhat too much of the osten- 
tatious finery of the ville cour. I no- 
ticed that at least two-thirds of these 
guests were ladies; and some of ‘the 
latter were by no means accoutred in 
what a Parisian would consider good 
taste at the present day. Many females, 
for example, whose age could not have 
been less than seventy, were bedecked 
with a profusion of jewelry, such as 
rings, bracelets, and ear-rings, and wore 
their bosoms and arms shamefully bare. 
I observed, too, that very few of the 
dresses were well made—or, at least, 


e 





THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


that \ery few of them fitted the wear- 
ers. In looking about, I discovered the 
interesting girl to whom Monsieur Mail- 
lard had presented me in the little par- 
lor; but my surprise was great to see 
her wearing a hoop and farthingale, 
with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap 
of Brussels lace, so much too large for 
her that it gave her face a ridiculously 
diminutive expression. When I had 
first seen her, she was attired, most 
becomingly, in deep mourning. There 
was an air of oddity, in short, about 
the dress of the whole party, which, 
at first, caused me to recur to my origi- 
nal idea of the “soothing system,’ and 
to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had 
been willing to deceive me until after 
dinner, that I might experience no un- 
comfortable feelings during the repast, 
at finding myself dining with lunatics; 
but I remembered having been in- 
formed, in Paris, that the southern 
provincialists were a peculiarly eccen- 
tric people, with a vast number of 
antiquated notions; and then, too, upon 
conversing with several members of the 
company, my apprehensions were imme- 
diately and fully dispelled. 

The dining-room itself, although per- 
haps sufficiently comfortable and of 
good dimensions, had nothing too much 
of elegance about it. For example, the 
floor was uncarpeted; in France, how- 
ever, a carpet is frequently dispensed 
with. The windows, too, were without 
curtains; the shutters, being shut, were 
securely fastened with iron bars, applied 
diagonally, after the fashion of our 
shop-shutters. The apartment, I ob- 
served, formed, in itself, a wing of the 
chateau, and thus the windows were on 
three sides of the parallelogram, the 


611 


door being at the other. There were 
no less than ten windows in all. 

The table was superbly set out. It 
was loaded with plate, and more than 
loaded with delicacies. The profusion 
was absolutely barbaric. There were 
meats enough to have feasted the Ana- 
kim. Never, in all my life, had I 
witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an 
expenditure of the good things of life. 
There seemed very little taste, how- 
ever, in the arrangements; and my eyes, 
accustomed to quiet lights, were sadly 
offended by the prodigious glare of a 
multitude of wax candles, which, in 
silver candelabra, were deposited upon 
the table, and all about the room, 
wherever it was possible to find a place. 
There were several active servants in 
attendance; and, upon a large table, at 
the farther end of the apartment, were 
seated seven or eight people with fid- 
dles, fifes, trombones, and a drum, 
These fellows annoyed me very much, 
at intervals, during the repast, by an 
infinite variety of noises, which were 
intended for music, and which appeared 
to afford much entertainment to all 
present, with the exception of myself. 

Upon the whole, I could not help 
thinking that there was much of the 
bizarre about every thing I saw—but 
then the world is made up of all kinds 
of persons, with all modes of thought, 
and all sorts of conventional customs. 
I had travelled, too, so much, as to 
be quite an adept at the nil admirari; 
so I took my seat very coolly at the 
right hand of my host, and, having an 
excellent appetite, did justice to the 
good cheer set before me. 

The conversation, in the meantime, 
was spirited and general. The ladies, 
as usual, talked a great deal. I soon 


612 


found that nearly all the company were 
well educated; and my host was a 
world of good-humored anecdote in 
himself. He seemed quite willing to 
speak of his position as superintendent 
of a Maison de Sante; and, indeed, the 
topic of lunacy was, much to my sur- 
prise, a favorite one with all present. 
A great many amusing stories were 
told, having reference to the whims of 
the patients. 

“We had a fellow here once,’ said 
a fat little gentleman, who sat at my 
right,—‘‘a fellow that fancied himself 
a teapot; and by the way, is it not 
especially singular how often this par- 
ticular crotchet has entered the brain 
of the lunatic? There is scarcely an 
insane asylum in France which cannot 
supply a human teapot. Our gentleman 
was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was 
careful to polish himself every morning 
with buckskin and whiting.” 

“And then,” said a tall man just 
opposite, “we had here, not long ago, 
a@ person who had taken it into his 
head that he was a donkey—which alle- 
gorically speaking, you will say, was 
quite true. He was a _ troublesome 
patient; and we had much ado to keep 
him within bounds. For a long time 
he would eat nothing but thistles; but 
of this idea we soon cured him by 
insisting upon his eating nothing else. 
Then he was perpetually kicking up his 
heels—so—so—” 

“Mr. De Kock! I will thank you 
to behave yourself!” here interrupted 
an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. 
“Please keep your feet to yourself! 
You have spoiled my brocade! Is it 
necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark 
in so practical a style? Our friend 
here can surely comprehend you with- 
out all this. Upon my word, you are 


1?? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nearly as great a donkey as the poor 
unfortunate imagined himself. Your 
acting is very natural, as I live.” | 

“Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!’”’ replied 
Monsieur De Kock, thus addressed— 
“a thousand pardons! I had no inten- 
tion of offending. Ma’m’selle Laplace 
—Monsieur De Kock will do himself 
the honor of taking wine with you.” 

Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, 
kissed his hand with much ceremony, 
and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace. 

“Allow me, mon ami,” now said Mon- 
sieur Maillard, addressing myself, “allow 
me to send you a morsel of this veal 
a la St. Menhoult—you will find it 
particularly fine.” 

At this instant three sturdy waiters 
had just succeeded in depositing safely 
upon the table an enormous dish, or 
trencher, containing what I supposed to 
be the “monstrum horrendum, informe, 
ingens, cui lumen ademptum.” A closer 
scrutiny assured me, however, that it 
was only a small calf roasted whole, 
and set upon its knees, with an apple 
in its mouth, as is the English fashion 
of dressing a hare. 

“Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say 
the truth, I am not particularly partial 
to veal a la St. what is it?—for I 
do not find that it altogether agrees 
with me. I will change my plate, how- 
ever, and try some of the rabbit.” 

There were several side-dishes on the 
table, containing what appeared to be 
the ordinary French rabbit—a_ very 
delicious morceau, which I can recom. ~ 
mend. 

“Pierre,” cried the host, “change this 
gentleman’s plate, and give him a side- 
piece of this rabbit au-chat.” 

“This what?” said I. 

“This rabbit au-chat.” 








THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


“Why, thank you—upon — second 
thoughts, no. I will just help myself 
to some of the ham.” 

There is no knowing what one eats, 
thought I to myself, at the tables of 
these people of the province. I will 
have none of their rabbit au-chat— 
and, for the matter of that, none of 
their cat-au-rabbit either. 

“And then,’ said a cadaverous-look- 
ing personage, near the foot of the 
table, taking up the thread of the con- 
versation where it had been broken 
off,—‘‘and then, among other oddities, 
we had a patient, once upon a time, 
who very pertinaciously maintained 
himself to be a Cordova cheese, and 
went about, with a knife in his hand, 
soliciting his friends to try a small 
slice from the middle of his leg.” 

“He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” 
interposed some one, “but not to be 
compared with a certain individual 
whom we all know, with the exception 
of this strange gentleman. I mean the 
man who took himself for a bottle of 
champagne, and always went off with a 
pop and a fizz, in this fashion.” 

Here the speaker, very rudely, as I 
thought, put his right thumb in his 
left cheek, withdrew it with a sound 
resembling the popping of a cork, and 
then, by a dexterous movement of the 
tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp 
hissing and fizzing, which lasted for 
several minutes, in imitation of the 
frothing of champagne. This behavior, 
I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to 
Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman 
said nothing, and the conversation was 
resumed by a very lean little man in 
a big wig. 

“And then there was an ignoramus,” 
said he, “who mistook himself for a 


613 


frog; which, by the way, he resembled 
in no little degree. I wish you could 


_ have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker 


addressed myself—“it would have done 
your heart good to see the natural airs 
that he put on. Sir, if that man was 
not a frog, I can only observe that it 
is a pity he was not. His croak thus— 
0-0-0-0-gh—o-o-0-o-gh! was the finest 
note in the world—B flat; and when 
he put his elbows upon the table thus— 
after taking a glass or two of wine— 
and distended his mouth, thus, and 
rolled up his eyes, thus, and winked 
them with excessive rapidity, thus, why 
then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, 
positively, that you would have been 
lost in admiration of the genius of the 
man.” 

“T have no doubt of it,” I said. 

“And then,” said somebody else, 
“then there was Petit Gaillard, who 
thought himself a pinch of snuff, and 
was truly distressed because he could 
not take himself between his own finger 
and thumb.” 

“And then there was Jules Desou- 
lieres, who was a very singular genius, 
indeed, and went mad with the idea 
that he was a pumpkin. He persecuted 
the cook to make him up into pies— 
a thing which the cook - indignantly 
refused to do. For my part, I am by 
no means sure that a pumpkin pie a la 
Desoulieres would not have been. very 
capital eating indeed!” 

“Vou astonish me!” said I; and I 
looked inquisitively at Monsieur Mail- 
lard. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman— 
“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! 
ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! 
You must not be astonished, mon ami; 


614 


our friend here is a wit—a drole—you 
must not understand him to the letter.” 

“And then,’ said some other one of 
the party,—‘‘then there was Bouffon 
Le Grand—another extraordinary per- 
sonage in his way. He grew deranged 
through love, and fancied himself pos- 
sessed cof two heads. One of these he 
maintained to be the head of Cicero; 
the other he imagined a composite one, 
being Demosthenes’ from the top of 
the forehead to the mouth, and Lord 
Brougham’s from the mouth to the 
chin. It is not impossible that he was 
wrong; but he would have convinced 
you of his being in the right; for he 
was a man of great eloquence. He had 
an absolute passion for oratory, and 
could not refrain from display. For 
example, he used to leap upon the 
dinner-table thus, and—and—” 

Here a friend, at the side of the 
speaker, put a hand upon his shoulder 
and whispered a few words in his ear; 
upon which he ceased talking with great 
suddenness, and sank back within his 
chair. 

“And then,” said the friend who had 
whispered, “there was Boullard, the tee- 
totum. I call him the tee-totum be- 
cause, in fact, he was seized with the 
droll, but~- not altogether irrational, 
crotchet, that he had been converted 
into a tee-totum. You would have 
roared with laughter to see him spin. 
He would turn round upon one heel 
by the hour, in this manner—so—’” 

Here the friend whom he had just 
interrupted by a wiisper, performed an 
exactly similar office for himself. 

“But then,” cried an old lady, at the 
top of her voice, “your Monsieur Boul- 
lard was a madman, and a very silly 
madman at best; for who. allow me to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ask you, ever heard of a human tee. 
totum? The thing is absurd. Madame 


_ Joyeuse was a more sensible person, as 


you know. She had a crotchet, but it 
was instinct with common sense, and 
gave pleasure to all who had the honor 
of her acquaintance. She found, upon 
mature deliberation, that, by some acci- 
dent, she had been turned into a 
chicken-cock; but, as such, she behaved 
with propriety. She flapped her wings 
with prodigious effect—so—so—so— 
and, as for her crow, it was delicious! 
Cock - a - doodle - doo! — cock-a-doodle- 
doo! — cock-a-doodle-de-doo-doo-dooo- 
do-0-0-0-0-0-0!” 

“Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you 
to behave yourself!’ here interrupted 
our host, very angrily. “You can either 
conduct yourself as a lady should do, 
or you can quit the table forthwith— 
take your choice.” 

The lady (whom I was much aston- 
ished to hear addressed as Madame 
Joyeuse, after the description of Ma- 
dame Joyeuse she had just given) 
blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed 
exceedingly abashed at the reproof. She 
hung down her head, and said not a 
syllable in reply. But another and 
younger lady resumed the theme. It 
was my beautiful girl of the little 
parlor. 

“Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” 
she exclaimed, “but there was really 
much sound sense, after all, in the 
opinion of Eugenie Salsafette. She was 
a very beautiful and painfully modest 
young lady, who thought the ordinary 
mode of habiliment indecent, and 
wished to dress herself, always, by get- 
ting outside instead of inside of her 
clothes. It is a thing very easily done, 
after all. You have only to do so— 








THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


and then so-—so—so—and then so— 
so—so—and then—” 

“Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” 
here cried a dozen voices at once. 
“What are you about?—forbear!—that 
is sufficient!—we see, very plainly, how 
it is done!—hold! hold!” and several 
persons were already leaping from their 
seats to withhold Ma’m’selle Salsafette 
from putting herself upon a par with 
the Medicean Venus, when the point 
was very effectually and suddenly ac- 
complished by a series of loud screams, 
or yells, from some portion of the main 
body of the chateau. 

My nerves were very much affected, 
indeed, by these yells: but the rest of 
the company I really pitied. I never 
saw any set of reasonable people so 
thoroughly frightened in my life. They 
all grew as pale as so many corpses, 
and, shrinking within their seats, sat 
quivering and gibbering with terror, and 
listening for a repetition of the sound. 
It came again—louder and seemingly 
nearer—and then a third time very 
loud, and then a fourth time with a 
vigor evidently diminished. At this 
apparent dying away of the noise, the 
spirits of the company were imme- 
diately regained, and all was life and 
anecdote as before. I now ventured 
to inquire the cause of the disturbance. 

“A mere bagatelle,’ said Monsieur 
Maillard. “We are used to _ these 
things, and care really very little about 
them. The lunatics, every now and 
then, get up a howl in concert; one 
starting another, as is sometimes the 
case with a bevy of dogs at night. It 
occasionally happens, however, that the 
concerto yells are succeeded by a simul- 
taneous effort at breaking loose; when, 


615 


of course, some little danger is to be 
apprehended.” 

“And how many have you in charge?” 

“At present we have not more than 
ten, altogether.” 

“Principally females, I presume?” 

“Oh, no—every one of them men, and 
stout fellows, too, I can tell you.” 

“Indeed! I have always understood 
that the majority of lunatics were of 
the gentler sex.” 

“Tt is generally so, but not always. 
Some time ago, there were about 
twenty-seven patients here; and, of that 
number, no less than eighteen were 
women; but, lately, matters have 
changed very much, as you see.” 

“Ves—have changed very much, as 
you see,’ here interrupted the gentle- 
man who had broken the shins of 
Ma’m’selle Laplace. 

“Ves—have changed very much, as 
you see!” chimed in the whole com- 
pany at once. 

“Hold your tongues, every one of 
you!” said my host, in a great rage. 
Whereupon the whole company main- 
tained a dead silence for nearly a 
minute. As for one lady, she obeyed 
Monsieur Maillard to the letter, and 
thrusting out her tongue, which was 
an excessively long one, held it very 
resignedly, with both hands, until the 
end of the entertainment. 

“And this gentlewoman,”’ said I, to 
Monsieur Maillard, bending over and 
addressing him in a whisper—‘this good 
lady who has just spoken, and who 
gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, 
I presume, is harmless—quite harm- 
less, eh?” 

“Harmless!” ejaculated he, in un- 
feigned surprise, “why—why, what caz 
you meanP” 


616 
“Only slightly touched?” said I, 
touching my head. “I take it for 


granted that she is not particularly— 
not dangerously affected, eh?” | 

“Mon dieu! what is it you imagine? 
This lady, my particular old friend, 
Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane 
as myself. She has her little eccen- 
tricities, to be sure—but then, you 
know, all old women—all very old 
women—are more or less eccentric!” 

“To be sure,” said I—‘‘to be sure— 
and then the rest of these ladies and 
gentlemen—” 

“Are my friends and keepers,” inter- 
rupted Monsieur Maillard, drawing 
himself up with hauteur—‘my very 
good friends and assistants.” 

“What! all of them?” I asked,—‘‘the 
women and all?” 

““Assuredly,” he said,—‘‘we could not 
do at all without the women; they are 
the best lunatic nurses in the world; 
they have a way of their own, you 
know; their bright eyes have a mar- 
vellous effect—something like the fas- 
cination of the snake, you know.” 

“To be sure,” said I—‘to be sure! 
They behave a little odd, eh?—they 
are a little gueer, ehPp—don’t you think 
so?” 

“Odd!—queer!—why, do you really 
think sor We are not very prudish, 
to be sure, here in the South—do pretty 
much as we please—enjoy life, and all 
that sort of thing you know—’” 

“To be sure,” said I—‘‘to be sure.” 

“And then, perhaps, this Clos de 
Vougeot is a little heady, you know— 
a little strong—you understand, eh?” 

“To be sure,” said I—to be sure. 
By the by, Monsieur, did I understand 
you to say that the system you have 
adonted, in place of the celebrated 


) 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


soothing system, was one of very rig- 
orous severity?” 

“By no means. Our confinement is 
necessarily close; but the treatment— 
the medical treatment, I - mean—is 
rather agreeable to the patients than 
otherwise.” 

‘“‘And the new system is one of your 
own invention?” 

“Not altogether. Some portions of 
it are referable to Professor Tarr, of 
whom you have, necessarily, heard; 
and, again, there are modifications in 
my plan which I am happy to acknowl- 
edge as belonging of right to the cele- 
brated Fether, with whom, if I mistake 
not, you have the honor of an intimate 
acquaintance.” 

“T am quite ashamed to confess,” I 
replied, “that I have never even heard 
the names of either gentleman before.” 

“Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, 
drawing back his chair abruptly, and 
uplifting his hands. “I surely do not 
hear you aright! You did not intend 
to say, eh? that you had never heard 
either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or 
of the celebrated Professor Fether?”’ 

“T am forced to acknowledge my 
ignorance,’ I replied; “but the truth 
should be held inviolate above all 
things. Nevertheless, I feel humbled 
to the dust, not to be acquainted with 
the works of these, no doubt, extraor- 
dinary men. I will seek out their writ- 
ings forthwith, and peruse them with 
deliberate care. Monsieur Maillard, 
you have really—I must confess it— 
you have really—made me ashamed of 
myself!” 

And this was the fact. 

“Say no more, my good young 
friend,’ he said kindly, pressing my 











THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


hand—“join me now in a glass of 
Sauterne.”’ 

We drank. The company followed 
our example without stint. They 
chatted—they jested—they laughed— 
they perpetrated a thousand absurdi- 
ties—the fiddles shrieked—the drum 
row-de-dowed—the trombones bellowed 
like so many brazen bulls of Phalaris— 
and the whole scene, growing gradually 
worse and worse, as the wines gained 
the ascendancy, became at length a 
sort of pandemonium in petto. In the, 
meantime, Monsieur Maillard and my- 
self, with some bottles of Sauterne and 
Vougeot between us, continued our con- 
versation at the top of the voice. A 
word spoken in an ordinary key stood 
no more chance of being heard than 
the voice of a fish from the bottom of 
Niagara Falls. 

“And, sir,” said I, screaming in his 
ear, “you mentioned something before 
dinner about the danger incurred in the 
old system of soothing. How is that?” 

“Ves,” he replied, “there was, occa- 
sionally, very great danger indeed. 
There is no accounting for the caprices 
of madmen; and, in my opinion as 
well as in that of Dr. Tarr and Profes- 
sor Fether, it is never safe to permit 
them to run at large unattended. A 
lunatic may be ‘soothed,’ as it is called, 
for a time, but, in the end, he is very 
apt to become obstreperous. His cun- 
ning, too, is proverbial and great. If 
he has a project in view, he conceals 
his design with a marvellous wisdom; 
and the dexterity with which he coun- 
terfeits sanity, presents, to the meta- 
physician, one of the most ‘singular 
problems in the study of mind. When 
a madman appears thoroughly sane, 


617 


indeed, it is high time to put him in 
a strait-jacket.” 

“But the danger, my dear sir, of 
which you were speaking, in your own 
experience—during your control of this 
house—have you had practical reason 
to think liberty hazardous in the case 
of a lunatic?” 

“HereP—in my own experienceP— 
why, I may say, yes. For example:— 
no very long while ago, a singular cir- 
cumstance occurred in this very house. 
The ‘soothing system,’ you know, was 
then in operation, and the patients 
were at large. They behaved remark- 
ably well—especially so.—any one of 
sense might have known that some 
devilish scheme was brewing from that 
particular fact, that the fellows behaved 
so remarkably well. And, sure enough, 
one fine morning the keepers found 
themselves pinioned hand and foot, and 
thrown into the cells, where they were 
attended, as if they were the lunatics, 
by the lunatics themselves, who had 
usurped the offices of the keepers.” 

“You don’t tell me so! I never 
heard of any thing so absurd in my 
life!” 

“Fact—it all came to pass by means 
of a stupid fellow—a lunatic—who, by 
some means, had taken it into his head 
that he had invented a better system 
of government than any ever heard of 
before—of lunatic government, I mean. 
He wished to give his invention a trial, 
I suppose, and so he persuaded the 
rest of the patients to join him in a 
conspiracy for the overthrow of the 
reigning powers.” 

“And he really succeeded?” 

“No doubt of it. The keepers and 
kept were soon made to exchange 
places. Not that exactly either, for 


618 


the madmen had been free, but the 
keepers were shut up in cells forth- 
with, and treated, I am sorry to say, 
in a very cavalier manner.” 

“But I presume a counter-revolution 
was soon effected. This condition of 
things could not have long existed. The 
country people in the neighborhood— 
visitors coming to see the establish- 
ment—would have given the alarm.” 

“There you are out. The head rebel 
was too cunning for that. He admitted 
no visitors at all—with the exception, 
one day, of a very stupid-looking young 
gentleman of whom he had no reason 
to be afraid. He let him in to see the 
place—just by way of variety,—to have 
a little. fun with him. As soon as he 
had gammoned him sufficiently, he let 
him out, and sent him about his busi- 
ness.” 

“And how long, then, did the madmen 
reign?” 

“Oh, a very long time, indeed—a 
month certainly—how much longer I 
can’t precisely say. In the meantime, 
the lunatics had a jolly season of it— 
that you may swear. They doffed their 
own shabby clothes, and made free 
with the family wardrobe and jewels. 
The cellars of the chateau were well 
stocked with wine; and these madmen 
are just the devils that know how to 
drink it. They lived well, I can tell 
you.” 

“And the treatment—what was the 
particular species of treatment which 
the leader of the rebels put into opera- 
tion?” 

“Why, as for that, a madman is not 
necessarily a fool, as I have already 
observed; and it is my honest opinion 
that his treatment was a much better 
treatment than that which it super- 
seded. It was a very capital system 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all 
—in fact it was delicious—it was—”’ 

Here my host’s observations were cut 
short by another series of yells, of the 
same character as those which had 
previously disconcerted us. ‘This time, 
however, they seemed to proceed from 
persons rapidly approaching. 

“Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated— 
“the lunatics have most undoubtedly 
broken loose.” 

“T very much fear it is so,” replied 
Monsieur Maillard, now becoming ex- 
cessively pale. He had scarcely fin- 
ished the sentence, before loud shouts 
and imprecations were heard beneath 
the windows; and, immediately after- 
ward, it became evident that some per- 
sons outside were endeavoring to gain 
entrance into the room. The door was 
beaten with what appeared to be a 
sledge-hammer, and the shutters were 
wrenched and shaken with prodigious 
violence. 

A scene of the most terrible confu- 
sion ensued. Monsieur Maillard, to my 
excessive astonishment, threw himself 
under the sideboard. I had expected 
more resolution at his hands. The 
members of the orchestra, who, for the 
last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly 
too much intoxicated to do duty, now 
sprang all at once to their feet and to 
their instruments, and, scrambling upon 
their table, broke out, with one accord, 
into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they per- 
formed, if not exactly in tune, at least 
with an energy superhuman, during the 
whole of the uproar. 

Meantime, upon the main dining- 
table, among the bottles and glasses, 
leaped the gentleman who, with such 
difficulty, had been restrained from 
leaping there before. As soon as he 
fairly settled himself, he commenced 


9) 














THE SYSTEM OF DR. TARR AND PROF. FETHER 


an oration, which, no doubt, was a very 
capital one, if it could only have been 
heard. At the same moment, the man 
with the tee-totum predilection, set 
himself to spinning around the apart- 
ment, with immense energy, and with 
arms outstretched at right angles with 
his body; so that he had all the air of 
a tee-totum in fact, and knocked every- 
body down_that happened to get in his 
way. And now, too, hearing an incredi- 
ble popping and fizzing of champagne, 
I discovered at length, that it proceeded 
from the person who performed the 
bottle of that delicate drink during din- 
ner. And then, again, the frog-man 
croaked away as if the salvation of his 
soul depended upon every note that he 
uttered. And, in the midst of all this, 
the continuous braying of a donkey 
arose over all. As for my old friend, 
Madame Joyeuse, I really could have 
wept for the poor lady, she appeared 
so terribly perplexed. All she did, 
however, was to stand up in a corner, 
by the fireplace, and sing out inces- 
santly at the top of her voice, ‘‘Cock- 
a-doodle-de-dooooooh!” 

And now came the climax—the ca- 
tastrophe of the drama. As no resist- 
ance, beyond whooping and yelling and 
cock-a-doodling, was offered to the 
encroachments of the party without, the 
ten windows were very speedily, and 
almost simultaneously, broken in. But 
I shall never forget the emotions of 
wonder and horror with which I gazed, 
when, leaping through these windows, 
and down among us fpele-mele, fighting, 
stamping, scratching, and howling, there 
rushed a perfect army of what I took 
to be chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or 
big black baboons of the Cape of Good 
Hope. 

I received a terrible beating—after 


619 


which I rolled under a sofa and lay 
still. After lying imprisoned for more 
than a month, during which time I 
listened with all my ears to what was 
going on in the room, I came to some 
satisfactory denouement of this tragedy. 
Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giv- 
ing me the account of the lunatic who 
had excited his fellows to rebellion, had 
been merely relating his own exploits. 
This gentleman had, indeed, some two 
or three years before, been the super- 
intendent of the establishment; but 
grew crazy himself and so became a 
patient. This fact was unknown to 
the travelling companion who _intro- 
duced me. The keepers, ten in number, 
having been suddenly overpowered, 
were first well tarred, then carefully 
feathered, and then shut up in under- 
ground cells. They had been so im- 
prisoned for more than a month, during 
which period Monsieur Maillard had 
generously allowed them not only the 
tar and feathers (which constituted his 
“system”’), but some bread and abun- 
dance of water. The latter was pumped 
on them daily. At length, one escap- 
ing through a sewer, gave freedom to 
all the rest. 

The “soothing system,” with impor- 
tant modifications, has been resumed 
at the chateau; yet I cannot help agree- 
ing with Monsieur Maillard, that his 
own “treatment” was a very capital 
one of its kind. As he justly observed, 
it was ‘‘simple—neat—and gave no 
trouble at all—not the least.” 

I have only to add that, although I 
have searched every library in Europe 
for the works of Doctor Tarr and 
Professor Fether, I have, up to the 
present day, utterly failed in my en- 
deavors to procure a copy. 


The Angel of the Odd 


AN EXTRAVAGANZA 


It was a chilly November afternoon. 
I had just consummated an unusually 
hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic 
truffe formed not the least important 
item, and was sitting alone in the 
dining-room, with my feet upon the 
fender, and at my elbow a small table 
which I had rolled up to the fire, and 
upon which were some apologies for 
dessert, with some miscellaneous bot- 
tles of wine, spirit, and liqueur. In the 
morning I had been reading Glover’s 
“Leonidas,” Wilkie’s ‘“Epigoniad,” La- 
martine’s “Pilgrimage,” Barlow’s “Co- 
lumbiad,” Tuckermann’s “Sicily,” and 
_ Griswold’s ‘Curiosities’; I am willing 
to confess, therefore, that I now felt 
a little stupid. I made effort to arouse 
myself by aid of frequent Lafitte, and, 
all failing, I betook myself to a stray 
newspaper in despair. Having care- 
fully perused the column of “houses to 
let,’ and the column of “dogs lost,” 
and then the two columns of “wives 
and apprentices runaway,” I attacked 
with great resolution the editorial mat- 
ter, and, reading it from beginning to 
end without understanding a syllable, 
conceived the possibility of its being 
Chinese, and so re-read it from the 
end to the beginning, but with no more 
satisfactory result. I was about throw- 
ing away, in disgust, 


“This folio of four pages, happy work 
Which not even poets criticise,” 


when I felt my attention somewhat 


aroused by ‘the paragraph which fol- 
lows: 


“The avenues to death are numerous 
and strange. A London paper men- 
tions the decease of a person from a 
singular cause. He was playing at ‘puff 
the dart,’ which is played with a long 
needle inserted in some worsted, and 
blown at a target through a tin tube. 
He placed the needle at the wrong end 
of the tube, and drawing his breath 
strongly to puff the dart forward with 
force, drew the needle into his throat. 
It entered the lungs, and in a few days 
killed him.” 


Upon seeing this I fell into a great 
rage, without exactly knowing why. 
“This thing,’ I exclaimed, “is a con- 
temptible falsehood—a poor hoax—the 
lees of the invention of some pitiable 
penny-a-liner—of some wretched con- 
coctor of accidents in Cocaigne. These 
fellows, knowing the extravagant gulli- 
bility of the age, set their wits to work 
in the imagination of improbable possi- 
bilities—of odd accidents, as they term 
them; but to a reflecting intellect (like 
mine,’ I added, in parenthesis, putting 
my forefinger’ unconsciously to the 
side of my nose,) “to a contemplative 
understanding such as I myself possess, 
it seems evident at once that the mar- 
velous increase of late in these ‘odd 
accidents’ is by far the oddest accident 
of all. For my own part, I intend to 
believe nothing henceforward that has 
anything of the ‘singular’ about it.” 


620 





THE ANGEL OF THE ODD 


“Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees 
for dat!” replied one of the most re- 
markable voices I ever heard. At first 
I took it for a rumbling in my ears— 
such as man sometimes experiences 
when getting very drunk—but, upon 
second thought, I considered the sound 
as more nearly resembling that which 
proceeds from an empty barrel beaten 
with a big stick; and, in fact, this I 
should have concluded it to be, but for 
the articulation of the syllables and 
words. I am by no means naturally 
nervous, and the very few glasses of 
Lafitte which I had sipped served to 
embolden me a little, so that I felt 
nothing of trepidation, but merely up- 
lifted my eyes with a leisurely move- 
ment, and looked carefully around the 
room for the intruder. I could not, 
however, perceive any one at all. 

“Humph!” resumed the voice, as I 
continued my survey, “you mus pe so 
dronk as de pig, den, for not zee me 
as I zit here at your zide.” 

Hereupon I bethought me of look- 
ing immediately before my nose, and 
there, sure enough, confronting me at 
the table sat a personage nondescript, 
although not altogether indescribable. 
His body was a wine pipe, or a rum- 
puncheon, or something of that char- 
acter, and had a truly Falstaffian air. 
In its nether extremity were inserted 
two kegs, which seemed to answer all 
the purposes of legs. For arms there 
dangled from the upper portion of the 
carcass two tolerably long bottles, with 
the necks outward for hands. All the 
head that I saw the monster possessed 
of was one of those Hessian canteens 
which resemble a large snuff-box with 
a hole in the middle of the lid. This 
canteen (with a funnel on its top, like 


621 


a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) 
was set on edge upon the puncheon, 
with the hole toward myself; and 
through this hole, which seemed puck- 
ered up like the mouth of a very pre- 
cise old maid, the creature was emit- 
ting certain rumbling and grumbling 
noises which he evidently intended for 
intelligible talk. 

“T zay,” said he, “you mos pe dronk 
as de pig, vor zit dare and not zee me 
zit ere; and I zay, doo, you most pe 
pigger vool as de goose, vor to dispelief 
vat iz print in de print. ’Tiz de troof 
—dat it iz—eberry vord ob it.” 

“Who are you, pray?” said I, with 
much dignity, although somewhat puz- 
zled; ‘how did you get here? and what © 
is it you are talking about?” 

“Az vor ow I com’d ere,” replied the 
figure, “dat iz none of your pizzness; 
and as vor vat I be talking apout, I 
be talk apout vot I tink proper; and as 
vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting 
I com’d here for to let you zee for 
yourzelf.” 

“You are a drunken vagabond,” said 
I, “and I shall ring the bell and order 
my footman to kick you into the 
street.” 

“He! he! he!” said the fellow, “hu! 
hu! hu! dat you can’t do.” 

“Can’t do!” said I, “what do you 
mean?—I can’t do what?” 

“Ring de pell,” he replied, attempt- 
ing a grin with his little villainous 
mouth. 

Upon this I made an effort to get 
up, in order to put my threat into 
execution; but the ruffian just reached 
across the table very deliberately, and 
hitting me a tap on the forehead with 
the neck of one of the long bottles, 
knocked me back into the arm-chair 


622 


from which I had half arisen. I was 
utterly astounded; and, for a moment, 
was quite at a loss what to do. In the 
meantime, he continued his talk. 

“Vou zee,” said he, “it iz te bess 
vor zit still; and now you shall know 
who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te 
Angel ov te Odd!” 

“And odd enough, too,” I ventured 
to reply; “but I was always under the 
impression that an angel had wings.” 

“Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, 
“vat I pe do mit te wing? Mein Gott! 
do you take me vor a shicken?” 

“No—oh, no!” I replied, much 
alarmed, “you are no chicken—cer- 
tainly not.” 

“Well, den, zit still and pehabe your- 
self, or I’ll rap you again mid me vist. 
It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl 
ab te wing, und te imp ab te wing, 
und te headteuffel ab te wing. Te 
angel ab not te wing, and I am te 
Angel ov te Odd.” 

“And your business with me at pres- 
ent is—is—” 

“My pizzness!” ejaculated the thing, 
“vy vot a low-bred puppy you mos pe 
vor to ask a gentleman und an angel 
apout his pizzness!” 

This language was rather more than 
I could bear, even from an angel; so, 
plucking up courage, I seized a salt- 
cellar which lay within reach, and 
hurled it at the head of the intruder. 
Either he dodged, however, or my aim 
was inaccurate; for all I accomplished 
was the demolition of the crystal which 
protected the dial of the clock upon 
the mantel-piece. As for the Angel, he 
evinced his sense of my assault by giv- 
ing me two or three hard consecutive 
raps upon the forehead as_ before. 
These reduced me at once to submis- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sion, and I am almost ashamed to con- 
fess that, either through pain or vexa- 
tion, there came a few tears into my 
eyes. 

“Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the 
Odd, apparently much softened at my 
distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder 
ferry dronk or ferry sorry. You mos 
not trink it so strong—you mos put 
de water in te wine. Here, trink dis, 
like a goot veller, und don’t gry now— 
don’t!” ! 

Hereupon the Angel of the Odd re- 
plenished my goblet (which was about 
a third full of Port) with a colorless 
fluid that he poured from one of his 
hand bottles. I observed that these 
bottles had- labels about their necks, 
and that these labels were inscribed 
“Kirschenwasser.” 

The considerate kindness of the 
Angel mollified me in no little measure; 
and, aided by the water with which he 
diluted my Port more than once, I at 
length regained sufficient temper to 
listen to his very extraordinary dis- 
course. I cannot pretend to recount all 
that he told me, but I gleaned from 
what he said that he was the genius 
who presided over the contretemps of 
mankind, and whose business it was to 
bring about the odd accidents which 
are continually astonishing the skeptic. 
Once or twice, upon my venturing to 
express my total incredulity in respect 
to his pretensions, he grew very angry 
indeed, so that at length I considered it 
the wiser policy to say nothing at all, 
and let him have his own way. He 
talked on, therefore, at great length, 
while I merely leaned back in my chair 


with my eyes shut, and amused myself 


with munching raisins and flipping the 
stems about the room. But, by and 














THE ANGEL OF THE ODD 


by, the Angel suddenly construed this 
behavior of mine into contempt. He 
arose in a terrible passion, slouched his 
funnel down over his eyes, swore a 
vast oath, uttered a threat of some 
character which I did not precisely 
Zzomprehend, and finally made me a low 
bow and departed, wishing me, in the 
Janguage of the archbishop in “Gil- 
Blas,” “beaucoup de bonheur et un peu 
plus de bon sens.” 

His departure afforded me relief. 
The very few glasses of Lafitte that I 
had sipped had the effect. of rendering 
me drowsy, and I felt inclined to take 
a nap of some fifteen or twenty min- 
utes, as is my custom after dinner. 
At six I had an appointment of conse- 
quence, which it was quite indispensa- 
ble that I should keep. The policy of 
insurance for my dwelling-house had 
expired the day before; and, some dis- 
pute having arisen, it was agreed that, 
at six, I should meet the board of 
directors of the company and settle the 
terms of a renewal. Glancing upward 
at the clock on the mantel-piece (for I 
felt too drowsy to take out my watch), 
I had the pleasure to find that I had 
still twenty-five minutes to spare. It 
was half-past five; I could easily walk 
to the insurance office in five minutes; 
and my usual siestas had never been 
known to exceed five’ and twenty. I 
felt sufficiently safe, therefore, and 
composed myself to my slumbers forth- 
with. 

Having completed them to my satis- 
faction, I again looked toward the 
time-piece, and was half inclined to 
believe in the possibility of odd acci- 
dents when I found that, insiead o7 
my ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, 
I had been dozing only three; for it 


623 


still wanted seven and twenty of the 
appointed hour. I betook myself again 
to my nap, and at length a secand time 
awoke, when, to my utter amazement, 
it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of 
six. I jumped up to examine the clock, 
and found that it had ceased running. 
My watch informed me that it ‘was 
half-past seven; and, of course, having 
slept two hours, I was too late for my 
appointment. “It will make no differ- 
ence,’ I said; “I can call at the office 
in the morning and apologize; in the 
meantime what can be the matter with 
the clock?” Upon examining it I dis- 
covered that one of the raisin-stems 
which I had been flipping about the 
room during the discourse of the Angel 
of the Odd had flown through the frac- 
tured crystal, and lodging, singularly 
enough, in the key-hole, with an end 
projecting outward, had thus arrested 
the revolution of the minute-hand. 

“Ah!” said I; “I see how it is. This 
thing speaks for itself. A natural acci- 
dent, such as will happen now and 
then!” 

I gave the matter no further con- 
sideration, and at my usual hour retired 
to bed. Here, having placed a candle 
upon a reading-stand at the bed-head, 
and having made an attempt to peruse 
some pages of the ‘“Omnipresence of 
the Deity,” I unfortunately fell asleep 
in less than twenty seconds, leaving the 
light burning as it was. 

My dreams were terrifically disturbed 
by visions of the Angel of the Odd. 
Methought he stood at the foot of the 
couch, drew aside the curtains, and, in 
the hollow, detestable tones of a rum- 
nuncheon, menaced me with the bit- 
terest vengeance ror the contempt with 
which I had treated him. He con- 


624 


cluded a long harangue by taking off 
his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into 
my gullet, and thus deluging me with 
an ocean of Kirschenwasser, which he 
poured, in a continuous flood, from one 
of the long-necked bottles that stood 
him instead of an arm. My agony was 
at length insufferable, and I awoke just 
in time to perceive that a rat had run 
off with the lighted candle from the 
stand, but of in season to prevent his 
making his escape with it through the 
hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating 
odor assailed my nostrils; the house, I 
clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few 
minutes the blaze broke forth with vio- 
lence, and in an incredibly brief period 
the entire building was wrapped in 
flames. All egress from my chamber, 
except through a window, was cut off. 
The crowd, however, quickly procured 
and raised a long ladder. By means of 
this I was descending rapidly, and in 
apparent safety, when a huge hog, 
about whose rotund stomach, and in- 
deed about whose whole air and physi- 


ognomy, there was something which. 


reminded me of the Angel of the Odd, 
—when this hog, I say, which hitherto 
had been quietly slumbering in the 
mud, took it suddenly into his head 
that his left shoulder needed scratch- 
ing, and could find no more convenient 
rubbing-post than that afforded by the 
foot of the Jadder. In an instant I 
was precipitated, and had the misfor- 
tune to fracture my arm. 

This accident, with the loss of my 
insurance, and with the more serious 
loss of my hair,—the whole of which 
had been singed off by the fire——pre- 
disposed me to serious impressions, so 
that, finally, I made up my mind to 
take a wife. There was a rich widow 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


disconsolate for the loss of her seventh 
husband, and to her wounded spirit I 
offered the balm of my vows. She 
yielded a reluctant consent to my 
prayers. I knelt at her feet in grati- 
tude and adoration. She blushed, and 
bowed her luxuriant tresses into close 
contact with those supplied me, tempo- 
rarily, by Grandjean. I know not how 
the entanglement took place, but so it 
was. I arose with a shining pate. wig- 
less; she in disdain and wrath, half 
buried in alien hair. Thus ended my 
hopes of the widow by an accident 
which could not have been anticipated, 
to be sure, but which the natural se- 
quence of events had brought about. 
Without despairing, however, I un- 
dertook the siege of a less implacable 
heart. The fates were again propitious 
for a brief period; but again a trivial 
incident interfered. Meeting my _ be- 
trothed in an avenue thronged with the 
elite of the city, I was hastening to 
greet her with one of my best-consid- 
ered bows, when a small particle of 
some foreign matter lodging in the 
corner of my eye, rendered me, for the 
moment, completely blind. Before I 
could recover my sight, the lady of my 
love had disappeared—irreparably af- 
fronted at what she chose to consider 
my premeditated rudeness in passing 
her by ungreeted. While I stood be- 
wildered at the suddenness of this acci- 
dent (which might have happened, 
nevertheless, to any one under the sun), 
and while I still continued incapable of 
sight, I was accosted by the Angel of 
the Odd, who proffered me his aid with 
a civility which I had no reason to 
expect. He examined my disordered 
eye with much gentleness and skill, in- 
formed me that [ had a drop in it, and 











THE ANGEI. OF THE ODD 625 


(whatever a “drop” was) took it out, 
and afforded me relief. 

I now considered it high time to die, 
(since fortune had so determined to 
persecute me,) and accordingly made 
my way to the nearest river. Here, 
divesting myself of my clothes, (for 
there is no reason why we cannot die as 
we were born,) I threw myself head- 
long into the current; the sole witness 
of my fate being a solitary crow that 
had been seduced into the eating of 
brandy-saturated corn, and so had 
staggered away from his fellows. No 
sooner had I entered the water than 
this bird took it into its head to fly 
away with the most indispensable por- 
tion of my apparel. Postponing, there- 
fore, for the present, my suicidal de- 
sign, I just slipped my nether extremi- 
ties into the sleeves of my coat, and 
betook myself to a pursuit of the felon 
with all the nimbleness which the case 
required and its circumstances would 
admit. But my evil destiny attended 
me still. As I ran at full speed, with 
my nose up in the atmosphere, and 
intent only upon the purloiner of my 
property, I suddenly perceived that my 
feet rested no longer upon terra-firma; 
the fact is, I had thrown myself over a 
precipice, and should inevitably have 
been dashed to pieces, but for my good 
fortune in grasping the end of a long 
guide-rope, which depended from a 
passing balloon. 

As soon as I sufficiently recovered 
my senses to comprehend the terrific 
predicament in which I stood or rather 
hung, I exerted all the power of my 
_ lungs to make that predicament known 
to the aeronaut overhead. But for a 
long time I exerted myself in vain. 
Either the fool could not, or the villain 


would not perceive me. Meantime the 
machine rapidly soared, while my 
strength evén more rapidly failed. I 
was soon upon the point of resigning 
myself to my fate, and dropping quietly 
into the sea, when my spirits were sud- 
denly revived by hearing a hollow voice 
from above, which seemed to be lazily 
humming an opera air. Looking up, 
I perceived the Angel of the Odd. He 
was leaning with his arms folded, over 
the rim of the car; and with a pipe in 
his mouth, at which he puffed leisurely, ° 
seemed to be upon excellent terms with 
himself and the universe. I was too 
much exhausted to speak, so I merely 
regarded him with an imploring air. 

For several minutes, although he 
looked me full in the face, he said 
nothing. At length removing carefully 
his meerschaum from the right to the 
left corner of his mouth, he conde- 
scended to speak. 

“Who pe your” he asked, ‘und what 
der teuffel you pe do dare?” 

To this piece of impudence, cruelty, 
and affectation, I could reply only by 
ejaculating the monosyllable “Help!” 

“Elp!” echoed the ruffian—‘not I. 
Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself, und pe 
tam’d!” 

With these words he let fall a heavy 
bottle of Kirschenwasser which, drop- 
ping precisely upon the crown of my 
head, caused me to imagine that my 
brains were entirely knocked out. Im- 
pressed with this idea, I was about to 
relinquish my hold and give up the 
ghost with a good grace, when I was 
arrested by the cry of the Angel, who 
bade me hold on. 

“Old on!” he said; “don’t pe in te 
urry—don’t. Will you pe take de 


626 


odder pottle, or ave you pe got zober 
yet and come to your zenzes?” 

I made haste, hereupon, to nod my 
head twice—once in the negative, 
meaning thereby that I would prefer 
not taking the other bottle at present— 
and once in the affirmative, intending 
thus to imply that I was sober and had 
positively come to my senses. By these 
means I somewhat softened the Angel. 

“Und you pelief, ten,” he inquired, 
“at te last? You pelief, ten, in te 
‘possibility of te odd?” 

I again nodded my head in assent. 

“Und you ave pelief in me, te Angel 
of te Odd?” 

I nodded again. 

“Und you acknowledge tat you pe te 
blind dronk and te vool?” 

I nodded once more. 

“Put your right hand into your left 
hand preeches pocket, ten, in token ov 
your vull zubmission unto te Angel ov 
te Odd.” 

This thing, for very obvious reasons, 
I found it quite impossible to do. In 
the first place, my left arm had been 
broken in my fall from the ladder, and, 
therefore, had I let go my hold with 
the right hand, I must have let go alto- 
gether. In the second place, I could 
have no breeches until I came across 
the crow. I was therefore obliged, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


much to my regret, to shake my head 
in the negative—intending thus to give 
the Angel to understand that I found 
it inconvenient, just at that moment, 
to comply with his very reasonable de- 
mand! No sooner, however, had I 
ceased shaking my head than— 

“Go to der teuffel, ten!” roared the 
Angel of the Odd. 

In pronouncing these words, he drew 
a sharp knife across the guide-rope by 
which I was suspended, and as we then 
happened to be precisely over my own 
house, (which, during my peregrina- 
tions, had been handsomely rebuilt,) it 
so occurred that I tumbled headlong 
down the ample chimney and alit upon 
the dining-room hearth. 

Upon coming to my senses, (for the 
fall had very thoroughly stunned me,) 
I found it about four o’clock in the 
morning. I lay outstretched where I 
had fallen from the balloon. My head 
grovelled in the ashes of an extin- 
guished fire, while my feet reposed 
upon the wreck of a small table, over- 
thrown, and amid the fragments of 4 
miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with 
a newspaper, some broken glass and 
shattered bottles, and an empty jug of 
the Schiedam Kirschenwasser. Thus 
revenged himself the Angei of the Odd. 


ie! 


20 0 














The Devil in the Belfry 


(First published in Philadelphia Saturday Chronicle, May, 1839.—Ed.) 


What o'clock is it?—Old Saying. 


EVERYBODY knows, in a general way, 
that the finest place in the world is— 
or, alas, was—the Dutch borough of 
Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies 
some distance from any of the main 
roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the- 
way situation, there are perhaps very 
few of my readers who have ever paid 
it a visit. For the benefit of those who 
have wot, therefore, it will be only 
proper that I should enter into some 
account of it. And this is indeed the 
more necessary, as with the hope of 
enlisting public sympathy in behalf of 
the inhabitants, I design here to give a 
history of the calamitous events which 
have so lately occurred within 
limits. No one who knows me will 
doubt that the duty thus self-imposed 
will be executed to the best of my 
ability, with all that rigid impartiality, 
all that cautious examination into facts, 
and diligent collation of authorities, 
which should ever distinguish him who 
aspires to the title of historian. 

By the united aid of medals, manu- 
scripts, and inscriptions, I am enabled 
to say, positively, that the borough of 
Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from 
its origin, in precisely the same condi- 
tion which it at present preserves. Of 
the date of this origin, however, I 
grieve that I can only speak with that 
species of indefinite definiteness which 
mathematicians are, at times, forced to 
put up with in certain algebraic for- 
mule. The date, I may thus say, in 


49 
Ve 


ites 


” 
é 


regard to the remoteness of its an- 
tiquity, cannot be less than any assign- 
able quantity whatsoever. 

Touching the derivation of the name 
Vondervotteimittiss, I confess myself, 
with sorrow, equally at fault. Among 
a multitude of opinions upon this deli- 
cate point—some acute, some learned, 
some sufficiently the reverse—I am 
able to select nothing which ought to 
be considered satisfactory. Perhaps 
the idea of Grogswigg—nearly coinci- 
dent with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to 
be cautiously preferred—lIt runs:— 
V ondervotteimittis—V onder, lege Don- 
der—V otteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz— 
Bleitziz obsol: pro Blitzen.” This de- 
rivative, to say the truth, is still coun- 
tenanced by some traces of the electric 


fluid evident on the summit of the 


steeple of the House of the Town- 
Council. I do not choose, however, to 
commit myself on a theme of such im- 
portance, and must refer the reader 
desirous of information to the “Oraii- 
uncule de Rebus Preter-Veteris,”’ of 
Dundergutz. See, also, Blunderbuzzard 
“De Derivationibus,’ pp. 27 to 5010, 
Folio, Gothic edit., Red and Black 
character, Catch-word and No Cypher; 
wherein consult, also, marginal notes in 
the autograph of Stuffundpuff, with the 
Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell. 

Notwithstanding the obscurity which 
thus envelops the date of the founda- 
tion of Vondervotteimittiss, and the 
derivation of its name, there can be 
no doubt, as I said before, that it has 
always existed as we find it at this 


628 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


epoch. The oldest man in the borough 
can remember not the slightest differ- 
ence in the appearance of any portion 
of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion 
of such a possibility is considered an 
insult. The site of the village is in a 
perfectly circular valley, about a quar- 
ter of a mile in circumference, and 
entirely surrounded by gentle hills, over 
whose summit the people have never 
yet ventured to pass. For this they 
assign the very good reason that they 
do not believe there is anything at all 
on the other side. 

Round the skirts of the valley 
(which is quite level, and paved 
throughout with flat tiles), extends a 
continuous row of sixty little houses. 
These, having their backs on the hills, 
must look, of course, to the centre of 
the plain, which is just sixty yards 
from the front door of each dwelling. 
Every house has a small garden before 
it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and 
twenty-four cabbages. The buildings 
themselves are so precisely alike, that 
one can in no manner be distinguished 
from the other. Owing to the vast an- 
tiquity, the style of architecture is 
somewhat cdd, but it is not for that 
reason the less strikingly picturesque. 
They are fashioned of hard-burned lit- 
tle bricks, red, with black ends, so that 
the walls look like a chess-board upon 
a great scale. The gables are turned 
to the front, and there are cornices, as 
big as all the rest of the house, over the 
eaves and over the main doors. The 
windows are narrow and deep, with 
very tiny panes and a great deal of 
sash. On the roof is a vast quantity of 
tiles with long curly ears. The wood- 
work, throughout, is of a dark hue and 
there is much carving about it, with 


but a trifling variety of pattern for, 
time out of mind, the carvers of Von- 
dervotteimittiss have never been able 
to carve more than two objects—a 
timepiece and a cabbage. But these 
they do exceedingly well, and inter- 
sperse them, with singular ingenuity, 
wherever they find 100m for the chisel. 

The dwellings are as much alike in- 
side as out, and the furniture is all 
upon one plan. The floors are of square 
tiles, the chairs and tables of black- 
looking wood with thin crooked legs 
and puppy feet. The mantel-pieces are 
wide and high, and have not only time- 
pieces and cabbages sculptured over 
the front, but a real time-piece, which 
makes a prodigious ticking, on the top 
in the middle, with a flower-pot con- 
taining a cabbage standing on each 
extremity by way of outrider. Between 
each cabbage and the time-piece, again, 


is a little China man having a large 


stomach with a great round hole in it, 
through which is seen the dial-plate of 
a watch. 

The fireplaces are large and deep, 
with fierce crooked-looking fire-dogs. 
There is constantly a rousing fire, and 
a huge pot over it, full of sauer-kraut 
and pork, to which the good woman of 
the house is always busy in attending. 
She is a little fat old lady, with blue 
eyes and a red face, and wears a huge 
cap like a sugar-loaf, ornamented with 
purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress 
is of + orange-colored linsey-woolsey, 
made very full behind and very short 
in the waist—and indeed very short 
in other respects, not reaching below 
the middle of her leg. This is some- 
what thick, and so are her ankles, but 
she has a fine pair of green stockings 
to cover them. Her shoes—-of pink 











THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY 629 


leather—are fastened each with a 
bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in 
the shape of a cabbage. In her left 
hand she has a little heavy Dutch 
watch; in her right she wields a ladie 
for the sauer-kraut and pork. By her 
side there stands a fat tabby cat, with 
a gilt toy-repeater tied to its tail, which 
“the boys” have there fastened by way 
of a quiz. 

The boys themselves are, all three of 
them, in the garden attending the pig. 
They are each two feet in height. They 
have three-cornered cocked hats, purple 
waistcoats reaching down to their 
thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red 
woollen stockings, heavy shoes with big 
silver buckles, and long surtout coats 
with large buttons of mother-of-pearl. 
Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and 
a little dumpy watch in his right hand. 
He takes a puff and a look, and then a 
look and a puff. The pig—which is 
corpulent and lazy—is occupied now in 
picking up the stray leaves that fall 
from the cabbages, and now in giving 
a kick behind at the gilt repeater, which 
the urchins have also tied to his tail, 
in order to make him look as handsome 
as the cat. 

Right at the front door, in a high- 
backed leather-bottomed armed chair, 
with crooked legs and puppy feet like 
the tables, is seated the old man of the 
house himself. He is an exceedingly 
puffy little old gentleman, with big cir- 
cular eyes and a huge double chin. His 
dress resembles that of the boys—and 
I need say nothing further about it. 
All the difference is, that his pipe is 
somewhat bigger than theirs, and he 
can make a greater smoke. Like them, 
he has a watch, but he carries his 
watch in his pocket. To say the truth, 


he has something of more importance 
than a watch to attend to—and what 
that is, I shall presently explain. He 
sits with his right leg upon his left 
knee, wears a grave countenance, and 
always keeps one of his eyes, at least, 
resolutely bent upon a certain remark- 
able object in the centre of the plain. 

This object is situated in the steeple 
of the House of the Town Council. 
The Town Council are all very little, 
round, oily, intelligent men, with big 
saucer eyes and fat double chins, and 
have their coats much longer and their 
shoe-buckles much bigger than the or- 
dinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimit- 
tiss. Since my sojourn in the borough, 
they have had several special meetings, 
and have adopted these three important 
resolutions: 

“That it is wrong to alter the good 
old course of things:” 

“That there is nothing tolerable out 
of Vondervotteimittiss:’ and— 

“That we will stick by our clocks 
and our cabbages.” 

Above the session-room of the Coun- 
cil is the steeple, and in the steeple is 
the belfry, where exists, and has ex- 
isted time out of mind, the pride and 
wonder of the village—the great clock 
of the borough of Vondervotteimittiss. 
And this is the object to which the 
eyes of the old gentlemen are turned 
who sit in the leather-bottomed arm- 
chairs. | 

The great clock has seven faces—one 
in each of the seven sides of the steeple 
—so that it can be readily seen from 
all quarters. Its faces are large and 
white, and its hands heavy and black. 
There is a belfry-man whose sole duty 
is to attend to it; but this duty is the 
most perfect of sinecures—for the clock 





630 


of Vondervotteimittiss was never yet 
known to have anything the matter 
with it. Until lately, the bare suppo- 
sition of such a thing was considered 
heretical. From the remotest period 
of antiquity to which the archives have 
reference, the hours have been regu- 
larly struck by the big bell. And. in- 
deed the case was just the same with 
all the other clocks and watches in the 
borough. Never was such a place for 
keeping the true time. When the large 
clapper thought proper to say “Twelve 
o’clock!” all its obedient followers 
opened their throats simultaneously, 
and responded like a very echo. In 
short, the good burghers were fond of 
their sauer-kraut, but then they were 
proud of their clocks. 

All people who hold sinecure offices 
are held in more or less respect, and as 
the belfry-man of Vondervotteimittiss 
has the most perfect ef sinecures, he 
is the most perfectly respected of any 
man in the world. He is the chief dig- 
nitary of the borough, and the very 
pigs look up to him with a sentiment 
of reverence. His coat-tail is very far 
longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his 
eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger 
-—than those of any other old gentle- 
man in the village; and as to his chin, 
it is not only double, but triple. 

I have thus painted the happy estate 
of Vondervotteimittiss: alas, that so 
fair a picture should ever experience 
a reverse! 

There has been long a saying among 
the wisest inhabitants, that “no good 
can come from over the hills’; and it 
really seemed that the words had in 
them something of the spirit of proph- 
ecy. It wanted five minutes of noon, 
on the day before yesterday, when there 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


appeared a very odd-looking oodject on 
the summit of the ridge of the east- 
ward. Such an occurrence, of course, 
attracted universal attention, and every 
little old gentleman who sat in a 
leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one 
of his eyes with a stare of dismay upon 
the phenomenon, still keeping the other 
upon the clock in the steeple. 

By the time that it wanted only three 
minutes to noon, the droll object in 
question was perceived to be a very 
diminutive foreign-looking young man. 
He descended the hills at a great rate, 
so that everybody had soon a good 
look at him. He was really the most 
finicky little personage that had ever 
been seen in Vondervotteimittiss. His 
countenance was of a dark snuff-color, 
and he had a long hooked nose, pea 
eyes, a wide mouth, and an excellent 
set of teeth, which latter he seemed 
anxious of displaying, as he was grin- 
ning from ear to ear. What with mus- 
tachios and whiskers, there was none of 
the rest of his face to be seen. His 
head was uncovered, and his hair neatly 
done up in papillotes. His dress was 
a tight-fitting swallow-tailed black coat 
(from one of whose pockets dangled a 
vast length of white handkerchief), 
black kerseymere knee-breeches, black 
stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, 
with huge bunches of black satin rib- 
bon for bows. Under one arm he car- 
ried a huge chapeau-de-bras, and under 
the other a fiddle nearly five times as 
big as himself. In his left hand was a 
gold snuff-box, from which, as he ca- 
pered down the hill, cutting all manner 
of fantastic steps, he took snuff inces- 
santly with an air of the greatest pos- 
sible self-satisfaction. God bless me! 














THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY 


—here was a sight for the honest 
burghers of Vondervotteimittiss! 

To ‘speak plainly, the fellow had, in 
spite of his grinning, an audacious and 
sinister kind of face; and as he cur- 
vetted right into the village, the old 
stumpy appearance of his pumps ex- 
cited no little suspicion; and many a 
burgher who beheld him that day would 
have ‘given a trifle for a peep beneath 
the white cambric handkerchief which 
hung so obtrusively from the pocket 
of his swallow-tailed coat. But what 
mainly occasioned a righteous indigna- 
tion was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, 
while he cut a fandango here, and a 
whirligig there, did not seem to have 
the remotest idea in the world of such 
a thing as keeping time in his steps. 

The good people of the borough had 
scarcely a chance, however, to get their 
eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it 
wanted half a minute of noon, the 
rascal bounced, as I say, right into 
the midst of them; gave a chassez here, 
and a balancez there; and then, after a 
pirouette and a pas-de-zephyr, pigeon- 
winged himself right up into the belfry 
of the House of the Town Council, 
where the wonder-stricken belfry-man 
sat smoking in a state of dignity and 
dismay. But the little chap seized him 
at once by the nose; gave it a swing 
and a pull; clapped the big chapeau- 
de-bras upon his head; knocked it 
down over his eyes and mouth; and 
then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him 
with it so long and so soundly, that 
what with the belfry-man being so fat, 
and the fiddle being so hollow, you 
would have sworn that there was a 
regiment of double-bass drummers all 
beating the devil’s tattoo up in the 


631 


belfry of the steeple of Vondervottei- 
mittiss. 

There is no knowing to what des- 
perate act of vengeance this unprin- 
cipled attack might have aroused the 
inhabitants, but for the important fact 
that it now wanted only half a second 
of noon. The bell was about to strike, 
and it was a matter of absolute and 
pre-eminent necessity that everybody 
should look well at his watch. It was 
evident, however, that just at this mo- 
ment the fellow in the steeple was 
doing something that he had no busi- 
ness to do with the clock. But as it 
now began to strike, nobody had any 
time to attend to his manceuvres, for 
they had all to count the strokes of the 
bell as it sounded. 

“One!” said the clock. 

“Von!” echoed every little old gen- 
tleman in every leather-bottomed arm- 
chair in Vondervotteimittiss. ‘“Von!” 
said his watch also; “von!” said the 
watch of his vrow; and “von!” said 
the watches of the boys, and the little 
gilt repeaters on the tails of the cat 
and pig. 

“Two”? continued the big bell; and 

“Doo!” repeated all the repeaters. 

“Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! 
Eight! Nine! Ten!” said the bell. 


“Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! 
Aight! Noin! Den!” answered the 
others. 


“Eleven!” said the big one. 

“Eleben!”’ assented the little ones. 

“Twelve!” said the bell. 

“Dvelf!” they replied perfectly satis- 
fied, and dropping their voices. 

“Und dvelf it is!” said all the little 
old gentlemen, putting up their watches, 
But the big bell had not done with 


‘them yet. 


632 


“Thirteen!” said he. 

“Der Teufel!” gasped the little old 
gentlemen, turning pale, dropping their 
pipes, and putting down all their right 
legs from over their left knees. 

“Der Teufel!” groaned they, “Dir- 
teen! Dirteen!!——Mein Gott, itis Dir- 
teen o’clock!!” 

Why attempt to describe the ter- 
rible scene which ensued? All Vonder- 
votteimittiss flew at once into a la- 
mentable state of uproar. 

“Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared 
all the boys—‘“I’ve been ongry for dis 
hour!” 

“Vot is cum’d to mein kraut?” 
screamed all the vrows, “It has been 
done to rags for this hour!” 

“Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore 
all the little old gentlemen, “Donder 
and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for 
dis hour!”—and they filled them up 
again in a great rage, and sinking back 
in their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast 
and so fiercely that the whole valley 
was immediately filled with impene- 
trable smoke. 

Meantime the cabbages all turned 
very red in the face, and it seemed as 
if old Nick himself had taken posses- 
sion of every thing in the shape of a 
time-piece. The clocks carved upon 
the furniture took to dancing as if be- 
witched, while those upon the mantel- 
pieces could scarcely contain themselves 
for fury, and kept such a continual 
striking of thirteen, and such a frisking 
and. wriggling of their pendulums as 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


was really horrible to see. But, worse 
than all, neither the cats nor the pigs 
could put up any longer with the be- 
havior of the little repeaters tied to 
their tails, and resented it by scamper- 
ing all over the place, scratching and 
poking, and squeaking and screeching, 
and caterwauling and squalling, and fly- 
ing into the faces, and running under 
the petticoats of the people, and creat- 
ing altogether the most abominable din 
and confusion which it is possible for a 
reasonable person to conceive. And to 
make matters still more distressing, the 
rascally little scape-grace in the steeple 
was evidently exerting himself to the 
utmost. Every now and then one 
might catch a glimpse of: the scoundrel 
through the smoke. There he sat in 
the belfry upon the belfry-man, who 
was lying flat upon his back. In his 
teeth the villain held the _bell-rope, 
which he kept jerking about with his 
head, raising such a clatter that my 
ears ring again even to think of it. 
On his lap lay the big fiddle, at which 
he was scraping, out of all time and 
tune, with both hands, making a great 
show, the nincompoop! of playing “Judy 
O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.” 

Affairs being thus miserably situated, 
I left the place in disgust, and now 
appeal for aid to all lovers of correct 
time and fine kraut. Let us proceed in 
a body to the borough, and restore the 
ancient order of things in Vonder- 
votteimittiss by ejecting that little fel- 
low from the steeple. 





Bon-Bon 


(This tale was published in the Southern Literary Messenger, August, 1835.—Ed.) 


Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac 
Je suis plus savant que Balzac— 
Plus sage que Pibrac; 
Mon bras seul faisant l’attaque 
De la nation Cossaque, 
La mettroit au sac; 
De Charon je passerois le lac 
En dormant dans son bac; 
Jirois au fier Eac, 
Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac, 
Presenter du tabac. 
—French Vaudeville. 


TuaT Pierre Bon-Bon was a restau- 
rateur of uncommon qualifications, no 
man who during the reign of , fre- 
quented the little cafe in the cul-de-sac 
Le Febre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel 
himself at liberty to dispute. That 
Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, 
skilled in the philosophy of that period 
is, I presume still more especially un- 
deniable. His pates a la fois were 
beyond doubt immaculate; but what 
pen can do justice to his essays 
sur la Nature—his thoughts sur ?Ame— 
his observations sur l’Esprit? If his 
omelettes—if his fricandeaux were ines- 
timable, what litterateur of that day 
would not have given twice as much for 
an “Idee de Bon-Bon” as for all the 
trash of all the “Jdees” of all the rest 
of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked 
libraries which no other man had ran- 
sacked—had read more than any other 
would have entertained a notion of 
reading—had understood more than any 
other would have conceived the possi- 
bility of understanding; and although, 





while he flourished, there were not 
wanting some authors at Rouen to as- 
sert “that his dicta evinced neither the 
purity of the Academy, nor the depth 
of the Lyceum’”—although, mark me, 
his doctrines were by no means very 
generally comprehended, still it did not 
follow that they were difficult of com- 
prehension. It was, I think, on account 
of their self-evidency that many persons 
were led to consider them abstruse. It 
is to Bon-Bon—but let this go no fur- 
ther—it is to Bon-Bon that Kant him- 
self is mainly indebted for his meta: 
physics. The former was indeed not a 
Platonist, nor strictly speaking an 
Aristotelian—nor did he, like the mod: 
ern Leibnitz, waste those precious 
hours which might be employed in the 
invention of a fricasee or, facili gradu, 
the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous 
attempts at reconciling the obstinate 
oils and waters of ethical discussion. 
Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic—Bon- 
Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned 
a priori—He reasoned a posteriori. His 
ideas were innate—or otherwise. He 
believed in George of Trebizond—He 
believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was 
emphatically a—Bon-Bonist. 

I have spoken of the philosopher in 
his capacity of restaurateur. I would 
not, however, have any friend of mine 
imagine that, in fulfilling his hereditary 
duties in that line, our hero wanted a 
proper estimation of their dignity and 
importance. Far from it. It was im- 
possible to say in which branch of his 
profession he took the greater pride. 


633 


634 


In his opinion the powers of the intel- 
lect held intimate connection with the 
capabilities of the stomach. I am not 
sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed 
with the Chinese, who hold that the soul 
lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all 
events were right, he thought, who em- 
ployed the same words for the mind and 
the diaphragm.* By this I do not mean 
to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or 
indeed any other serious charge to the 
prejudice of the metaphysician. If 
Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and 
what great man has not a thousand?— 
if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his fail- 
ings, they were failings of very little im- 
portance—faults indeed which, in other 
tempers, have often been looked upon 
rather in the light of virtues. As re- 
gards one of these foibles, I should not 
even have mentioned it in this history 
but for the remarkable prominency—the 
extreme alto relievo—in which it jutted 
out from the plane of his general dis- 
position. He could never let slip an 
opportunity of making a bargain. 

Not that he was avaricious—no. It 
was by no means necessary to the sat- 
isfaction of the philosopher, that the 
bargain should be to his own proper ad- 
vantage. . Provided a trade could be 
effected—a trade of any kind, upon any 
terms, or under any circumstances—a 
triumphant smile was seen for many 
days thereafter to enlighten his counte- 
nance, and a knowing wink of the eye 
to give evidence of his sagacity. 

At any epoch it would not be very 
wonderful if a humor so peculiar as the 
one I have just mentioned, should elicit 
attention and remark. At the epoch 
of our narrative, had this peculiarity 





*Phrenes. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


not attracted observation, there would 
have been room for wonder indeed. It 
was soon reported that, upon all occa- 
sions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon 
was found to differ widely from the 
downright grin with which he would 
laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an 
acquaintance. 
of an exciting nature; stories were told 
of perilous bargains made in a hurry 
and repented of at leisure; and in- 
stances were adduced of unaccountable 
capacities, vague longings, and unnatural 
inclinations implanted by the author of 
all evil for wise purposes of his own. 
The philosopher had other weak: 
nesses—but they are scarcely worthy 
Our serious examination. For example, 
there are few men of extraordinary 
profundity who are found wanting in an 
inclination for the bottle. Whether 
this inclination be an exciting cause, or 
rather a valid proof of such profundity, 
it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as 
far as I can learn, did not think the 
subject adapted to minute investiga- 
tion;—nor do I. Yet in the indulgence 
of a propensity so truly classical, it is 
not to be supposed that the restaurateur 
would lose sight of that intuitive dis- 
crimination which was wont to charac- 
terize, at one and the same time, his 
essais and his omelettes. In his seclu- 
sions the Vin de Bourgogne had its 
allotted hour, and there were appropri- 
ate moments for the Cotes du Rhone. 
With him Sauterne was to Medoc what 
Catulus was to Homer. He would sport 
with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, 
but unravel an argument over Clos de 
Vougeot, and upset a theory in a tor- 
rent of Chambertin. Well had it been 
if the same quick sense of propriety had 
attended him in the peddling propensity 


Hints were thrown out 























BON-BON 


to which I have formerly alluded—but 
this was by no means the case. Indeed 
to say the truth, that trait of mind in 
the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at 
length to assume a character of strange 
intensity and mysticism, and appeared 
deeply tinctured with the diablerie of 
his favorite German studies. 

To enter the little cafe in the cul- 
de-sac Le Febre was, at the period of 
our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man 
of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of 
genius. There was not a sous-cuisinier 
in Rouen, who could not have told you 
that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. 
His very cat knew it, and forebore to 
whisk her tail in the presence of the 
man of genius. His large water-dog 
was acquainted with the fact, and upon 
the approach of his master, betrayed 
his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of 
deportment, a debasement of the ears, 
and a dropping of the lower jaw not al- 
together unworthy of a dog. It is, how- 
ever, true that much of this habitual 
respect might have been attributed to 
the personal appearance of the meta- 
physician. A distinguished exterior will, 
I am constrained to say, have its way 
even with a beast; and I am willing to 
allow much in the outward man of the 
restaurateur calculated to impress the 
imagination of the quadruped. ‘There 
is a peculiar majesty about the atmos- 
phere of the little great—if I may be 
permitted so equivocal an expression— 
which mere physical bulk alone will be 
found at all times inefficient in creat- 
ing. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely 
three feet in height, and if his head was 
diminutively small, still it was impos- 
sible to behold the rotundity of his 
stomach without a sense of magnifi- 
cence nearly bordering upon the sub- 


635 


lime. In its size both dogs and men 
must have seen a type of his acquire- 
ments—in its immensity a fitting habi- 
tation for his immortal soul. 

I might here—if it so pleased me— 
dilate upon the matter of habiliment, 
and other mere circumstances of the 
external metaphysician. I might hint 
that the hair of our hero was worn 
short, combed smoothly over his fore- 
head, and surmounted by a conical- 
shaped white flannel cap and tassels— 
that his pea-green jerkin was not after 
the fashion of those worn by the com- 
mon class of restaurateurs at that day— 
that the sleeves were something fuller 
than the reigning costume permitted— 
that the cuffs were turned up, not as 
usual in that barbarous period, with 
cloth of the same quality and color as 
the garment, but faced in a more fanci- 
ful manner with the particolored velvet 
of Genoa—that his slippers were of 2 
bright purple, curiously filigreed, and 
might have been manufactured in Ja- 
pan, but for the exquisite pointing of 
the toes, and the brilliant tints of the 
binding and embroidery—that his 
breeches were of the yellow satin-like 
material called aimable—that his sky- 


blue cloak, resembling in form a dress- 


ing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all 
over with crimson devices, floated 
cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist 
of the morning—and that his tout en- 
semble gave rise to the remarkable 
words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice 
of Florence, “that it was difficult to say 
whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a 
bird of Paradise, or the rather a very 
Paradise of perfection.” I might, I say, 
expatiate upon all these points if I 
pleased,—but I forbear; merely per- 
sonal details may be left to historical 


636 


novelists,-—they are beneath the moral 
dignity of matter-of-fact. 

I have said that “to enter the cafe 
in the cul-de-sac Le Febre was to enter 
the sanctum of a man of genius’—but 
then it was only the man of genius who 
could duly estimate the merits of the 
sanctum. A sign, consisting of a vast 
folio, swung before the entrance. On 
one side of the volume was painted a 
bottle; on the reverse a pate. On the 
back were visible in large letters Ziuvres 
de Bon-Bon. ‘Thus was delicately 
shadowed forth the twofold occupation 
of the proprietor. 

Upon stepping over the threshold, the 
whole interior of the building presented 
itself to view. 

A long, low-pitched room, of antique 
construction, was indeed all the accom- 
modation afforded by the cafe. Ina 
corner of the apartment stood the bed 
of the metaphysician. An array of cur- 
tains, together with a canopy a la 
Greque, gave it an air at once classic 
and comfortable. In the corner diag- 
onally opposite, appeared, in direct 
family communion, the properties of 
the kitchen and the bibliotheque. <A 
dish of polemics stood peacefully upon 
the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of 
the latest ethics—there a kettle of du- 
decimo melanges. Volumes of German 
morality were hand and glove with the 
gridiron—a toasting-fork might be dis- 
covered by the side of Eusebius—Plato 
reclined at his ease in the frying-pan— 
and contemporary manuscripts were 
filed away upon the spit. 

In other respects the Cafe de Bon- 
Bon might be said to differ little from 
the usual restaurants of the period. A 
fireplace yawned opposite the door. On 
the right of the fireplace an open cup- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


board displayed a formidable array of 
labelled bottles. 

It was here, about twelve o’clock one 
night during the severe winter of ; 
that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having 
listened for some time to the comments 
of his neighbors upon his singular pro- 
pensity—that Pierre Bon-Bon,- I say, 
having turned them all out of his house, 
locked the door upon them with an 
oath, and betook himself in no very 
pacific mood to the comforts of a 
leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire 
of blazing fagots. 

It was one of those terrific nights 
which are only met with once or twice 
during a century. It snowed fiercely, 
and the house tottered to its centre with 
the floods of wind that, rushing through 
the crannies of the wall, and pouring 
impetuously down the chimney, shook 
awfully the curtains of the philosopher’s 
bed, and disorganized the economy of 
his pate-pans and papers. The huge 
folio sign that swung without, exposed 
to the fury of the tempest, creaked 
ominously, and gave out a moaning 
sound from its stanchions of solid oak. 

It was in no placid temper, I say, 
that the metaphysician drew up his 
chair to its customary station by the 
hearth. Many circumstances of a per- 
plexing nature had occurred during the 
day, to disturb the serenity of his med- 
itations. In attempting des eufs a la 
Princesse, he had unfortunately perpe- 
trated an omelette a la Reine; the dis- 
covery of a principle in ethics had been 
frustrated by the overturning of a stew; 
and last, not least, he had been thwarted 
in one of those admirable bargains 
which he at all times took such especial 
delight in bringing to a successful term- 
ination. But in the chafing of his mind 
































BON-BON 


at these unaccountable vicissitudes, 
there did not fail to be mingled some de- 
gree of that nervous anxiety which the 
fury of a boisterous night is so well 
calculated to produce. Whistling to his 
more immediate vicinity the large black 
waterdog we have spoken of before, 
and settling himself uneasily in his 
chair, he could not help casting a wary 
and unquiet eye toward those distant 
recesses of the apartment whose inex- 
orable shadows not even the red fire- 
light itself could more than partially 
succeed in overcoming. Having com- 
pleted a scrutiny whose exact purpose 
was perhaps unintelligible to himself, 
he drew close to his seat a small table 
covered with books and papers, and 
soon became absorbed in the task of 
retouching a voluminous manuscript, 
intended for publication on the morrow. 

He had been thus occupied for some 
minutes, “I am in no hurry, Monsieur 
Bon-Bon,” suddenly whispered a whin- 
ing voice in the apartment. 

“The devil!” ejaculated our hero, 
starting to his feet, overturning the 
table at his side, and staring around 
him in astonishment. 

“Very true,” calmly replied the voice. 

“Very true!—what is very true?— 
how came you here?” vociferated the 
metaphysician, as his eye fell upon 
something which lay stretched at full 
length upon the bed. 

“T was saying,’ said the intruder, 
without attending to the interrogac 
tives,—“I was saying that I am not at 
all pushed for time—that the business 
upon which I took the liberty of calling, 
is of no pressing importance—in short, 
that I can very well wait until you have 
finished your Exposition.” 

“My Exposition!—there now!—how 


637 


do you know?—how came you to un- 
derstand that I was writing an Exposi, 
tion—good God!” 

“Hush!” replied the figure, in a shrill 
undertone; and, -arising quickly from 
the bed, he made a single step toward 
our hero, while an iron lamp that de- 
pended over-head swung convulsively 
back from his approach. 

The philosopher’s amazement did not 
prevent a narrow scrutiny of the 
stranger’s dress and appearance. ‘The 
outlines of his figure, exceedingly lean, 
but much above the common height, 
were rendered minutely distinct by 
means of a faded suit of black cloth 
which fitted tight to the skin, but was 
otherwise cut very much in the style 
oI a century ago. These garments had 
evidently been intended for a much 
shorter person than their present owner. 
His ankles and wrists were left naked 
for several inches. In his shoes, how- 
ever, a pair of very brilliant buckles 
gave the lie to the extreme poverty 1m- 
plied by the other portions of his dress. 
His head was bare, and entirely bald, 
with the exception of a_hinder-part, 
from which depended a queue of con- 
siderable length. A pair of green spec- 
tacles, with side glasses, protected his 
eyes from the influence of the light, and 
at the same time prevented our hero 
from ascertaining either their color or 
their conformation. About the entire 
person there was no evidence of a shirt; 
but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, 
was tied with extreme precision around 
the throat, and the ends hanging down 
formally side by side gave (although 
I dare say unintentionally) the idea of 
an ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other 
points both in his appearance and de- 
meanor might have very well sustained 


638 


a conception of that nature. Over his 
left ear, he carried, after the fashion of 
a modern clerk, an instrument resem- 
bling the stylus of the ancients. In a 
breast-pocket of his coat appeared con- 
spicuously a small black volume fas- 
tened with clasps of steel. This book, 
whether accidentally or not, was so 
turned outwardly from the person as to 
discover the words “Rituel Catholique” 
in white letters upon the back. His en- 
tire physiognomy was interestingly 
saturnine—even cadaverously pale. The 
forehead was lofty, and deeply fur- 
rowed with the ridges of contemplation. 
The corners of the mouth were drawn 
down into an expression of the most 
submissive humility. There was also a 
clasping of the hands, as he stepped to- 
ward our hero—a deep sigh—and alto- 
gether a look of such utter sanctity as 
could not have failed to be unequivo- 
cally prepossessing. Every shadow of 
anger faded from the countenance of 
the metaphysician, as, having completed 
a satisfactory survey of his visitor’s 
person, he shook him cordially by the 
hand, and conducted him to a seat. 
There would however be a radical 
error in attributing this instantaneous 
transition of feeling in the philosopher, 
to any one of those causes which might 
naturally be supposed to have had an 
influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, 
from what I have been able to under- 
stand of his disposition, was of all 
men the least likely to be imposed upon 
by any speciousness of exterior deport- 
ment. It was impossible that so accu- 
rate an observer of men and things 
should have failed to discover, upon the 
moment, the real character of the per- 
sonage who had thus intruded upon his 
hospitality. To say no more, the con- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


formation of his visitor’s feet was suf- 
ficiently remarkable — he maintained 
lightly upon his head an inordinately 
tall hat—there was a tremulous swelling 
about the hinder part of his breeches— 
and the vibration of his coat tail was a 
palpable fact. Judge, then, with what 
feelings of satisfaction our hero found 
himself thrown thus at once into the 
society of a person for whom he had at 
all times entertained the most unquali- 
fied respe¢t. He was, however, too 
much of the diplomatist to let escape 
him any intimation of his suspicions in 
regard to the true state of affairs. It 
was not his cue to appear at all con- 
scious of the high honor he thus unex- 
pectedly enjoyed; but, by leading his 
guest into conversation, to elicit some 
important ethical ideas, which might, in 
obtaining a place in his contemplated 
publication, enlighten the human race, 
and at the same time immortalize him- 
selfi—ideas which, I should have added, 
his visitor’s great age, and well-known 
proficiency in the science of morals, 
might very well have enabled him te 
afford. 

Actuated by these enlightened views, 
our hero bade the gentleman sit down, 
while he himself took occasion to throw 
some fagots upon the fire, and place 
upon the now re-established table some 
bottles of Mousseux. Having quickly 
completed these operations, he drew his 
chair vis-a-vis to his companion’s, and 
waited until the latter should open the 
conversation. But plans even the most 
skilfully matured are often thwarted in 
the outset of their application—and the 
restaurateur found himself nonpiussed 
by the very first words of his visitor’s 
speech. 

“I see you know me, Bon-Bon,” said 























BON-BON 


he; “ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! 
hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!”—and 
the Devil, dropping at once the sanctity 
oi his demeanor, opened to its fullest 
extent a mouth from ear to ear, so as to 
display a set of jagged and fang-like 
teeth, and, throwing back his head, 
laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and up- 
roariously, while the black dog, crouch- 
ing down wpon his haunches, joined 
lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, 
flying off at a tangent, stood up on end, 
and shrieked in the farthest corner of 
the apartment. 

Not so the philosopher: he was too 
much a man of the world either to 
laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to be- 
tray the indecorous trepidation of the 
cat. It must be confessed, he felt a 
little astonishment to see the white let- 
ters which formed the words “Rituel 
Catholique” on the book in his guest’s 
pocket, momently changing both their 
color and their import, and in a few 
seconds, in place of the original title, 
the words “Regitre des Condamnes” 
blazed forth in characters of red. This 
startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon 
replied to his visitor’s remark, imparted 
to his manner an air of embarrassment 
which probably might not otherwise 
have been observed. 

“Why sir,” said the philosopher, ‘why 
sir, to speak sincerely—I believe you 
are—upon my word—the d dest— 
that is to say, I think—I imagine—I 
have some faint—some very faint 
idea—of the remarkable honor 3 

“Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” inter- 
rupted his Majesty; “say no more—lI 
see how it is.” And hereupon, taking 
off his green spectacles, he wiped the 
glasses carefully with the sleeve of his 
coat, and deposited them in his pocket. 








639 


If Bon-Bon had been astonished at | 
the incident of the book, his amaze- 
ment was now much increased by the 
spectacle which here presented itself to 
view. In raising his eyes, with a strong 
feeling of curiosity to ascertain the col- 
or of his guest’s, he found them by no 
means black, as he had anticipated—nor 
gray, as might have been imagined—nor 
yet hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow 
nor red—nor purple—nor white—nor 
green—nor any other color in the 
heavens above, or in the earth beneath, 
or in the waters under the earth. In 
short, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw 
plainly that his Majesty had no eyes 
whatsoever, but could discover no indi- 
cations of their having existed at any 
previous period—for the space where 
eyes should naturally have been was, 
I am constrained to say, simply a dead 
level of flesh. 

It was not in the nature of the met- 
aphysician to forbear making some in- 
quiry into the sources of so strange a 
phenomenon, and the reply of his Maj- 
esty was at once prompt, dignified, and 
satisfactory. 

“Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did 
you say?—oh!—ah!—I perceive! The 
ridiculous prints, eh, which are in cir 
culation, have given you a false idea 
of my personal appearance? Eyes!— 
true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon, are very 
well in their proper place—ithat, you 
would say, is the head?—right—the 
head of a worm. To vou, likewise, 
these optics are indispensable—yet I 
will convince you that my vision is 
more penetrating than your own. There 
is a cat I see in the corner—a pretty cat 
—look at her—observe her well. Now, 
Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts— 
the thoughts, I say—the ideas—the re- 


640 


flections—which are being engendered 
in her pericranium? There it is, now— 
you do not! She is thinking we admire 
the length of her tail and the profundity 
of her mind. She has just concluded 
that I am the most distinguished of 
ecclesiastics, and that you are the most 
superficial of metaphysicians. Thus 
you see I am not altogether blind; but 
to one of my profession, the eyes you 
speak of would be merely an incum- 
brance, liable at any time to be put 
out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. 
To you, I allow, these optical affairs 
are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, 
to use them well;—my vision is the 
soul.” 

Hereupon the guest helped himself 
to the wine upon the table, and pouring 
out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested 
him to drink it without scruple, and 
make himself perfectly at home. 

“A clever book that of yours, Pierre,” 
resumed his Majesty, tapping our friend 
knowingly upon the shoulder, as the lat- 
ter put down his glass after a thorough 
compliance with his visitor’s injunction. 
“A clever book that of yours, upon my 
honor. It’s a work after my own heart. 
Your arrangement of the matter, I 
think, however, might be improved, and 
many of your notions remind me of 
Aristotle. That philosopher was one of 
my most intimate acquaintances. I 
liked him as much for his terrible ill 
temper, as for his happy knack at mak- 
ing a blunder. There is only one solid 
truth in all that he has written, and for 
that I gave him the hint out of pure 
compassion for his absurdity. I sup- 
pose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well 
know to what divine moral truth I am 
alluding?” 

“Cannot say that I-——” 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“Indeed!—why it was I who told 
Aristotle that by sneezing, men expelled 
superfluous ideas through the probos- 
cis.” 

“Which is— hiccup! — undoubtedly 
the case,” said the metaphysician, while 
he poured out for himself another 
bumper of Mousseux, and offered his 
snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor. 

“There was Plato, too,’ continued 
his Majesty, modestly declining the 
snuff-box and the compliment it im- 
plied—‘“there was Plato, too, for whom 
I, at one time, felt all the affection of 
a friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?— 
ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He 
met me at Athens, one day, in the Par- 
thenon, and told me he was distressed 
for an idea. I bade him write, down 
that o nous estin aulos. He said that 
he would do so, and went home, while 
I stepped over to the pyramids. But 
my conscience smote me for having ut- 
tered a truth, even to aid a friend, and 
hastening back to Athens, I arrived be- 
hind the philosopher’s chair as he was 
inditing the ‘aulos.’ 

“Giving the lambda a fillip with my 
finger, I turned it upside down. So the 
sentence now reads ‘o nous estin augos,’ 
and is, you perceive, the fundamental 
doctrines in his metaphysics.” 

“Were you ever at Rome?” asked the 
restaurateur, as he finished his second 
bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the 
closet a larger supply of Chambertin. 

“But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but 
once. There was a time,” said the 
Devil, as if reciting some passage from 
a book—“there was a time when oc- 
curred an anarchy of five years, dur- 
ing which the republic, bereft of all its 
officers, had no magistracy besides the 
tribunes of the people, and these were 











BON-BON 


not legally vested with any degree of 
executive power—at that time, Mon- 
sieur Bon-Bon—at that time only I was 
in Rome, and I have no earthly ac- 
quaintance, consequently, with any of 
its philosophy.’’* 

“What do you think of—what do 
you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?”’ 

“What do I think of whom?” said the 
Devil, in astonishment, ‘‘you surely do 
not mean to find any fault with Epicu- 
rus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do 
you mean me, sirP—I am Epicurus! I 
am the same philosopher who wrote each 
of the three hundred treatises commem- 
orated by Diogenes Laertes.” 

“That’s a lie!” said the metaphysi- 
cian, for the wine had gotten a little 
into his head. 

“Very well!—very well, sir!—very 
well, indeed, sir!” said his Majesty, 
apparently much flattered. 

“That’s a lie!”’ repeated the restaura- 
teur, dogmatically; “that’s a—hiccup!— 
a.lie!”’ 

“Well, well, have it your own way!” 
said the Devil, pacifically, and Bon- 
Bon, having beaten his Majesty at an 
argument, thought it his duty to con- 
clude a second bottle of Chambertin. 

“As I was saying,’ resumed the visi- 
tor—‘‘as I was observing a little while 
ago, there are some very outre notions 
in that book of yours Monsieur Bon- 
Bon. What, for instance, do you mean 
by all that humbug about the soul? 
Pray, sir, what zs the soul?” 

“The—hiccup!—soul,’ replied the 
metaphysician, referring to his MS., “‘is 
undoubtedly ——”’ 





*Tls ecrivaient sur la Philosophie 
(Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais c’etait 
la Philosophie Grecque.—Condorcet. 


641 


“No, sir!” 
“Tndubitably———” 
“No, sir!” 
“Tndisputably——” 
“No, sir!” 
“Evidently. “4 

“No, sir!” 

“Tncontrovertibly———’ 

“No, sir!” 

“Hiccup!——’” 

“No, sir!” 

“And beyond all question, a 5) 

“No, sir, the soul is no such thing!” 
(Here the philosopher, looking daggers, 
took occasion to make an end, upon the 
spot, of his third bottle of Chambertin.) 

“Then—hiccup!—pray, sir—what— 
what is it?” 

“That is neither here nor there, Mon- 
sieur Bon-Bon,” replied his Majesty, 
musingly. “I have tasted—that is to 
say, I have known some very bad souls, 
and some too—pretty good ones.” 
Here he smacked his lips, and, having 
unconsciously let fall his hand upon the 
volume in his pocket, was seized with a 
violent fit of sneezing. 

He continued. 

“There was the soul of Cratinus— 
passable: Aristophanes—racy: Plato— 
exquisite—not your Plato, but Plato the 
comic poet; your Plato would have 
turned the stomach of Cerberus— 
faugh! Then let me see! there were 
Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, 
and Terentius. Then there were 
Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and 
Quintus Flaccus,—dear Quinty! as I 
called him when he sung a seculare for 
my amusement, while I toasted him, 
in pure good humor, on a fork. But 
they want flavor, these Romans. One 
fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, 
and besides will keep, which cannot be 





9 





642 


said of a Quirite. 
Sauterne.” 

Bon-Bon had by this time made up 
his mind to mil admirari, and endeavored 
to hand down the bottles in question. 
He was, however, conscious of a 
strange sound in the room like the wag- 
ging of a tail. Of this, although -ex- 
tremely indecent in his Majesty, the 
philosopher took no _ notice:—simply 
kicking the dog, and requesting him to 
be quiet. The visitor continued: 

“T found that Horace tasted very 
much like Aristotle;—you know I am 
fond of variety. Terentius I could not 
have told from Menander. Naso, to 
my astonishment, was Nicander in dis- 
guise. Virgilius had a strong twang of 
Theocritus. Martial put me much in 
mind of Archilochus—and Titus Livius 
was positively Polybius and none other.” 

“Hiccup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and 
his Majesty proceeded: 

“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur 
Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant, it is 
for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, 
sir, it is not every dev—I mean it is 
not every gentleman who knows how to 
choose a philosopher. Long ones are 
not good; and the best, if not carefully 
shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on 
account of the gall.” 

“Shelled!” 

“JT mean taken out of the carcass.” 

“What do you think of a—hiccup!— 
physician?” 

“Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh!” 
(Here his Majesty retched violently.) 
“T never tasted but one—that rascal 
Hippocrates!—smelt of asafoetida— 
ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched 
cold washing him in the Styx—and af- 
ter all he gave me the cholera-morbus.” 

“The—hiccup!—wretch!” ejaculated 


Let us taste your 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Bon-Bon, “the — hiccup! — absorption 
of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher 
dropped a tear. 

“After all,” continued the visitor, 
“after all, if a dev—if a gentleman 
wishes to Jive, he must have more tal- 
ents than one or two; and with us a fat 
face is an evidence of diplomacy.” 

“How sop” 

“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly 
pushed for provisions. You must know 
that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it 
is frequently impossible to keep a spirit 
alive for more than two or three hours; 
and after death, unless pickled imme- 
diately (and a pickled spirit is mot 
good), they will—smell—you under- 
stand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be 
apprehended when the souls are con- 
signed to us in the usual way.” 

“Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how 
do you manage?” 

Here the iron lamp commenced 
swinging with redoubled violence, and 
the Devil half started from his seat;— 
however, with a slight sigh, he recov- 
ered his composure, merely saying to 
our hero in a low tone: “I tell you 
what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have 
no more swearing.” 

The host swallowed another bumper, 
by way of denoting thorough compre- 
hension and acquiescence, and the visi- 
tor continued. 

“Why, there are several ways of man- 
aging. The most of us starve: some 
put up with the pickle: for my part I 
purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in 
which case I find they keep very well.” 

“But the body! — hiccup! — the 
body! !” 

“The body, the body—well, what of 
the body?—oh! ah! I perceive. Why, 
sir, the body is not a¢ all affected by the 














BON-BON 


transaction. I have made innumerable 
purchases of the kind in my day, and 
the parties never experienced any in- 
convenience. There were Cain and 
Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and 
Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and—and a 
thousand others, who never knew what 
it was to have a soul during the latter 
part of their lives; yet, sir, these men 
adorned society. Why isn’t there 
A: , now, whom you know as well 
as IP ‘Is he not in possession of his 
faculties, mental and corporeal? Who 
writes a keener epigram? Who reasons 
more wittilye Who—but stay! I 
have his agreement in my pocket-book.” 

Thus saying, he produced a red leath- 
er wallet, and took from it a number 
of papers. Upon some of these Bon- 
Bon caught a glimpse of the letters 
Machi—M aza—Robesp—with the words 
Caligula, George, Elizabeth. His Maj- 
esty selected a narrow slip of parch- 
ment, and from it read aloud the fol- 
lowing words: 

“In consideration of certain mental 
endowments which it is unnecessary to 
specify, and in further consideration of 
one thousand louis d’or, I being aged 
one year and one month, do hereby 
make over to the bearer of this agree- 
ment all my right, title, and appurte- 
nance in the shadow called my soul. 
Signed) VAS. 24, 0" (Here His 
Majesty repeated a name which I did 
not feel justified in indicating more un- 
equivocally.) 

“A clever fellow that,” resumed he; 
“but, like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he 
’ was mistaken about the soul. The soul 
a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow; 








* Quere-Arouet? 


643 


Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! 
Only think of a fricasseed shadow!” 

“Only think—hiccup!—of a fricas- 
seed shadow!” exclaimed our hero, 
whose faculties were becoming much 
illuminated by the profundity of his 
Majesty’s discourse. 

“Only think of a hiccup!—fricas- 


seed shadow!! Now, damme!—hic- 
cup!—humph! If J would have been 
such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! My 


soul, Mr.—humph!”’ 

“Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?” 

“Ves, sir—hiccup!—my soul is 

“What, sire” 

“No shadow, damme!”’ 

“Did you mean to say y 

“Ves, sir, my soul is—hiccup!— 
humph!—yes, sir.” 

“Did you not intend to assert 

“My soul is — hiccup! — peculiarly 
for—hiccup!—a a 

“What, sir?” 

“Stew.” 

“Ha!” 

“Soufflee.” 

CBht? 

“Fricassee.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Ragout and fricandeau—and see 
here, my good fellow! I'll let you have 
it — hiccup! —a bargain.” Here the 
philosopher slapped his Majesty upon 
the back. 

“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said 
the latter calmly, at the same time ris- 
ing from his seat. The metaphysician 
stared. 

“Am supplied at present,” said his 
Majesty. 

“Hic-cup!—e-h?”’ said the philoso- 
pher. 

“Have no funds on hand.” 

“Whatr” 


” 





? 





? 








644 


“Besides, very unhandsome in me—” 

Orde 

“To take advantage of 9 

“Hic-cup!” 

“Your present disgusting and un- 
gentlemanly situation.” 

Here the visitor bowed and with- 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


drew—in what manner could not pre- 
cisely be ascertained—but in a well-con- 
certed effort to discharge a bottle at 
“the villain,’ the slender chain was 
severed that depended fom the ceil- 
ing, and the metaphysician prostrated 
by the downfall of the lamp. 


The Duc De 1. Omelette 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, February, 1836.—Ed.) 


And stepped at once into a cooler clime. 
—Cowper. 


Keats fell by a criticism. Who was 
it died of “The Andromache?’’* Ignoble 
souls!}—De L’Omelette perished of an 
ortolan. L’histoire en est breve. Assist 
me, Spirit of Apicius! 

A golden cage bore the little winged 
wanderer, enamoured, melting, indolent, 
to the Chaussee D’Antin, from its home 
in far Peru. From its queenly pos- 
sessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De 
L’Omelette, six peers of the empire con- 
veyed the happy bird. 

That night the Duc was to sup alone. 
In the privacy of his bureau he reclined 
languidly on that ottoman for which 
he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding 
his king—the notorious ottoman of 
Cadet. 

He buries his face in the pillow. The 
clock strikes! Unable to restrain his 
feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. 
At this moment the door gently opens 
to the sound of soft music, and lo! 
the most delicate of birds is before 
the most enamoured of men! But 





* See “Marginalia.”—Ed. 


what inexpressible dismay now over- 
shadows the countenance of the Duc?— 
“Horreur! — chien! — Baptiste! —Voi- 
seau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste 
que tu as deshabille de ses plumes, et 
que tu as servi sans papier!” It is 
superfluous to say more:—the Duc 
expired in a paroxysm of disgust. * * * 

“Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the 
third day after his decease. » 

“He! he! he!” replied the Devil 
faintly, drawing himself up with an 
air of hauteur. 

“Why, surely you are not serious,” 
retorted De L’Omelette. “I have sinned 
—c’ est vrai—but, my good sir, con- 
sider!'—you have no actual intention 
of putting such—such barbarous threats 
into execution.” 

“No what?” said his majesty—‘‘come, 
sir, strip!” 

“Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! 
no, sir, I shall zo¢ strip. Who are you, 
pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, 
Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, 
author of the ‘Mazurkiad, and member | 
of the Academy, should divest myself 
at your bidding of the sweetest panta- 
loons ever made by Bourdon, the 
daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put to- 























THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE 


gether by Rombert—to say nothing of 
the taking my hair out of paper—not 
to mention the trouble I should have 
in drawing off my gloves?” 

“Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal- 
Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee, 
just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid 
with ivory. Thou wast curiously 
scented, and labelled as per invoice. 
Belial sent thee,—my Inspector of 
Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which 


thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are 


an excellent pair of linen drawers, and 
thy robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no 
scanty dimensions.” 

“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not 
to be insulted with impunity!—Sir! I 
shall take the earliest opportunity of 
avenging this insult!—Sir! you shall 
hear from me! In the meantime au 
revoir!”—and the Duc was bowing 
himself out of the Satanic presence, 
when he was interrupted and brought 
back by a gentleman in waiting. Here- 
upon his Grace rubbed his eyes, 
yawned, shrugged his shoulders, re- 
flected. Having become satisfied of his 
identity, he took a bird’s-eye view of 
his whereabouts. 

The apartment was superb. Even 
De L’Omelette pronounced it bien 
comme il faut. It was not its length 
nor its breadth—but its height—ah, 
that was appalling!—There was no 
ceiling—certainly none—but a _ dense 
whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. 
His Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced 
upward. From above, hung a chain of 
an unknown blood-red metal—its upper 
end lost, like the city of Boston, parmi 
les nues. From its nether extremity 
swung a large cresset. The Duc knew 
it to be a ruby; but from it there 
poured a light so intense, so still, so 


645 


terrible, Persia never worshipped such 
—Gheber never imagined such—Mus- 
sulman never dreamed of such when, 
drugged with opium, he has tottered to 
a bed of poppies, his back to the flow- 
ers, and his face to the God Apollo. 
The Duc muttered a slight oath, de- 
cidedly approbatory. 

The corners of the room were 
rounded into niches. Three of these 
were filled with statues of gigantic pro- 
portions. Their beauty was Grecian, 
their deformity Egyptian, their tout 
ensemble French. In the fourth niche 
the statue was veiled; it was not 
colossal. But then there was a taper 
ankle, a sandalled foot. De L’Omelette 
pressed his hand upon his heart, closed 
his eyes, raised them, and caught his 
Satanic Majesty—in a blush. 

But the paintings!—Kupris! As- 
tarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the 
same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! 
Yes, Rafaelle has been here; for did 
he not paint the ? and was he not 
consequently damned? The paintings! 
—the paintings! O luxury! O love!— 
who, gazing on those forbidden beau- 
ties, shall have eyes for the dainty 
devices of the golden frames that be- 
sprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth and 
the porphyry walls? 

But the Duc’s heart is fainting within 
him. He is not, however, as you sup- 
pose, dizzy with magnificence, nor 
drunk with the ecstatic breath of those 
innumerable censers. C’est vrai que de 
toutes ces choses il a pense beaucoup— 
mais! The Duc De L’Omelette is ter- 
ror-stricken; for, through the lurid 
vista which a single uncurtained win- 
dow is affording, lo! gleams the most 
ghastly of all fires! 

Le pauvre Duc! 





He could not help 


646 


imagining that the glorious, the volup- 
tuous, the never-dying melodies which 
pervaded that hall, as they passed fil- 
tered and transmuted through the 
alchemy of the enchanted window- 
panes, were the wailings and the howl- 
ings of the hopeless and the damned! 
And there, too!—there!—upon the 
ottoman!—who could he be?—he, the 
petitmaitre—no, the Deity—who sat as 
if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with 
his pale countenance, si amerement? 

Mais il faut agir—that is to say, a 
Frenchman never faints outright. Be- 
sides, his Grace hated a scene—De 
L’Omelette is himself again. There 
were some foils upon a table—some 
points also. The Duc had _ studied 
under B ; a avait tue ses six 
hommes. Now, then, il peut s’echapper. 
He measures two points, and, with a 
grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the 
choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not 
fence! 

Mais il joue!—how happy a thought! 
—but his Grace had always an excel- 
Jent memory. He had dipped in the 
“Diable” of the Abbe Gualtier. Therein 
it is said “que le Diable mose pas 
refuser un jeu d’ecarte.” 

But the chances—the chances! True 
—desperate; but scarcely more desper- 
ate than the Duc. Besides, was he 
not in the secret?—had he not skimmed 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


over Pere Le Brun?—was he not a 
member of the Club Vingt-un? “Si je 
perds,’ said he, “je serai deux fois 
perdu—I shall be doubly damned—voila 
tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his 
shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrat 
a mes ortolans—que les cartes soient 
preparees!” 

His Grace was all care, all attention 
—his Majesty all confidence. A spec- 
tator would have thought of Francis 
and Charles. His Grace thought of his 
game. His Majesty did not think; he 
shuffled. The Duc cut. 

The cards are dealt. The trump is 
turned—it is—it is—the king! No— 
it was the queen. His Majesty cursed 
her masculine habiliments. De L’Om- 
elette placed his hand upon his heart. 

They play. The Duc counts. The 
hand is out. His Majesty counts 
heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. 
The Duc slips a card. 

“C’est a vous a faire,’ said his Maj- 
esty, cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, 
and arose from the table en presentant 
le Rot. 

His Majesty looked chagrined. 

Had Alexander not been Alexander, 
he would have been Diogenes; and the 
Duc assured his antagonist in taking 
leave, “que s’il n’eut ete De L’Omelette 
il n’aurait point d’objection detre le 
Diable.” 

















Never Bet the Devil Your Head 


A MORAL TALE 


(This tale under the title, “Never Bet Your Head,” was published in Graham’s 
Magazine, September, 1841.—Ed.) 


“Con tal que las costumbres de un 
autor,’ says Don Thomas de las Torres, 
in the preface to his “Amatory Poems” 
“sean puras y castas, importo muy poco 
que no sean igualmente severas sus 
obras”—meaning, in plain English, that 
provided the morals of an author are 
pure personally, it signifies nothing 
what are the morals of his books. We 
presume that Don Thomas is now in 
Purgatory for the assertion. It would 
be a clever thing, too, in the way of 
poetical justice, to keep him there until 
his “Amatory Poems” get out of print, 
or are laid definitely upon the shelf 
through lack of readers. Every fiction 
should have a moral; and, what is more 
to the purpose, the critics have discov- 
ered that every fiction has. Philip 
Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote a 
commentary upon the “Batrachomyo- 
machia,’” and proved that the poet’s 
object was to excite a distaste for sedi- 
tion. Pierre la Seine, going a step 
farther, shows that the intention was 
to recommend to young men temper- 
ance in eating and drinking. Just ‘so, 
too, Jacobus Hugo has satisfied himself 
that, by Euenis, Homer meant to in- 


sinuate John Calvin; by Antinous, 
Martin Luther; by the Lotophagi, 
Protestants in general; and, by the 


Harpies, the Dutch. Our more modern 
Scholiasts are equally acute. These 
fellows demonstrate a hidden meaning 
in “The Antediluvians,” a parable in 
“Powhatan,” new views in “Cock 


647 


Robin,” and transcendentalism in “Hop 
O’ My Thumb.” In short, it has been 
shown that no man can sit down to 
write without a very profound design. 
Thus to authors in general much trou- 
ble is spared. A novelist, for example, 
need have no care of his moral. It is 
there—that is to say, it is somewhere— 
and the moral and the critics can take 
care of themselves. When the proper 
time arrives, all that the gentleman 
intended, and all that he did not intend, 
will be brought to light, in the Dial, or 
the Down-Easter, together with all that 
he ought to have intended, and the 
rest that he clearly meant to intend:— 
so that it will all come very straight 
in the end. © 

There is no just ground, therefore, 
for the charge brought against me by 
certain ignoramuses—that I have never 
written a moral tale, or, in more pre- 
cise words, a tale with a moral. They 
are not the critics predestined to bring 
me out, and develop my morals:— 
that is the secret. By and by the 
North American Quarterly Humdrum 
will make them ashamed of their stu~ 
pidity. In the meantime, by way of 
staying execution—by way of mitigat- 
ing the accusations against me—I offer 
the sad history appended,—a history 
about whose obvious moral there can 
be no question whatever, since he who 
runs may read it in the large capitals 
which form the title of the tale. I 
should have credit for this arrange- 


64e 


ment—a far wiser one than that of 
La Fontaine and others, who reserve 
the impression to be conveyed until 
the last moment, and thus sneak it. in 
at the fag end of their fables. 
Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur was a 
law of the twelve tables, and De mor- 
tuis nil nist bonum is an _ excellent 
injunction—even if the dead in ques- 
tion be nothing but dead small beer. 
It is not my design, therefore, to vitu- 
perate my deceased friend, Toby Dam- 
mit. He was a sad dog, it is true, and 
a dog’s death it was that he died; but 
“be himself was not to blame for his 
vices. They grew out of a personal 
defect in his mother. She did her best 
in the way of flogging him while an 
infant—for duties to her well-regulated 
mind were always pleasures, and babies, 
like tough steaks, or the modern Greek 
olive trees, are invariably the better 
for beating—but, poor woman! she had 
the misfortune to be left-handed, and 
a child flogged left-handedly had better 
be left unflogged. The world revolves 
from right to left. It will not do to 
whip a baby from left to right. If 
each blow in the proper direction drives 
an evil propensity out, it follows that 
every thump in an opposite one knocks 
its quota of wickedness in. I was 
often present at Toby’s chastisements, 
and, even by the way in which he 
kicked, I could perceive that he was 
getting worse and worse every day. At 
last I saw, through the tears in my 
eyes, that there was no hope of the 
villain at all, and one day when he had 
been cuffed until he grew so black in 
the face that one might have mistaken 
him for a little African, and no effect 
had been produced beyond that of mak- 
ing him wriggle himself into a fit, I 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


could stand it no longer, but went down 
upon my knees forthwith, and, uplift- 
ing my voice, made prophecy of his 
ruin. 

The fact is that his precocity in vice 
was awful. At five months of age he 
used to get into such passions that he 
was unable to articulate. At six 
months, I caught him gnawing a pack 
of cards. At seven months he was in 
the constant habit of catching and kiss- 
ing the female babies. At eight months 
he peremptorily refused to put his sig- 
nature to the Temperance pledge. Thus 
he went on increasing in iniquity, month 
after month, until, at the close of the 
first year, he not only insisted upon 
wearing moustaches, but had contracted 
a propensity for cursing and swearing, 
and for backing his assertions by bets. 

Through this latter most ungentle- 
manly practice, the ruin which I had 
predicted to Tobby Dammit overtook 
him at last. The fashion had ‘“‘growr 
with his growth and strengthened with 
his strength,” so that, when he came 
to be a man, he could scarcely utter a 
sentence without interlarding it with a 
proposition to gamble. Not that he 
actually laid wagers—no. I will do my 
friend the justice to say that he would 
as soon have laid eggs. With him the 
thing was a mere formula—nothing 
more. His expressions on this head 
had no meaning attached to them what- 
ever. They were simple if not alto- 
gether innocent expletives—imaginative 
phrases wherewith to round off a sen- 
tence. When he said “I'll bet you so 
and so,” nobody ever thought of taking 
him up; but still I could not help 
thinking it my duty to put him down. 
The habit was an immoral one, and so 
I told him. It was a vulgar one—this 














NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD 


I begged him to believe. It was dis- 
countenanced by society—here I said 
nothing but the truth. It was forbid- 
den by act of Congress—here I had 
not the slightest intention of telling a 
lie. I remonstrated—but to no _ pur- 


pose. I demonstrated—in vain. I 
entreated—he smiled. I implored—he 
laughed. I preached—he sneered. I 


threatened—he swore. I kicked him— 
he called for the police. I pulled his 
nose—he blew it, and offered to bet 
the devil his head that I would not 
venture to try that experiment again. 

Poverty was another vice which the 
peculiar physical deficiency of Dam- 
mit’s mother had entailed upon her son. 
He was detestably poor; and this was 
the reason, no doubt, that his expletive 
expressions about betting, seldom took 
a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound 
to say that I ever heard him make 
use of such a figure of speech as “T’ll 
bet you a dollar.” 
bet you what you please,” or “I'll bet 
you what you dare,” or “I'll bet you 
a trifle,” or else, more significantly still, 
“Tl bet the Devil my head.” 

This latter form seemed to please 
him best,—perhaps because it involved 
the least risk; for Dammit had become 
excessively parsimonious. Had any one 
taken him up, his head was small, and 
thus his loss would have been small 
too. But these are my own reflections, 
and I am by no means sure that I am 
right in attributing them to him. At 
all events the phrase in question grew 
daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross 
impropriety of a man betting his brains 
like bank-notes,—but this was a point 
which my friend’s perversity of dispo- 
sition would not permit him to com- 
prehend. In the end, he abandoned all 


It was usually “I'll 


649 


other forms of wager, and gave him- 
self up to “Z’ll bet the Devil my head,” 
with a pertinacity and exclusiveness 
of devotion that displeased not less 
than it surprised me. I am always 
displeased by circumstances for which 
I cannot account. Mysteries force a 
man to think, and so injure his health. 
The truth is, there was something in 


_the air with which Mr. Dammit was 


wont to give utterance to his offensive 
expression—something in his manner of 
enunciation—which at first interested, 
and afterward made me very uneasy— 
something which, for want of a more 
definite term at present, I must be 
permitted to call queer; but which Mr. 
Coleridge would have called mystical, 
Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle 
twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquiz- 
zitistical. I began not to like it at all. 
Mr. Dammit’s soul was in a perilous 
state. I resolved to bring all my elo- 
quence into play to save it. I vowed 
to serve him as St. Patrick, in the Irish 
chronicle, is said to have served the 
toad,—that is to say, ‘awaken him te 
a sense of his situation.” I addressed 
myself to the task forthwith. Once 
more I betook myself to remonstrance. 
Again I collected my energies for a 
final attempt at expostulation. 

When I had made an end of my 
lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself 
in some very equivocal behavior. For 
some moments he remained silent, 
merely looking me inquisitively in the 
face. But presently he threw his head 
to one side, and elevated his eyebrows 
to a great extent. Then he spread out 
the palms of his hands and shrugged 
up his shoulders. Then he winked with 
the right eye. Then he repeated the 
operation with the left. Then he shut 


650 


them both up very tight. Then he 
opened them both so very wide that I 
became seriously alarmed for the con- 
sequences. Then, applying his thumb 
to his nose, he thought proper to make 
an indescribable movement with the 
rest of his fingers. Finally, setting his 
arms a-kimbo, he condescended to 
reply. 

I can call to mind only the heads 
of his discourse. He would be obliged 
to me if I would hold my tongue. He 
wished none of my advice. He despised 
all my insinuations. He was old 
enough to take care of himself. Did 
I still think him baby Dammit? Did 
I mean to say any thing against his 
character? Did I intend to insult him? 
Was I a fool? Was my maternal 
parent aware, in a word, of my absence 
from the domiciliary residence? He 
would put this latter question to me 
as to a man of veracity, and he would 
bind himself to abide by my reply. 
Once more he would demand explicitly 
if my mother knew that I was out. 
My confusion, he said, betrayed me, 
and he would be willing to bet the 
Devil his head that she did not. 

Mr. Dammit did not pause for my 
rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he 
left my presence with undignified pre- 
cipitation. It was well for him that 
he did so. My feelings had been 
wounded. Even my anger had been 
aroused. For once I would have taken 
him up upon his insulting wager. I 
would have won for the Arch-Enemy 
Mr. Dammit’s little head—for the fact 
is, My mamma was very well aware of 
my merely temporary absence from 
home. 

But Khoda shefa midehed—Heaven 
gives relief—as the Mussulmans say 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


when you tread upon their toes. It 
was in pursuance of my duty that I 
had been insulted, and I bore the insult 
like a man. It now seemed to me, 
however, that I had done all that could 
be required of me, in the case of this 
miserable individual, and I resolved to 
trouble him no longer with my counsel, 
but to leave him to his conscience and 
himself. But although I forebore to 
intrude with my advice, I could not 
bring myself to give up his society 
altogether. I even went so far as to 
humor some of his less reprehensible 
propensities; and there were times 
when I found myself lauding his wicked 
jokes, as epicures do mustard, with 
tears in my eyes:—so profoundly did 
it grieve me to hear his evil talk. 
One fine day, having strolled out 
together, arm in arm, our route led us 
in the direction of a river. There was 
a bridge, and we resolved to cross it. 
It was roofed over, by way of protec- 
tion from the weather, and the arch- 
way, having but few windows, was thus 
very uncomfortably dark. As we 
entered the passage, the contrast be: 
tween the external glare and the interior 
gloom struck heavily upon my spirits. 
Not so upon those of the unhappy 
Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil 
his head that I was hipped. He seemed 
to be in an unusual good humor. He 
was excessively lively—so much so that 
I entertained I know not what of 
uneasy suspicion. It is not impossi- 
ble that he was affected with the tran- 
scendentals. I am not well enough 
versed, however, in the diagnosis of 
this disease to speak with decision upon 
the point; and unhappily there were 
none of my friends of the Dial present. 
I suggest the idea, nevertheless, be- 


























NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD 651 


cause of a certain species of austere 
Merry-Andrewism which seemed to 
beset my poor friend, and caused him 
to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. 
Nothing would serve him but wrig- 
gling and skipping about under and 
over every thing that came in his way; 
now shouting out, and now lisping out, 
all manner of odd little and big words, 
vet preserving the gravest face in the 
world all the time. I really could not 
make up my mind whether to kick or 
to pity him. At length, having passed 
nearly across the bridge, we approached 
the termination of the footway, when 
our progress was impeded by a turn- 
stile of some height. Through this I 
made my way quietly, pushing it 
around as usual. But this turn would 
not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. 
He insisted upon leaping the stile, and 
said he could cut a pigeon-wing over 
it in the air. Now this, conscientiously 
speaking, I did not think he could do. 
The best pigeon-winger over all kinds 
of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and 
as I knew he could not do it, I would 
not believe that it could be done by 
Toby Dammit: I therefore told nim, 
in so many words, that he was a brag- 
gadocio, and could not do what he said. 
For this I had reason to be sorry after- 
ward;—for he straightway offered to 
bet the Devil his head that he could. 

I was about to reply, notwithstand- 
ing my previous resolutions, with some 
remonstrance against his impiety, when 
I heard, close at my elbow, a slight 
cough, which sounded very much like 
the ejaculation “akem!’’ I started, and 
looked about me in surprise. My 
glance at length fell into a nook of 
the framework of the bridge, and upon 
the figure of a little lame oid gentle- 


man of venerable aspect. Nothing 
could be more reverend than his whole 
appearance; for he not only had on a 
full suit of black, but his shirt was 
perfectly clean and the collar turned 
very neatly down over a white cravat, 
while his hair was parted in front like 
a girl’s. His hands were clasped pen- 
sively together over the stomach, and 
his two eyes were carefully rolled up: 
into the top of his head. 

Upon observing him more closely, I 
perceived that he wore a black silk 
apron over his small-clothes; and this 
was a thing which I thought very odd. 
Before I had time to make any remark, 
however, upon so singular a circum- 
stance, he interrupted me with a second 
“ahem!” 

To this observation I was not imme- 
diately prepared to reply. The fact is, 
remarks of this laconic nature are 
nearly unanswerable. I have known a 
Quarterly Review non-plussed by the 
word “Fudge!” I am not ashamed to 
say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. 
Dammit for assistance. 

“Dammit,” said I, “what are you 
about? don’t you hear—the gentleman 
says ‘ahem!’” JI looked sternly at my 
friend while I thus addressed him; for, 
to say the truth, I felt particularly 
puzzled, and when a man is particularly 
puzzled he must knit his brows and 
look savage, or else he is pretty sure 
to look like a fool. 

“Dammit,” observed I—although this 
sounded very much like an oath, than 
which nothing was further trom my 
thoughts—“‘‘Dammit,” I  suggested— 
“the gentleman says ‘ahem!’ ” 

I do not attempt to defend my re- 
mark on the score of profundity; I did 
not think it profound myself; but I 


652 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


have noticed tnat the effect of our 
speeches is not always proportionate 
with their importance in our own eyes; 
and if I had shot Mr. D. through and 
through with a Paixhan bomb, or 
knocked him on the head with the 
“Poets and Poetry of America,” he 
could hardly have been more discom- 
fited than when I addressed him with 
those simple words: ‘Dammit, what 
are you about?—don’t you hearP—the 
gentleman says ‘ahem!’ ” 

“Vou don’t say so?” gasped he at 
length, after turning more colors than 
a pirate runs up, one after the other, 
when chased by a man-of-war. ‘Are 
you quite sure he said that? Well, at 
all events I am in for it now, and may 
as well put a bold face upon the matter. 
Here goes, then—ahem!” 

At this the little old gentleman 
seemed pleased—God only knows why. 
He left his station at the nook of the 
bridge, limped forward with a gracious 
air, took Dammit by the hand and 
shook it cordially, looking all the while 
straight up in his face with an air of 
the most unadulterated benignity which 
it is possible for the mind of man to 
imagine. 

“T am quite sure you will win it, 
Dammit,” said he, with the frankest of 
ali smiles, ‘‘but we are obliged to have 
a trial, you know, for the sake of mere 
form.” 

“Ahem!” replied my friend, taking 
off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying a 
pocket-handkerchief around his waist, 
and producing an unaccountable alter- 
ation in his countenance by twisting 
up his eyes and bringing down the 
corners of his mouth—‘‘ahem!” And 
“ahem!” said he again, after a pause; 
and not another word more than 


“ahem!” did I ever know him to say 


after that. “Aha!” thought I, without 
expressing myself aloud,—“this is quite 
a remarkable silence on the part of 
Toby Dammit, and is no doubt a con- 
sequence of his verbosity upon a previ- 
ous occasion. One extreme induces 
another. I wonder if he has forgotten 
the many unanswerable questions which 
he propounded to me so fluently on 
the day when I gave him my last lec- 
ture? At all events, he is cured of 
the transcendentals.” 

“Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as 
if he had been reading my thoughts, 
and looking like a very old sheep in 
a revery. 

The old gentleman now took him by 
the arm, and led him more into the 
shade of the bridge—a few paces back 
from the turnstile. ‘My good fellow,” 
said he, “I make it a point of con- 
science to allow you this much run. 
Wait here, till I take my place by the 
stile, so that I may see whether you 
go over it handsomely, and transcen- 
dentally, and don’t omit any flourishes 
of the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you 
know. will say ‘one, two, three, and 
away. Mind you, start at the word 
‘away.’”? Here he took his position by 
the stile, paused a moment as if in 
profound reflection, then looked up and, 
I thought, smiled very slightly, then 
tightened the strings of his apron, then 
took a long look at Dammit, and finally 
gave the word as agreed upon— 


p) 


One—two—three—and—away! 


Punctually at the word “away,” my 
poor friend set off in a strong gallop. 
The style was not very high, like Mr. 
Lord’s—nor yet very low, like that of 








NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD 


Mr. Lord’s reviewers, but upon the 
whole I made sure that he would clear 
it. And then what if he did notr— 
ah, that was the question—what if he 
did not? “What right,” said I, “had 
the old gentleman to make any other 
gentleman jump? The little old dot- 
and-carry-one! who is fe? If he asks 
me to jump, I won’t do it, that’s flat, 
and I don’t care who the devil he is.” 
The bridge, as I say, was arched and 
covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, 
and there was a most uncomfortable 
echo about it at all times—an echo 
which I never before so particularly 
observed as when I uttered the four 
last words of my. remark. 

But what I said, or what I thought, 
or what I heard, occupied only an 
instant. In less than five seconds from 
his starting, my poor Toby had taken 
the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and 
spring grandly from the floor of the 
bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes 
with his legs as he went up. I saw 
him high in the air, pigeon-winging it 
to admiration just over the top of the 
stile; and of course I thought it an 
unusually singular thing that he did 
~ not continue to go over. But the whole 
leap was the affair of a moment, and, 
before I had a chance to make any 
profound reflections, down came Mr. 
Dammit on the flat of his back, on the 
same side of the stile from which he 
had started. At the same instant I saw 
the old gentleman limping off at the 
top of his speed, having caught and 
wrapt up in his apron something that 
fell heavily into it from the darkness 
of the arch just over the turnstile. At 


653 


all this I was much astonished; but 
I had no leisure to think, for Dammit 
lay particularly still, and I concluded 
that his feelings had been hurt, and 
that he stood in need of my assistance. 
I hurried up to him and found that 
he had received what might be termed 
a serious injury. The truth is, he had 
been deprived of his head, which after 
a close search I could not find any- 
where; so I determined to take him 
home and send for the homeopathists. 
In the meantime a thought struck me, 
and I threw open an adjacent window 
of the bridge, when the sad truth 
flashed upon me at once. About five 
feet just above the top of the turn- 
stile, and crossing the arch of the foot- 
path so as to constitute a brace, there 
extended a flat iron bar, lying with its 
breadth horizontally, and forming one 
of a series that served to strengthen 
the structure throughout its extent. 
With the edge of this brace it appeared 
evident that the neck of my unfortu- 
nate friend had come precisely in 
contact. 

He did not long survive his terrible 
loss. The homceopathists did not give 
him little enough physic, and what little 
they did give him he hesitated to take. 
So in the end he grew worse, and at 
length died, a lesson to all riotous liv- 
ers. I bedewed his grave with my 
tears, worked a bar sinister on his 
family escutcheon, and, for the general 
expenses of his funeral, sent in my 
very moderate bill to the transcendent- 
alists. The scoundrels refused to pay 
it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at 
once, and sold him for dog’s meat. 


Why the Little Frenchman Wears His 
Hand in a Sting 


(First appeared in an edition of 1840.—Ed.) 


It’s on my visiting cards sure enough 
(and it’s them that’s all o’ pink satin 
paper) that inny gintleman that plases 
may behould the intheristhin words, 
“Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, 
39 Southampton Row, Russell Square, 
Parrish o’ Bloomsbury.” And shud ye 
be wantin’ to diskiver who is the pink 
of purliteness quite, and the laider of 
the hot tun in the houl city 0’ Lonon— 
why it’s jist mesilf. And fait that same 
is no wonder at all at all (so be plased 
to stop curlin your nose), for every 
inch o’ the six wakes that I’ve been a 
gintleman, and left aff wid the bog- 
throthing to take up wid the Barronissy, 
it’s Pathrick that’s been living like a 
houly imperor, and gitting the iddica- 
tion and the graces. Och! and wouldn’t 
it be a blessed thing for your spirrits 
if ye cud lay your two peepers jist 
upon Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Bar- 
ronitt, when he is all riddy drissed for 
the hopperer, or stipping into the 
Brisky for the drive into the Hyde 
Park. But it’s the illigant big figgur 
that I ave, for the rason o’ which all 
the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn’t 
it my own swate silf now that’ll mis- 
sure the six fut, and the three inches 
more nor that, in me stockings, and 
that am excadingly will proportioned 
all over to match? And is it ralelly 
more than three fut and a bit that 
there is, inny how, of the little ould 
furrener Frinchman that lives jist over 
the wav. and that’s a-oggling and 


654 


a-goggling the houl day, (and bad luck 
to him,) at the purty widdy Misthress 
Tracle that’s my own nixt-door neigh- 
bor, (God bliss her!) and a most par- 
ticuler frind and acquaintance? You 
percave the little spalpeen is summat 
down in the mouth, and wears his lift 
hand in a sling; and it’s for that same 
thing, by yur lave, that I’m going to 
give you the good rason. 
The truth of the houl matter is jist 
simple enough; for the very first day 
that I com’d from Connaught, and 
showd my swate little silf in the strait 
to the widdy, who was looking through 
the windy, it was a gone case althe- 
gither wid the heart o’ the purty Mis- 
thress Tracle. I percaved it, ye see, 
all at once, and no mistake, and that’s 
God’s truth. First of all it was up 
wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she 
threw open her two peepers to the 
itmost, and thin it was a little gould 
spy-glass that she clapped tight to one 
o’ them, and divil may burn me if it 
didn’t spake to me as plain as a peeper 
cud spake, and says it, through the 
spy-glass: “Och! the tip o’ the mornin’ 
to ye, Sir Patrick O’Grandison, Bar- 
ronitt, mavourneen; and it’s a nate 
gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and 
it’s mesilf and me forten jist that’ll 
be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time 0’ 
day at all at all for the asking.” And 
it’s not mesilf ye wud have to 
be bate in the purliteness; so I made 
her a bow that wud ha’ broken yur 




















WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING 655 


heart altegither to behould, and thin I 
pulled aff.me hat with a flourish, and 
thin I winked at her hard wid both 
eyes, as much as to say: “True for 
you, yer a swate little crature, Mrs. 
Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may 
be drownthed dead in a bog, if it’s 
not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, 
Barronitt, that’ll make a houl bushel 
o’ love to yur leddyship, in the twin- 
kling o’ the eye of a Londonderry 
purraty.” 

And it was the nixt mornin’, sure, 
jist as I was making up me mind 
whither it wouldn’t be the purlite thing 
to sind a bit o’ writin’ to the widdy by 
way of a love-litter, when up com’d 
the delivery servant wid an illegant 
card, and he tould me that the name 
on it (for I niver could rade the copper- 
plate printin’ on account of being lift- 
handed) was all about Mounseer, the 
Count, A Goose, Look-aisy, Maiter- 
di-dauns, and that the houl of the 


. divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long 


name of the little ould furrener Frinch- 
man as lived over the way. 

And jist wid that in cum’d the little 
willain himself, and thin he made me 
a broth of a bow, and thin he said 
he had ounly taken the liberty of doing 
me the honor of the giving me a cali, 
a thin he went on to palaver at a great 
rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind 
what he wud be afther the tilling me 
at all at all, excepting and saving that 
he said “pully wou, woolly wou,” and 
tould me, among a bushel o’ lies, bad 
luck to him, that he was mad for the 
love o’ my widdy Misthress Tracle, 
and that my widdy Mrs. Tracle had a 
puncheon for him. 

At the hearin’ of this, ye may swear, 
though, I was as mad as a grasshopper, 


but I remimbered that I was Sir Path- 
rick O’Grandison, Barronitt, and that 
it wasn’t althegither gentaal to lit the 
anger git the upper hand o” the pur- 
liteness, so I made light o’ the matter 
and kipt dark, and got quite sociable 
wid the little chap, and afther a while 
what did he do but ask me to go wid 
him to the widdy’s, saying he wud give 
me the feshionable inthroduction to her 
leddyship. 

“Ts it there ye are?” said I thin to 
mesilf, “and it’s thrue for you, Patrick, 
that ye’re the fortunittest mortal in 
life. We'll soon see now whither it’s 
your swate silf, or whither it’s little 
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns, that Mis- 
thress Tracle is head and ears in the 
love wid.” 

Wid that we wint aff to the widdy’s, 
next door, and ye may well say it was 
an illegant place; so it was. There 
was a carpet all over the floor, and in 
one corner there was a forty-pinny and 
a jew’s-harp and the divil knows what 
ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, 
the beautifullest thing in all natur, and 
sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there 
was the swate little angel, Misthress 
Tracle. 

“The tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,” says 
I, “Mrs. Tracle,” and thin I made 
sich an illegant obaysance that it wud 
ha quite althegither bewildered the 
brain 0’ ye. 

“Wully woo, pully woo, plump in 
the mud,” says the little furrenner 
Frinchman, ‘‘and sure Mrs. Tracle,” 
says he, that he did, “isn’t this gintle- 
man here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick 
O’Grandison, Barronitt, and isn’t he 
althegither and entirely the most par- 
ticular frind and acquaintance that I 
have in the houl world?” 


656 


And wid that the widdy, she gits up 
from the sofy, and makes the swatest 
curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin 
down she sits like an angel; and thin, 
by the powers, it was that little spal- 
peen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns that 
plumped his silf right down by the right 
side of her. Och hon! I ixpicted the 
two eyes 0’ me wud ha cum’d out of 
my head on the spot, I was so disper- 
ate mad! MHowiver, “Bait who!” says 
I, after awhile. “Is it there ye are, 
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?” and so 
down I plumped on the lift side of her 
leddyship, to be aven with the willain. 
Botheration! it wud ha done your heart 
good to percave the illegant double 
wink that I gived her jist thin right 
in the face with both eyes. 

But the little ould Frinchman he 
niver beginned to suspict me at all at 
all, and disperate hard it was he made 
the love to her leddyship. ‘‘Woully 
wou,” says he, “Pully wou,” says he, 
“Plump in the mud,” says he. 

“That’s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, 
mavourneen,” thinks I; and I talked 
as hard and as fast as I could all the 
while, and throth it was mesilf jist that 
divarted her leddyship complately and 
intirely, by rason of the illegant con- 
versation that I kipt up wid her all 
about the dear bogs of Connaught. And 
by and by she gived me such a swate 
smile, from one ind of her mouth to 
the ither, that it made me as bould as 
a pig, and I jist took hould of the ind 
of her little finger in the most dilikit- 
test manner in natur, looking at her all 
the while out o’ the whites of my 
eyes. 

And then ounly percave the cuteness 
of the swate angel, for no sooner did 
she obsarve that I was afther the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


squazing of her flipper, than she up wid 
it in a jiffy, and put it away behind 
her back, jist as much as to say, “Now 
thin, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, there’s 
a bitther chance for ye, mavourneen, 
for it’s not altogether the gentaal thing 
to be afther the squazing of my flipper 
right full in the sight of that little 
furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter- 
di-dauns.”’ 

Wid that I giv’d her a big wink jist 
to say, “lit Sir Pathrick alone for the 
likes o’ them thricks,” and thin I wint 
aisy to work, and you’d have died wid 
the divarsion to behould how cliverly 
I slipped my right arm betwane the 
back o’ the sofy, and the back of her 
leddyship, and there, sure enough, I 
found a swate little flipper all a waiting 
to say, “the tip o’ the mornin’ to ye, 
Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt.” 
And wasn’t it mesilf, sure, that jist 
giv’d it the laste little bit of a squaze 
in the world, all in the way of a com- 
mincement, and not to be too rough 
wid her leddyship? and och, bothera- 
tion, wasn’t it the gentaalest and dili- 
kittest of. all the little squazes that I 
got in return? ‘Blood and thunder, 
Sir Pathrick, mavourneen,” thinks I to 
myself, “fait it’s jist the mother’s son 
of you, and nobody else at all at all, 
that’s the handsomest and the fortunit- 
test young bog-throtter that ever cum’d 
out of Connaught!” And wid that I 
giv’d the flipper a big squaze, and a 
big squaze it was, by the powers, that 
her leddyship giv’d to me back. But 
it would ha split the seven sides of 
you wid the laffin’ to behould, jist then 
all at once, the consated behavior of 
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes 
0’ sich a jabbering, and a smirking, and 











WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING 657 


a parley-wouing as he begin’d wid her 
leddyship, niver was known before 
upon arth; and divil may burn me if 
it wasn’t me own very two peepers 
that cotch’d him tipping her the wink 
out of one eye. Och, hon! if it wasn’t 
mesilf thin that was mad as a Kilkenny 
cat I shud like to be tould who it was! 

“Let me infarm you, Mounseer 
Maiter-di-dauns,” said I, as purlite as 
iver ye seed, “that it’s not the gintaal 
thing at all at all, and not for the likes 
o’ you inny how, to be afther the 
oggling and a-goggling at her leddyship 
in that fashion,” and jist wid that such 
another squaze as it was I giv’d her 
flipper, all as much as to say: “‘isn’t it 
Sir Pathrick now, my jewel, that'll be 
able to the protectin’ 0’ you, my dar- 
lint?” and then there cum’d another 
squaze back, all by way of the answer. 
“Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick,” it said 
as plain as iver a squaze said in the 
world, “Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, 
mavourneen, and it’s a proper nate gin- 
tleman ye are—that’s God’s truth,” and 
with that she opened her two beautiful 
peepers till I belaved they wud _ ha’ 
com’d out of her hid althegither and 
intirely, and she looked first as mad 
as a cat at Mounseer Frog, and thin 
as smiling as all out 0’ doors at mesilf. 

“Thin,” says he, the willain, “Och 
hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou,” and 
then wid that he shoved up his two 
shoulders till the devil the bit of his 
hid was to be diskivered, and then 
he let down the two corners of his 
purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth 
more of the satisfaction could I git 
out o’ the spalpeen. 

Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir 
Pathrick that was unreasonable mad 


thin, and the more by token that the 
Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at 
the widdy; and the widdy she kept an 
wid the squazing of my flipper, as much 
as to say: “At him again, Sir Pathrick 
O’Grandisen, mavourneen:” so I just 
ripped out wid a big oath, and says I: 

“Ve little spalpeeny frog of a bog- 
throtting son of a bloody noun!”—and 
jist thin what d’ye think it was that 
her leddyship did? Troth she jumped 
up from the sofy as if she was bit, and 
made off through the door, while I 
turned my head round afther her, in 
a complete bewilderment and bothera- 
tion, and followed her wid me two 
peepers. You percave I had a reason 
of my own for knowing that she 
couldn’t git down the stares althegither 
and intirely; for I knew very well that 
I had hould of her hand, for divil the 
bit had I iver lit it go. And says I: 

“Tsn’t it the laste little bit of a mis- 
take in the world that ye’ve been afther 
the making, yer leddyship? Come back 
now, that’s a darlint, and T’ll give ye 
yur flipper.” But aff she wint down 
the stares like a shot, and thin I turned 
round to the little Frinch furrenner. 
Och hon! if it wasn’t his spalpeeny © 
little paw that I had hould of in my 
own—why thin—thin it wasn’t—that’s 
all. 

And maybe it wasn’t mesilf that jist 
died then outright wid the laffin’, to 
behold the little chap when he found 
out that it wasn’t the widdy at all at 
all that he had hould of all the time, 
but, only Sir Pathrick O’Grandison. The 
ould divil himself niver behild sich a 
long face as he pet an! As for Sir 
Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, it 
wasn’t for the likes of his riverence to 


658 


be afther the minding of a thrifle of 
a mistake. Ye may jist say, though 
(for it’s God’s thruth), that afore I left 
hould of the flipper of the spalpeen 
(which was not till afther her leddy- 
ship’s futman had kicked us both down 
the stares), I giv’d it such a nice little 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


broth of a squaze as made it all up 
into raspberry jam. | 
“Woully wou,” says he, “pully wou,” 
says he—‘Cot tam!” 
And that’s jist the thruth of the 
rason why he wears his lift hand in 
a sling. 


ict 


c08 


a NS ee eee 

















VOT OME SV LLT 








Truth is stranger than fiction—Old 
Saving. 


Havinc had occasion, lately, in the 
course of some Oriental investigations, 
to consult the “Tellmenow Isitsoornot,” 
a work which (like the “Zohar” of Si- 
meon Jochaides) is scarcely known at 
all, even in Europe; and which has 
never been quoted, to my knowledge, 
by any American—if we except, per- 
haps, the author of the ‘Curiosities of 
American Literature” ;—having had oc- 
casion, I say, to turn over some pages 
of the first-mentioned very remarkable 
work, I was not a little astonished to 
discover that the literary world has 
hitherto been strangely in error respect- 
ing the fate of the vizier’s daughter, 
Scheherazade, as that fate is depicted 
in the “Arabian Nights”; and that the 
denouement there given, if not alto- 
gether inaccurate, as far as it goes, is at 
least to blame in not having gone very 
much farther. 

For full information on this interest- 
‘ing topic, I must refer the inquisitive 
reader to the “Isitsoornot” itself; but 
in the meantime, I shall be pardoned 
for giving a summary of what I there 
discovered. 

It will be remembered, that, in the 
usual version of the tales, a certain 
monarch having good cause to be jeal- 
ous of his queen, not only puts her to 





659 


Lhe Thousand-and-Second Tale of 
Scheherazade 


(First published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, February, 1845.—Ed.) 


death, but makes a vow, by his beard 
and the prophet, to espouse each night 
the most beautiful maiden in his domin- 
ions, and the next morning to deliver 
her up to the executioner. 

Having fulfilled this vow for many 
years to the letter, and with a relig- 
ious punctuality and method that con- 
ferred great credit upon him as a man 
of devout feeling and excellent sense, 
he was interrupted one afternoon (no 
doubt at his prayers) by a visit from 
his grand vizier, to whose daughter, it 
appears, there had occurred an idea. 

Her name was Scheherazade, and her 
idea was, that she would either redeem 
the land from the depopulating tax 
upon its beauty, or perish, after the 
approved fashion of all heroines, in the 
attempt. 

Accordingly, and although we do not 
find it to be leap-year (which makes the 
sacrifice more meritorious), she deputes 
her father, the grand vizier, to make an 
offer to the king of her hand. This 
hand the king eagerly accepts—(he had 
intended to take it at all events, and 
had put off the matter from day to day, 
only through fear of the vizier) —but, 
in accepting it now, he gives all parties 
very distinctly to understand, that, 
grand vizier or no grand vizier, he has 
not the slightest design of giving up 
one iota of his vow or of his privileges. 
When, therefore, the fair Scheherazade 


660 


insisted upon marrying the king, and 
did actually marry him despite her 
father’s excellent advice not to do any 
thing of the kind—when she would and 
did marry him, I say, will I, nill I, it 
was with her beautiful black eyes as 
thoroughly open as the nature of the 
case would allow. 

It seems, however, that this politic 
damsel (who had been reading Machi- 
avelli, beyond doubt), had a very in- 
genious little plot in her mind. On the 
night of the wedding, she contrived, 
upon I forget what specious pretence, 
to have her sister occupy a couch suf- 
ficiently near that of the royal pair to 
admit of easy conversation from bed 
to bed; and, a little before cock-crow- 
ing, she took care to awaken the good 
monarch, her husband (who bore her 
none the worse will because he intended 
to wring her neck on the morrow),— 
she managed to awaken him, I say, (al- 
though on account of a capital con- 
science and an easy digestion, he slept 
well,) by the profound interest of a 
story (about a rat and a black cat, I 
think) which she was narrating (all in 
an undertone, of course) to her sister. 
When the day broke, it so happened 
that this history was not altogether fin- 
ished, and that Scheherazade, in the na- 
ture of things could not finish it just 
then, since it was high time for her to 
get up and be bowstrung—a thing very 
little more pleasant than hanging, only 
a trifle more genteel! 

The king’s curiosity, however, pre- 
vailing, I am sorry to say, even over 
his sound religious principles, induced 
him for this once to postpone the ful- 
filment of his vow until next morning, 
for the purpose and with the hope of 
hearing that night how it fared in the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


end with the black cat (a black cat, I 
think it was) and the rat. 
The night having arrived, however, 


the lady Scheherazade not only put the | 


finishing stroke to the black cat and 


the rat (the rat was blue) but before | 


she well knew what she was about, 
found herself deep in the intricacies of 


a narration, having reference (if I am — 


not altogether mistaken) to a pink horse 
(with green wings) that went, in a vio- 
lent manner, by clockwork, and was 


wound up with an indigo key. With — 


this history the king was even more pwo- 


foundly interested than ‘with the other © 


—and, as the day broke before its con- 
clusion. (notwithstanding all the queen’s 
endeavors to get through with it in time 
for the bowstringing), there was again 
no resource but to postpone that cere- 


mony as before, for twenty-four hours. | 
The next night there happened a simi- © 
lar accident with a similar result; and © 


then the next—and then again the next; 


so that, in the end, the good monarch, | 


having been unavoidably deprived of 
all opportunity to keep his vow during 
a period of no less than one thousand 
and one nights, either forgets it alto- 


gether by the expiration of this time, — 


or gets himself absolved of it in the 
regular way, or (what is more prob- 


able) breaks it outright, as well as the © 


head of his father confessor. At all 
events, Scheherazade, who, being lin- 
eally descended from Eve, fell heir, per- 
haps, to the whole seven baskets of talk, 
which the latter lady, we all know, 
picked up from under the trees in the 


garden of Eden; Scheherazade, I say, — 


finally triumphed, and the tariff upon 
beauty was repealed. 

Now, this conclusion (which is that 
of the stery as we have it upon record) 

















THE THOUSAND AND SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE 


is, no doubt, excessively proper and 
pleasant—but alas! like a great many 
pleasant things, is more pleasant than 
true; and I am indebted altogether to 
the “Isitsoornot” for the means of cor- 
recting the error. “Le mieux,” says a 
French proverb, “est l’ennemi du bien,” 
and, in mentioning that Scheherazade 
had inherited the seven baskets of talk, 
I should have added that she put them 
out at compound interest until they 
amounted to seventy-seven. 

“My dear sister,’ said she, on the 
thousand-and-second night, (I quote the 
language of the “Isitsoornot” at this 
point, verbatim) ‘“‘my dear sister,” said 
she, “now that all this little difficulty 
about the bowstring has blown over, 
and that this odious tax is so happily 
repealed, I feel that I have been guilty 
of great indiscretion in withholding 
from you and the king (who I am sorry 
to say, snores—a thing no gentleman 
would do) the full conclusion of Sin- 
bad the sailor. This person went 
through numerous other and more in- 
teresting adventures than those which 
I related; but the truth is, I felt sleepy 
on the particular night of their narra- 
tion, and so was seduced into cutting 
them short—a grievous piece of miscon- 
duct, for which I only trust that Allah 
will forgive me. But even yet it is not 
too late to remedy my great neglect— 
and as soon as I have given the king 
a pinch or two in order to wake him 
up so far that he may stop making that 
horrible noise, I will forthwith enter- 
tain you (and him if he pleases) with 
the sequel of this very remarkable 
story.” 

Hereupon the sister of Scheherazade, 
as I have it from the “‘Isitsoornot,” ex- 
pressed no very particular intensity of 


661 


gratification; but the king, having been 
sufficiently pinched, at length ceased 
snoring, and finally said, “Hum!” and 
then “Hoo!” when the queen, under- 
standing these words (which are no 
doubt Arabic) to signify that he was all 
attention, and would do his best not to 
snore any more—the queen, I say, hav- 
ing arranged these matters to her sat- 
isfaction, re-entered thus, at once, into 
the history of Sinbad the sailor: 

“ “At length, in my old age’ (these are 
the words of Sinbad himself, as retailed 
by Scheherazade)—‘at length, in my 
old age, and after enjoying many years 
of tranquility at home, I became once 
more possessed of a desire of visiting 
foreign countries; and one day, without 
acquainting any of my family with my 
design, I packed up some bundles of 
such merchandise as was most precious 
and least bulky, and, engaging a porter 
to carry them, went with him down to 
the sea-shore, to await the arrival of 
any chance vessel that might convey 
me out of the kingdom into some region 
which I had not as yet explored. 

“ “Having deposited the packages 
upon the sands, we sat down beneath 
some trees, and looked out into the 
ocean in the hope of perceiving a ship, 
but during several hours we saw none 
whatever. At length I fancied that I 
could hear a singular buzzing or hum- 
ming sound—and the porter, after lis- 
tening awhile, declared that he also 
could distinguish it. Presently it grew 
louder, and then still louder, so that we 
could have no doubt that the object 
which caused it was approaching us. At 
length, on the edge of the horizon, we 
discovered a black speck, which rapidly 
increased in size until we made it out 
to be a vast monster, swimming with a 


662 


great part of its body above the sur- 
face of the sea. It came toward us 
with inconceivable swiftness, throwing 
up huge waves of foam around its 
breast, and illuminating all that part of 
the sea through which it passed, with 
a long line of fire that extended far off 
into the distance. 

‘“““As the thing drew near we saw it 
very distinctly. Its length was equal 
to that of three of the loftiest trees 
that grow, and it was as wide as the 
great hall of audience in your palace, 
O most sublime and munificent of the 
caliphs. Its body, which was unlike 
that of ordinary fishes, was as solid as 
a rock, and of a jetty blackness through- 
out all that portion of it which floated 
above the water with the exception of 
a narrow blood-red streak that com- 
pletely begirdled it. The belly, which 
floated beneath the surface, and of 
which we could get only a glimpse now 
and then as the monster rose and fell 
with the billows, was entirely covered 
with metallic scales, of a color like that 
of the moon in misty weather. The 
back was flat and nearly white, and 
from it there extended upwards of six 
spines, about half the length of the 
whole body. 

“*This horrible creature had no 
mouth that we could perceive; but, as 
if to make up for this deficiency, it was 
provided with at least four score of 
eyes, that protruded from their sockets 
like those of the green dragon-fly, and 
were arranged all around the body in 
two rows, one above the other, and par- 
allel to the blood-red streak, which 
seemed to answer the purpose of an 
eyebrow. Two or three of these dread- 
ful eyes were much larger than the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


others, and had the appearance of solid 
gold. 

‘Although this beast approached us, 
as I have before said, with the greatest 
rapidity, it must have been moved al- 
together by necromancy—for it had 
neither fins like a fish nor web-feet like 
a duck, nor wings like the seashell 
which is blown along in the manner of 
a vessel; nor yet did it writhe itself 
forward as do the eels. Its head and its 
tail were shaped precisely alike, only, 
not far from the latter, were two small 
holes that served for nostrils, and 
through which the monster puffed out © 
its thick breath with prodigious vio- — 
lence, and with a shrieking, disagreeable | 
noise. | 
“ ‘Our terror at beholding this hide- — 
ous thing was very great, but it was © 
even surpassed by our astonishment, 
when upon getting a nearer look, we 
perceived upon the creature’s back a 
vast number of animals about the size 
and shape of men, and altogether much 
resembling them, except that they wore 
no garments (as men do), being sup- 
plied (by nature, no doubt,) with an 
ugly uncomfortable covering, a good 
deal like cloth, but fitting so tight to 
the skin, as to render the poor wretches 
laughably awkward, and put them ap- 
parently to severe pain. On the very 
tips of their heads were certain square- 
looking boxes, which, at first sight, I | 
thought might have been intended to 
answer as turbans, but I soon discovered 
that they were excessively heavy and 
solid, and I therefore concluded they 
were contrivances designed, by their 
great weight, to keep the heads of the 
animals steady and safe upon their 
shoulders. Around the necks of the 
creatures were fastened black collars. 











as we keep on our dogs, 


THE THOUSAND AND SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE 


“(badges of servitude, no doubt,) such 
only much 
wider and infinitely stiffer—so that it 
was quite impossible for these poor vic- 
tims to move their heads in any direc- 
tion without moving the body at the 


same time; and thus they were doomed 


to perpetual contemplation of their 
noses—a view puggish and snubby in a 
wonderful if not positively in an awful 


degree. 


“When the monster had _ nearly 
reached the shore where we stood, it 


suddenly pushed out one of its eyes to 
a great extent, and emitted from it a 
terrible flash of fire, accompanied by a 
dense cloud of smoke, and a noise that 
I can compare to nothing but thunder. 
_As the smoke cleared away, we saw one 


of the odd man-animals standing near 
the head of the large beast with a trump- 
et in his hand, through which (putting 


it to his mouth) he presently addressed 
us in loud, harsh, and disagreeable ac- 


: cents, 
mistaken for language, had they not 
come altogether through the nose. 








that, perhaps, we should have 


“ “Being thus evidently spoken to, I 
was at a loss how to reply, as I could 


in no manner understand what was said; 


and in this difficulty I turned to the por- 
ter, who was near swooning through af- 
fright, and demanded of him his opinion 
as to what species of monster it was, 
what it wanted, and what kind of crea- 


tures those were that so swarmed upon 


its back. To this the porter replied, as 
well as he could for trepidation, that 
he had once before heard of this sea- 
beast; that it was a cruel demon, with 


bowels of sulphur and blood of fire, cre- 
ated by evil genii as the means of in- 


'flicting misery upon mankind; that the 
things upon its back were vermin, such 


| 
| 
| 
| 


663 


as sometimes infest cats and dogs, only 
a little larger and more savage; and that 
these vermin had their uses, however 
evil—for, through the torture they 
caused the beast by their nibblings and 
stingings, it was goaded into that de- 
gree of -wrath which was requisite to 
make it roar and commit ill, and so ful- 
fil the vengeful and malicious designs 
of the wicked genii. 

““*This account determined me to take 
to my heels, and, without once even 
looking behind me, I ran at full speed 
up into the hills, while the porter ran 
equally fast, although nearly in an op- 
posite. direction, so that, by these means, 
he finally made his escape with my 
bundles, of which I have no doubt he 
took excellent care—although this is a 
point I cannot determine, as I do not 
remember that I ever beheld him again. 

“For myself, I was so hotly pur- 
sued by a swarm of the men-vermin 
(who had come to the shore in boats) 
that I was very soon overtaken, bound 
hand and foot, and conveyed to the 
beast, which immediately swam out 
again into the middle of the sea. 

“*T now bitterly repented my folly in 
quitting a comfortable home to peril 
my life in such adventures as this; but 
regret being useless, I made the best 
of my condition, and exerted myself to 
secure the good-will of the man-animal 
that owned the trumpet, and who ap- 
peared to exercise authority over his fel- 
lows. I succeeded so well in this en- 
deavor that, in a few days, the creature 
bestowed upon me various tokens of his 
favor, and in the end even went to the 
trouble of teaching me the rudiments 
of what it was vain enough to denom- 
inate its language; so that, at length, I 
was enabled to converse with it readily, 


664 


and came to make it comprehend the 
ardent desire I had of seeing the world. 

“<“Washish squashish squeak, Sinbad, 
heydiddle diddle, grunt unt grumble, 
hiss, fiss, whiss,’ said he to me, one day 
after dinner—but I beg a thousand par- 
dons, I had forgotten that your maj- 
esty is not conversaht with the dialect 
of the Cock-neighs (so the man-animals 
were called; I presume because their 
language formed the connecting link be- 
tween that of the horse and that of the 
rooster). With your permission, I will 
translate. ‘Washish squashish, and so 
forth:—that is to say, ‘I am happy to 
find, my dear Sinbad, that you are really 
a very excellent fellow; we are now 
about doing a thing which is called cir- 
cumnavigating the globe; and since you 
are so desirous of seeing the world, I 
will strain a point and give you a free 
passage upon the back of the beast.’ ” 

When the Lady Scheherazade had 
proceeded thus far, relates the “Isitsoor- 
not,” the king turned over from his left 
side to his right, and said: 

“It is, in fact, very surprising, my 
dear queen, that you omitted, hitherto, 
these latter adventures of Sinbad. Do 
you know I think them exceedingly en- 
tertaining and strange?” 

The king having thus expressed him- 
self, we are told, the fair Scheherazade 
resumed her history in the following 
words: 

“Sinbad went on in this manner with 
his narrative—TI thanked the man-ani- 
mal for its kindness, and soon found 
myself very much at home on the beast, 
which swam at a prodigious rate through 
the ocean; although the surface of the 
latter is, in that part of the world, by 
no means flat, but round like a pome- 
granate, so that we went—so to say— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


elther up hill or down hill all the 
time.’ ”’ 

“That, I think, was very singular,” 
interrupted the king. 

“Nevertheless, it is quite true,” re- 
plied Scheherazade. 

“T have my doubts,” rejoined the 
king; “‘but, pray, be so good as to go 
on with the story.” 

“T will,’ said the queen. “ ‘The 
beast,’ continued Sinbad, ‘swam, as I 
have related, up hill and down hill, un- 
til, at length, we arrived at an island, 
many hundreds of miles in circumfer- 
ence, but which, nevertheless, had been 
built in the middle of the sea by a 
colony of little things like caterpil- 
lars.’ ’’* 

“Hum!” said the king. 

“Leaving this island,’ said Sinbad— 
(for Scheherazade, it must be under- 
stood, took no notice of her husband’s 
ill-mannered ejaculation)—‘leaving this 
island, we came to another where the 
forests were of solid stone, and so hard 
that they shivered to pieces the finest- 
tempered axes with which we endeav- 
ored to cut them down.’ ’’+ 

“Hum!” said the king, again; but 
Scheherazade, paying him no attention, 
continued in the language of Sinbad. 

““Passing beyond this last island, we 
reached a country where there was a 
cave that ran to the distance of thirty 
or forty miles within the bowels of the 
earth, and that contained a greater num- 
ber of far more spacious and more’ mag- 
nificent palaces than are to be found 
in all Damascus and Bagdad. From the 





* The coralites. 

+ “One of the most remarkable nat- 
ural curiosities in Texas is a petrified 
forest, near the head of Pasigno river. 























THE THOUSAND AND SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE 


roofs of these palaces there hung myr- 
iads of gems, like diamonds, but larger 
than men; and in among the streets of 
towers and pyramids and temples, there 
flowed immense rivers as black as 
ebony, and swarming with fish that had 
no eyes.’ ’’* 

“Hum!” said the king. 

“We then swam into a region of the 
sea where we found a lofty mountain, 
down whose sides there streamed tor- 
rents of melted metal, some of which 
were twelve miles wide and sixty miles 
long;? while from an abyss on the sum- 
mit, issued so vast a quantity of ashes 
that the sun was entirely blotted out 
from the heavens, and it became darker 
than the darkest midnight; so that 
when we were even at the distance of 
a hundred and fifty miles from the 
mountain, it was impossible to see the 
whitest object, however close we held it 
to our eyes.’ 

“Hum!” said the king. 

“After quitting this coast, the beast 
continued his voyage until we met with 
a land in which the nature of things 
seemed reversed—for we here saw a 
great lake, at the bottom of which, more 
than a hundred feet beneath the surface 
of the water, there flourished in full leaf 
a forest of tall and luxuriant trees.’ ”§ 





* The Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. 

+In Iceland, 1783. 

+ “During the eruption of Hecla, in 
1766, clouds of this kind produced such 
a degree of darkness that, at Glaumbha, 
which is more than fifty leagues from 
the mountain, people could only find 
their way by groping. | 

§ “In the year 1790, in the Caraccas 
Juring an earthquake a portion of the 
granite soil sank and left a lake eight 


665 


“Hoo!” said the king. 

“ “Proceeding still in the same direc- 
tion, we presently arrived at the most 
magnificent region in the whole world. 
Through it there meandered a glorious 
river for several thousands of miles. 
This river was of unspeakable depth, 
of amber. It was from three to six 
miles in width; and its banks which 
arose on either side to twelve hundred 
feet in perpendicular height, were 
crowned with ever-blossoming trees, and 
perpetual sweet-scented flowers, that 
made the whole territory one gorgeous 
garden; but the name of this luxuriant 
land was the Kingdom of Horror, and 
to enter it was inevitable death.’ ’’* 

‘‘Humph!” said the king. 

“ “We left this kingdom in great haste, 
and, after some days, came to another, 
where we were astonished to perceive 
myriads of monstrous animals with 
horns resembling scythes upon their 
heads. These hideous beasts dig for 
themselves vast caverns in the soil, of a 
funnel shape, and line the sides of them 
with rocks, so disposed one upon the 
other that they fall instantly, when 
trodden upon by other animals, thus 
precipitating them into the monster’s 
dens, where their blood is immediately 
sucked, and their carcasses afterwards 
hurled contemptuously out to:an im- 
mense distance from “the caverns of 
death.” ’ + 

“Pooh!” said the king. 


hundred yards in diameter, and from 
eighty to a hundred feet deep. It was 
a part of the forest of Aripao which 
sank, and the trees remained green for 
several months under the water.” 

* The region of the Niger. 

+ The Myrmeleon—lion-ant. 


666 


*‘Continuing our progress, we per- 
ceived a district with vegetables that 
grew not upon any soil, but in the air.* 
There were others that sprang from the 
substance of other vegetables;+ others 
that derived their substance from the 
bodies of living animals;{ and then 
again, there were others that glowed all 
over with intense fire;§ others that 
moved from place to place at pleasure, 
and what was still more wonderful, we 
discovered flowers that lived and 
breathed and moved their limbs at will, 
and had, moreover, the detestable pas- 
sion of mankind for enslaving other 
creatures, and confining them in horrid 
and solitary prisons until the fulfillment 
of appointed tasks? 

“Pshaw!” said the king. 

‘Quitting this land, we soon arrived 
at another in which the bees and the 
birds are mathematicians of such genius 
and erudition, that they give daily in- 
structions in the science of geometry to 
the wise men of the empire. The king 
of the place having offered a reward 
for the solution of two very difficult 
problems, they were solved upon the 
spot—the one by the bees, and the oth2r 
by the birds; but the king keeping their 
solution a secret, it was only after the 
most profound researches and_ labor, 


and the: writing of an infinity of big 


* The Epidendron, Flos Aeris, of the 
family of the Orchidee. 
+The Parasites, such as the wonder- 
ful Rafflesia Arnaldit. 
{The Plante Epizoce. Of this class 
are the Fuci and Alge. 
§ In mines and natural caves we find 
a species of cryptogamous fungus that 
emits an intense phosphorescence. 
{ Aristolachia Clematitis. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


books, during a long series of years, that 
the men-mathematicians at length ar- 
rived at the identical solutions which 
had been given upon the spot by the 
bees and by the birds.’ ”* 

“Oh my!” said the king. 

‘““‘We had scarcely lost sight of this 
empire when we found ourselves close 
upon another, from whose shores there 
flew over our heads a flock of fowls a 
mile in breadth, and two hundred and 
forty miles long; so that although they 
flew a mile during every minute, it re- 
quired no less than four hours for the 
whole flock to pass over us-—in which 
there were several millions of millions 
of fowl.’ t+ 

“Oh fy!” said the king. 

‘“““No sooner had we got rid of these 
birds, which occasioned us great annoy- 
ance, than we were terrified by the ap- 
pearance of a fowl of another kind, and 
infinitely larger than even the rocs 
which I met in my former voyages; for 
it was bigger than the biggest of the 
domes on your seraglio, oh, most Mu- 
nificent of Caliphs. This terrible fowl 
had no head that we could perceive, but 


* The bees—ever since bees were— 
have been constructing their cells with 
just such sides, in just such number, 
and at just such inclinations, as it has 
been demonstrated (in a problem in- 
volving the profoundest mathematical 
principles) are the very sides, in the 
very number, and at the very angles, 
which will afford the creatures the most 
room that is compatible with the great- 
est stability of structure. The wind- 
mill and the aeroplane are constructed 
by observation of bird-flight. 

?A flight of pigeons described in a 
book of travels. 

















THE THOUSAND AND SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE 


was fashioned entirely of belly, which 
was of a prodigious fatness and round- 
ness, of a_ soft-looking substance, 
smooth, shining and striped with va- 
rious colors. In its talons, the monster 
was bearing away to his eyrie in the 
heavens, a house from which it had 
knocked of the roof, and in the interior 
of which we distinctly saw human be- 
ings, who, beyond doubt, were in a 
state of frightful despair at the horrible 
fate which awaited them. We shouted 
with all our might, in the hope of 
frightening the bird into letting go of 
its prey; but it merely gave a snort or 
puff, as if of rage and then let fall upon 
our heads a heavy sack which proved to 
be filled with sand!’ ”’ 

“Stuff!” said the king. 

“Tt was just after this adventure 
that we encountered a continent of im- 
mense extent and prodigious solidity, 
but which, nevertheless, was supported 
entirely upon the back of a sky-blue 
cow that had no fewer than four hun- 
dred horns.’ ’’* 

“That, now, I believe,” said the king, 
“because I have read something of the 
Jkind before, in a book.” 

‘We passed immediately beneath this 
continent, swimming in between the 
legs of the cow, and, after some hours, 
found ourselves in a wonderful country 
indeed, which, I was informed by the 
man-animal, was his own native land, 
inhabited by things of his own species. 
This elevated the man-animal very 
much in my esteem, and in fact, I now 
began to feel ashamed of the contempt- 
uous familiarity with which I had 


* “The earth is upheld by a cow of 
a blue color, having horns four hun- 
dred in number.”—Sale’s Koran. 


667 


treated him; for I found that the man- 
animals in general were a nation of the 
most powerful magicians, who lived with 
worms in their brain,* which, no doubt, 
served to stimulate them by their pain- 
ful writhings and wrigglings to the most 
miraculous efforts of imagination.’ ” 

“Nonsense!” said the king. 

“ “Among the magicians, were domes- 
ticated several animals of very singu- 
lar kinds; for example, there was a huge 
horse whose bones were iron and whose 
blood was boiling water. In place of 
corn, he had black stones for his usual 
food; and yet, in spite of so hard a 
diet, he was so strong and swift that 
he could drag a load more weighty than 
the grandest temple in this city, at a 
rate surpassing that of the flight of 
most birds.’ ” 

“Twattle!” said the king. 

““T saw, also, among those people a 


- hen without feathers, but bigger than a 


camel; instead of flesh and bone she 
had iron and brick; her blood, like that 
of the horse, (to whom, in fact, she was 
nearly related,) was boiling water; and 
like him she ate nothing but wood or 
black stones. This hen brought forth 
very frequently, a hundred chickens in 
the day; and, after birth, they took up 
their residence for several weeks with- 
in the stomach of their mother.’ ”+ 

“Fal lal!” said the king. 

“One of this nation of mighty con- 
jurors created a man out of brass and 
wood, and leather, and endowed him 
with such ingenuity that he would have 





*The Entozoa, or intestinal worms, 
have repeatedly been observed in the 
muscles, and in the cerebral substance 
of men. 

t The Eccalobeion. 


668 


beaten at chess, all the race of mankind 
with the exception of the great Caliph, 
Haroun Alraschid.* Another of these 
magi constructed (of like material) a 
creature that put to shame even the 
genius of him who made it; for so great 
were its reasoning powers that, in a 
second, it performed calculations of so 
vast an extent that they would have re- 
quired the united labor of fifty thousand 
fleshy men for a year.+ But a still more 
wonderful conjuror fashioned for him- 
self a mighty thing that was neither 
man nor beast, but which had brains 
of lead, intermixed with a black matter 
like pitch, and fingers that employed 
with such incredible speed and dexterity 
that it would have had no trouble in 
writing out twenty thousand copies of 
the Koran in an hour; and this with so 
exquisite a precision, that in all the 
copies there should not be found one 


to vary from another by the breadth © 


of the finest hair. This thing was of 
prodigious strength, so that it erected 
or overthrew the mightiest empires at a 
breath; but its powers were exercised 
equally for evil and for good.’ ” 
“Ridiculous!” said the king. 
*““Among this nation of necroman- 
cers there was also one who had in his 
veins the blood of the salamanders; for 
he made no scruple of sitting down to 
smoke his chibouc in a red-hot oven un- 
til his dinner was thoroughly roasted 
upon its floor.t Another had the fac- 
ulty of converting the common metals 
into gold, without even looking at them 





* Maelzel’s Automaton Chess-player. 

+ Babbage’s Calculating Machine. 

+ Chabert, and since him, a hundred 
others. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


during the process.* Another had such 
a delicacy of touch that he made a wire 
so fine as to be invisible.t Another had 
such quickness of perception that he 
counted all the separate motions of an 
elastic body, while it was springing 
backward and forward at the rate of 
nine hundred millions of times in a 
second.’ ’’+ 

“Absurd!” said the king. 

““Another of these magicians by 
means of a fluid that nobody ever yet 
saw, could make the corpses of his 
friends brandish their arms, kick out 
their legs, fight, or even get up and 
dance at his will. Another had culti- 
vated his voice to so great an extent 
that he could have made himself heard 
from one end of the world to the 
other.ff Another had so long an arm 
that he could sit down in Damascus and 
indite a letter at Bagdad—or indeed at 
any distance whatsoever.|| Another 
commanded the lightning to come down 
to him out of the heavens, and it came 
at his call; and served him for a play- 
thing when it came. Another took two 


* The Electrotype. 

+ Wollaston made of platinum for the 
field of views in a telescope a wire one 
eighteen-thousandth part of an inch in 
thickness. 

+ Newton demonstrated that the ret- 
ina beneath the influence of the violet 
ray of the spectrum, vibrated 900,000,- 
000 of times in a second. 

§ The Voltaic pile. 

{ The Electro Telegraph Printing Ap- 
paratus. 

|| The Electro telegraph transmits in- 
telligence instantaneously—at least so 
far as regards any distance upon the 
earth. 























THE THOUSAND AND SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE 


loud sounds and out of them made a 
silence. Another constructed a deep 
darkness out of two brilliant lights.* 
Another made ice in a red-hot furnace. 
Another directed the sun to paint his 
portrait, and the sun did.t Another 
took this luminary with the moon and 
the planets, and having first weighed 
them with scrupulous accuracy, probed 
into their depths and found out the 
solidity of the substance of which they 
are made. But the whole nation is, 
indeed, of so surprising a necromantic 
ability, that not even their infants, nor 
their commonest cats and dogs have any 
difficulty in seeing objects that do not 
exist at all, or that for twenty millions 
of years before the birth of the nation 
itself had been blotted out from the 
face of creation.’ + 

“Preposterous!” said the king. 

**The wives and daughters of these 
incomparably great and wise magi,’ ” 
continued Scheherazade, without being 
in any manner disturbed by these fre- 


* Common experiments in Natural 
Philosophy. 

+The Daguerreotype. 

+ Although light travels 167,000 miles 
in a second, the distance of 61 Cygni 
(the only star whose distance is ascer- 
tained) is so inconceivably great, that 
its rays would require more than ten 
years to reach. For stars beyond this, 
20—or even 1000 years—would be a 
moderate estimate. Thus, if they had 
been annihilated 20, or 1000 years ago, 
we might still see them to-day by the 
light which started from their surfaces 
20 or 1000 years in the past time. That 
many which we see daily are really ex- 
tinct, is not impossible—not even im- 
probable. 


669 


quent and most ungentlemanly inter- 
ruptions on the part of her husband— 
“the wives and daughters of these em- 
inent conjurers are every thing that is 
accomplished and refined; and would 
be every thing that is interesting and 
beautiful, but for an unhappy fatality 
that besets them, and from which not 
even the miraculous powers of their 
husbands and fathers has, hitherto, been 
adequate to save. Some fatalities come 
in certain shapes, and some in others— 
but this of which I speak has come in 
the shape of a crotchet.’ ” 

“‘A what?” said the king. 

“A crotchet,’’? said Scheherazade. 

“ “One of the evil genii, who are per- 
petually upon the watch to inflict ill, 
has put it into the heads of these ac- 
complished ladies that the thing which 
we describe as personal beauty consists 
altogether in the protuberance of the 
region which lies not very far below the 
small of the back. Perfection of love- 
liness, they say, is in the direct ratio 
of the extent of this lump. Having 
been long possessed of this idea, and 
bolsters being cheap in that country, the 
days have long gone by since it was 
possible to distinguish a woman from a 
dromedary—’ ” 

“Stop!” said the king—“I can’t stand 
that, and I won’t. You have already 
given me a dreadful headache with your 
lies. The day, too, I perceive, is be- 
ginning to break. How long have we 
been married?—my conscience is getting 
to be troublesome again. And then that 
dromedary touch—do you take me for 
a fool? Upon the whole, you might 
as well get up and be throttled.” 

These words, as I learn from the 
“Tsitsoornot,” both grieved and aston- 
ished Scheherazade; but, as she knew 


670 


the king to be a man of scrupulous in- 
tegrity, and quite unlikely to forfeit his 
word, she submitted to her fate with 
a good grace. She derived, however, 
great consolation, (during the tighten- 
ing of the bowstring,) from the reflec- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tion that much of the history remained 
still untold, and that the petulance of 
her brute of a husband had reaped for 
him a most righteous reward, in de- 
priving him of many inconceivable ad- 
ventures. 


A Tale of Jerusalem 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, April, 1836—Ed.) 


Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere 
canoes passus erat 
—LUCAN. 
-——a bristly bore. 
Translation. 


“Let us hurry to the walls,” said 
Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi and Si- 
meon the Pharisee, on the tenth day of 
the month Thammuz, in the year of the 
world three thousand nine hundred and 
forty-one—‘‘let us hasten to the ram- 
parts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, 
which is in the city of David, and over- 
looking the camp of the uncircumcised; 
for it is the last hour of the fourth 
watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, 
in fulfilment of the promise of Pom- 
pey, should be awaiting us with the 
lambs for the sacrifices.” 

Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Buzi-Ben- 
Levi, were the Gizbarim, or sub-collec- 
tors of the offering, in the holy city of 
Jerusalem. 

“Verily,” replied the Pharisee, “let 
us hasten: for this generosity in the 
heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mind- 
edness has ever been an attribute of 
the worshippers of Baal.” 

“That they are fickle-minded and 
treacherous is as true as the Penta- 
teuch,” said Buzi-Ben-Levi, “but that 
is only toward the people of Adonai. 


When was it ever known that the Am- 
monites proved wanting to their own 
interests? Methinks it is no great 
stretch of generosity to allow us lambs 
for the altar of the Lord, receiving in 
lieu thereof thirty silver shekels per 
head!” 

“Thou forgettest, however, Ben- 
Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, “that the 
Roman Pompey, who fs now impiously 
besieging the city of the Most High, has 
no assurity that we apply not the lambs 
thus purchased for the altar, to the 
sustenance of the body, rather than of 
the spirit.” 

“Now, by the five corners of my 
beard!”’ shouted the Pharisee, who be- 
longed to the sect called The Dashers 
(that little knot of saints whose manner 
of dashing and lacerating the feet 
against the pavement was long a thorn 
and a reproach to less zealous devotees 
—a stumbling-block to less gifted per- 
ambulators)—‘‘by the five corners of 
that beard which, as a priest, I am for- 
bidden to shave!—have we lived to see 
the day when a blaspheming and idola- 
trous upstart of Rome shall accuse us 
of appropriating to the appetites of the 
flesh the most holy and consecrated ele- 
ments? Have we lived to see the day 
when—” 

“Let us not question the motives of 





























A TALE OF JERUSALEM 


the Philistine,” interrupted Abel-Phit- 
tim, “for to-day we profit for the first 
time by his avarice or by his generosity; 
but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, 
lest offerings should be wanting for that 
altar whose fire the rains of heaven can- 
not extinguish, and whose pillars of 
smoke no tempest can turn aside.” 

That part of the city to which our 
worthy Gizbarin now hastened, and 
which bore the name of its architect, 
King David, was esteemed the most 
strongly fortified district of Jerusalem; 
being situated upon the steep and lofty 
hill of Zion. Here, a broad, deep, cir- 
cumvallatory trench, hewn from the 
solid rock, was defended by a wall of 
great strength erected upon its inner 
edge. This wall was adorned, at reg- 
ular interspaces, by square towers of 
white marble; the lowest sixty, and the 
highest one hundred and twenty cubits 
in height. But, in the vicinity of the 
gate of Benjamin, the wall arose by no 
means from the margin of the fosse. On 
the contrary, between the level of the 
ditch and the basement of the rampart, 
sprang up a perpendicular cliff of two 
hundred and fifty cubits, forming part 
of the precipitous Mount Moriah. So 
that when Simeon and his associates ar- 
rived on the summit of the tower called 
Adoni-Bezek—the loftiest of all the 
turrets around about Jerusalem, and the 
usual place of conference with the be- 
sieging army—they looked down upon 
the camp of the enemy from an em- 
inence excelling by many feet that of 
the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by several, 
that of the temple of Belus. 

“Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he 
peered dizzily over the precipice, “the 
uncircumcised are as the sands by the 


‘ seashore—as the locusts in the wilder- 


671 


ness! The valley of the King hath be- 


- come the valley of Adommin.” 


“And yet,’ added Ben-Levi, “thou 
canst not point me out a Philistine—no, 
not one—from Aleph to Tau—from the 
wilderness to the battlements—who 
seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!” 

“Lower away the basket with the 
shekels of silver!” here shouted a Ro- 
man soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, 
which appeared to issue from the re- 
gions of Pluto—‘‘lower away the basket 
with the accursed coin which it has 
broken the jaw of a noble Roman to 
pronounce! Is it thus you evince your 
gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, 
in his condescension, has thought fit to 
listen to your idolatrous importunities? 
The god Phcebus, who is a true god, 
has been charioted for an hour—and 
were you not to be on the ramparts by 
sunrise? Aedepol! do you think that 
we, the conquerors of the world, have 
nothing better to do than stand waiting 
by the walls of every kennel, to traf- 
fic with the dogs of the earth? Lower 
away! I say—and see that your trum- 
pery be bright in color and just in 
weight !” 

“El Elohim!” ejaculated the Phari- 
see, as the discordant tones of the cen- 
turion rattled up the crags of the preci- 
pice, and fainted away against the 
temple—“E] Elohim!—who is the God 
Phoebus?—whom doth the blasphemer 
invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art 
read in the laws of the Gentiles, and 
hast sojourned among them who dabble 
with the Teraphim!—is it Nergal of 
whom the idolater speakethP—or Ashi- 
mah?—cr—Nibhaz?—or Tartak?—or 
Adramalech?—or Anamalech?—or Suc- 
coth-Benith?—or Dagon?—or Belial?-— 


672 


or Baal-Perith? —or Baal-Peor? — or 
Baal-Zebub?” 

“Verily it is neither—but beware how 
thou lettest the rope slip too rapidly 
through thy fingers; for should the 
wicker-work chance to hang on the pro- 
jection of yonder crag, there will be a 
woful outpouring of the holy things of 
the sanctuary.” 

By the assistance of some rudely con- 
structed machinery, the heavily laden 
basket was now carefully lowered down 
among the multitude; and, from the 
giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen 
gathering confusedly round it; but ow- 
ing to the vast height and the preva- 
lence of a fog, no distinct view of their 
operations could be obtained. 

Half an hour had already elapsed. 

“We shall be too late!” sighed the 
Pharisee, as at the expiration of this 
period, he looked over into the abyss— 
“we shall be too late! we shall be 
turned out of office by the Katholim.” 

“No more,” responded Abel-Phittim, 
—‘‘no more shall we feast upon the fat 
nf the land—no longer shall our beards 
be odorous with frank-incense—our 
loins girded up with fine linen from the 
Temple.” 

‘“Raca!”? swore Ben-Levi, “‘Raca! do 
they mean to defraud us of the pur- 
chase money? or, Holy Moses! are they 
weighing the shekels of the tabernacle?” 

“They have given the signal at last!” 
cried the Pharisee—“they have given 
the signal at last!—pull away, Abel- 
Phittim!—and thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi, pull 
away!—for verily the Philistines have 
either still hold upon the basket, or the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Lord hath softened their hearts to 
place therein a beast of good weight!” 
And the Gizbarim pulled away, while 
their burthen swung heavily upward 
through the still increasing mist. 

x * 2 2 Xk * 

“Booshoh he!’”’—as, at the conclusion 
of an hour, some object at the extrem- 
ity of the rope became indistinctly vis- 
ible—‘‘Booshoh he!” was the exclama- 
tion which burst from the lips of Ben- 
Levi. 

“Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a 
ram from the thickets of Engedi, and 
as rugged as the valley of Jehosaphat!” 

“It is a firstling of the flock,” said 
Abel-Phittim, “I know.him by the 
bleating of his lips, and the innocent 
folding of his limbs. His eyes are more 
beautiful than the jewels of the Pec- 
toral, and his flesh is like the honey of 
Hebron.” 

“It is a fatted calf from the pastures 
of Bashan,” said the Pharisee, “the hea- 
then have dealt wonderfully with us!— 
let us raise up our voices in a psalm!— 
let us give thanks on the shawm and on 
the psaltery—on the harp and on the 
huggab—on the cythern and on the 
sack-but!” 

It was not until the basket had ar- 
rived within a few feet of the Gizbarim, 
that a low grunt betrayed to their per- 
ception a hog of no common size. 

“Now El Emanu!”’ slowly, and with 
upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as, 
letting go their hold, the emancipated 
porker tumbled headlong among the 
Philistines, “El Emanu!—God be with 
us—it as the unutterable flesh!” 

















_ Four Beasts in One 


(Four Beasts in One is also titled Epimanes and first appeared in Southern 
Literary Messenger, March, 1836.—Ed.) 


Chacun a ses vertus. 
—Crebillon’s Xerxes. 


ANTIOCHUS EPIPHANES is very gen- 
erally looked upon as the Gog of the 
prophet Ezekiel. This honor is, how- 
ever, more properly attributable to 
Cambyses, the son of Cyrus. And, 
indeed the character of the Syrian 
monarch does by no means stand in 
need of any adventitious embellishment. 
His accession to the throne, or rather 
his usurpation of the sovereignty, a hun- 
dred and seventy-one years before the 
coming of Christ; his attempt to plun- 
der the temple of Diana at Ephesus; 
his implacable hostility to the Jews; 
his pollution of the Holy of Holies; and 
his miserable death at Taba, after a 
tumultuous reign of eleven years, are 
circumstances of a prominent kind, and 
therefore more generally noticed by the 
historians of his time than the impious, 
dastardly, cruel, silly, and whimsical 
achievements which make up the sum 
total of his private life and reputation. 

* * * X* * * 

Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it 
is now the year of the world three thou- 
sand eight hundred and thirty, and let 
us, for a few minutes, imagine ourselves 
at that most grotesque habitatior of 
man, the remarkable city of Antioch. 
To be sure there were, in Syria and 
other countries, sixteen cities of that 
appellation, besides the one to which 
I more particularly allude. But ours 
is that which went by the name of 


673 


Antiochia Epidaphne, from its vicinity 
to the little village of Daphne, where 
stood a temple to that divinity. It was 
built (although about this matter there 
is some dispute) by Seleucus Nicanor, 
the first king of the country after Alex- 
ander the Great, in memory of his 
father Antiochus, and became immedi- 
ately the residence of the Syrian mon- 
archy. In the flourishing times of the 
Roman Empire it was the ordinary 
station of the prefect of the eastern 
provinces; and many of the emperors 
of the Queen city (among whom may 
be mentioned, especially, Verus and 
Valens) spent here the greater part of 
their time. But I perceive we have 
arrived at the city itself. Let us ascend 
this battlement, and throw our eyes 
upon the town and neighboring country. 

“What broad and rapid river is that 
which forces its way, with innumerable 
falls, through the mountainous wilder- 
ness, and finally through the wilderness 
of buildings?” 

That is the Orontes, and it is the only 
water in sight, with the exception of 
the Mediterranean, which stretches, 
like a broad mirror, about twelve miles 
off to the southward. Every one has 
seen the Mediterranean; but let me tell 
you, there are few who have had a peep 
at Antioch. By few, I mean, few who, 
like you and me, have had, at the same 
time, the advantages of a modern edu- 
cation. Therefore cease to regard that 
sea, and give your whole attention to 
the mass of houses that lie beneath us, 


674 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


You will remember that it is now the 
year of the world three thousand eight 
hundred and thirty. Were it later— 
for example, were it the year of our 
Lord eighteen hundred and forty-five— 
we should be deprived of this extraordi- 
nary spectacle. In the nineteenth cen- 
tury Antioch is—that is to say, Antioch 
will be—in a lainentable state of decay. 
It will have been, by that time, totally 
destroyed, at three different periods, by 
three successive earthquakes. Indeed, 
to say the truth, what little of its 
former self may then remain, will be 
found in so desolate and ruinous a state 
that the patriarch shall have removed 
his residence to Damascus. ‘This is 
well. I see you profit by my advice, 
and are making the most of your time 
in inspecting the premises—in 


—satisfying your eyes 
With the memorials and the things of 
fame 
That most renown this city.— 


I beg pardon; I had forgotten that 
Shakespeare will not flourish for seven- 
teen hundred and fifty years to come. 
But does not the appearance of Epi- 
daphne justify me in calling it 
grotesque? 

“It is well fortified; and in this re- 
spect is as much indebted to nature as 
to art.” 

Very true. 

“There are a prodigious number of 
stately palaces.” 

There are. 

“And the numerous temples, sump- 
tuous and magnificent, may bear com- 
parison with the most lauded of 
antiquity.” 


All this I must acknowledge. Still 


there is an infinity of mud huts, and 
abominable hovels. We cannot help 
perceiving abundance of filth in every 
kennel, and, were it not for the over- 
powering fumes of idolatrous incense, 
I have no doubt we should find a most 
intolerable stench. Did you ever be- 
hold streets so insufferably narrow, or 
houses so miraculously tall? What a 
gloom their shadows cast upon the 
ground! It is well the swinging lamps 
in those endless colonnades are kept 
burning throughout the day; we should 
otherwise have the darkness of Egypt 
in the time of her desolation. 

“Tt is certainly a strange place! What 
is the meaning of yonder singular build- 
ing? See! it towers above all others, 
and lies to the eastward of what I take 
to be the royal palace!” 

That is the new Temple of the Sun, 
who is adored in Syria under the title 
of Elah Gabalah. Hereafter a very no- 
torious Roman emperor will institute 
this worship in Rome, and thence derive 
a cognomen, Heliogabalus. I dare say 
you would like to take a peep at the 
divinity of the temple. You need not 
look up at the heavens; his Sunship is 
not there—at least not the Sunship 
adored by the Syrians. That deity will 
be found in the interior of yonder build- 
ing. He is worshipped under the figure 
of a large stone pillar terminating at the 
summit in a cone or pyramid, whereby 
is denoted Fire. 

“Hark!—behold!—who can _ those 
ridiculous beings be, half naked, with 
their faces painted, shouting and ges- 
ticulating to the rabble?” 

Some few are mountebanks. Others 
more particularly belong to the race of 
philosophers. The greatest portion, 
however—those especially who belabor 




















FOUR BEASTS IN ONE 


the populace with clubs—are the prin- 
cipal courtiers of the palace, executing, 
as in duty bound, some laudable comic- 
ality of the king’s. 

“But what have we here? Heavens! 
the town is swarming with wild beasts! 
How terrible a spectacle!—how dan- 
gerous a peculiarity!” 


Terrible if you please; but not in the - 


Jeast degree dangerous. Each animal, 
if you will take the pains to observe, 
is following, very quietly, in the wake 
of its master. Some few, to be sure, 
are led with a rope about the neck, but 
these are chiefly the lesser or timid 
species. The lion, the tiger, and the 
leopard are entirely without restraint. 
They have been trained without diffi- 
culty to their present profession, and 


attend upon their respective owners in. 


the capacity of valets-de-chambre. It 
is true, there are occasions when Na- 
ture asserts her violated dominions— 
but then the devouring of a man-at- 
arms, or the throttling of a consecrated 
bull, is a circumstance of too little mo- 
ment to be more than hinted at in 
Epidaphne. 

“But what extraordinary tumult do 
I hear? Surely this is a loud noise 
even for Antioch! It argues some com- 
motion of unusual interest.” 

Yes—undoubtedly. The king has or- 
dered some novel _ spectacle—some 
gladiatorial exhibition at the hippo- 
drome—or perhaps the massacre of the 
Scythian prisoners—or the conflagra- 
tion of his new palace—or the tearing 


down of a handsome temple—or, in- . 


deed, a bonfire of a few Jews. The 
uproar increases. Shouts o1 laughter 
ascend the skies The air becomes dis- 
sonant with wind instrumenis, and hor- 
rible with clamor of a million throats. 


675 


Let us descend, for the love of fun, and 
see what is going on! This way—be 
careful! Here we are in the principal 
street, which is called the street of 
Timarchus. The sea of people is coms 
ing this way, and we shall find a diffi- 
culty in stemming the tide. They are 
pouring through the alley of Heraclides, 
which leads directly from the palace— 
therefore the king is most probably 
among the rioters. Yes—I hear the 
shouts of the herald proclaiming his 
approach in the pompous phraseology 
of the East. We shall have a glimpse 
of his person as he passes by the temple 
of Ashimah. Let us ensconce ourselves 
in the vestibule of the sanctuary; he 
will be here anon. In the meantime let 
us survey this image. What is it? Oh! 
it is the god Ashimah in proper person. 
You perceive, however, that he ig 
neither a lamb, nor a goat, nor a satyr; 
neither has he much resemblance to 
the Pan of the Arcadians. Yet all these 
appearances have been given—I beg 
pardon—will be given—by the learned 
of future ages, to the Ashimah of the 
Syrians. Put on your spectacles, and 
tell me what it is. What is it? 

“Bless me! it is an ape!” 

True—a baboon; but by no means 
the less a deity. His name is a deriva- 
tion of the Greek Simia—what great 
fools are antiquarians! But see!—see! 
—yonder scampers a_ ragged little 
urchin. Where is he going? What is 
he bawling about? What does he say? 
Oh! he says the king is coming in tri- 
umph; that he is dressed in state; that 
he has just finished putting to death, 
with his own hand, a thousand chained 
Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit 
the ragamuffin is lauding him to the 
skies! Hark! here cames a troop of a 


676 


similar description. They have made 
a Latin hymn upon the valor of the 
king, and are singing it as they go: 


Mille, mille, mille, 

Mille, mille, mille, 

Decollavimus, unus homo! 

Mille, raille, mille, mille, decollavimus! 
Mille, mille, mille, 

Vivat qui mille mille occidit! 

Tantum vini habet nemo 

Quantum sanguinis effudit!* 


Which may be thus paraphrased: 


A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, 
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, 
We, with one warrior, have slain! 
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a 
thousand. 
Sing a thousand over again! 
Soho!—let us sing 
Long life to our king, 
Who knocked over a thousand so fine! 
Soho!—let us roar, 
He has given us more 
Red gallons of gore 
Than all Syria can furnish of wine! 


“Do you hear that flourish of trump- 
ets?” 

Yes—the king is coming! See! the 
people are aghast with admiration, and 
lift up their eyes to the heavens in rev- 


erence! He comes!—he is coming!— 
there he is! 
“Whor—where?—the king?r—I do 
* Flavius Vospicus says, that the 


hymn here introduced was sung by the 
rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, 
in the Sarmatic war, having slain, with 
his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of 
the enemy. 


of a man? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


not behold him—cannot say that I per- 
ceive him.” 

Then you must be blind. 

“Very possible. Still I see nothing 
but a tumultuous mob of idiots and 
madmen, who are busy in prostrating 
themselves before a gigantic cameleop- 
ard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss 
of the animal’s hoofs. See! the beast 
has very justly kicked one of the rabble 
over—and another—and another—and 
another. Indeed, I cannot help admir- 
ing the animal for the excellent use he 
is making of his feet.” 

Rabble, indeed!—why these are the 
noble and free citizens of Epidaphne! 
Beast, did you say?—take care that 
you are not overheard. Do you not 
perceive that the animal has the visage 
Why, my dear sir, that 
cameleopard is no other than Antiochus 
Epiphanes—Antiochus the Illustrious, 
King of Syria, and the most potent of 
all the autocrats of the East! It is 
true, that he is entitled, at times, Anti- 
ochus Epimanes—Antiochus the mad- 
man—but that is because all people 
have not the capacity to appreciate his 
merits. It is also certain that he is at 
present ensconced in the hide of a beast, 
and is doing his best to play the part 
of a cameleopard; but this is done 
for the better sustaining his dignity as 
king. Besides, the monarch is of gigan- 
tic stature, and the dress is therefore 
neither unbecoming nor over large. We 
may, however, presume he would not 
have adopted it but for some occasion. 
of especial state. Such, you will allow, 
is the’ massacre of a thousand Jews. 
With how superior a dignity the mon- 
arch perambulates on all fours! His 
tail, you perceive, is held aloft by his 
two principal concubines, Elline and 























FOUR BEASTS IN ONE 


Argelais; and his whole appearance 
would be infinitely prepossessing, were 
it not for the protuberance of his eyes, 
which will certainly start out of his 
head, and the queer color of his face, 
which has become nondescript from the 
quantity of wine he has swallowed. Let 
us follow him to the hippodrome, 
whither he is proceeding, and listen to 
the song of triumph which he is com- 
mencing: 


Who is king but Epiphanes? 
Say—do you know? 

Who is king but Epiphanes? 
Bravo!—bravo! 

There is none but Epiphanes, 
No—there is none: 

So tear down the temples, 
And put out the sun! 


Well and strenuously sung! The 
populace are hailing him ‘Prince of 
Poets,” as well as ‘Glory of the East,” 
“Delight of the Universe,’ and ‘Most 
Remarkable of Cameleopards.” They 
have encored his effusion, and—do you 
hearr—he is singing it over again. 
When he arrives at the hippodrome, he 
will be crowned with the poetic wreath, 
in anticipation of his victory at the 
approaching Olympics. 

“But good Jupiter! what is the mat- 
ter in the crowd behind us?” 

Behind us, did you say?—oh! ah!— 
I perceive. My friend, it is well that 
you spoke in time. Let us get into a 
place of safety as soon as possible. 
Here!—let us conceal ourselves in the 
arch of this aqueduct, and I will inform 
you presently of the origin of the com- 
motion. It has turned out as I have 
been anticipating. The singular ap- 
pearance of the cameleopard with the 


677 


head of a man, has, it seems, given 
offence to the notions of propriety en- 
tertained in general by the wild animals 
domesticated in the city. A mutiny has 
been the result; and, as is usual upon 
such occasions, all human efforts will 
be of no avail in quelling the mob. 
Several of the Syrians have already 
been devoured; but the general voice 
of the four-footed patriots seems to be 
for eating up the cameleopard. “The 
Prince of Poets,” therefore, is upon his 
hinder legs running for his life. His 
courtiers have left him in the lurch, 
and his concubines have followed so 
excellent an example. “Delight of the 
Universe,” thou art in a sad _ predica- 
ment! ‘Glory of the East,” thou art in 
danger of mastication! Therefore never 
regard so piteously thy tail; it will 
undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, 
and for this there is no help. Look 
not behind thee, then, at its unavoid- 
able degradation; but take courage, ply 
thy legs with vigor, and scud for the 
hippodrome! Remember that thou art 
Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus the 
Illustrious!—also “Prince of Poets,” 
“Glory of the East,” “Delight of the 
Universe,” and ‘‘Most Remarkable of 
Cameleopards!”” Heavens! what a power 
of speed thou art displaying! What a 
capacity for leg-bail thou are develop- 
ing! Run, Prince!—Bravo, Epiphanes! 
—Well done, Cameleopard!—Glorious 
Antiochus!—He runs!—he leaps!—he 
flies! Like an arrow from a catapult 
he approaches the hippodrome! He 
leaps!—he shrieks!—he is there! This 
is well; for hadst thou, “Glory of the 
East,” been half a second longer in 
reaching the gates of the amphitheatre, 
there is not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne 


678 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


that would not have had a nibble at 
thy carcass. Let us be off—let us take 
our departure!—for we shall find our 
delicate modern ears unable to endure 
the vast uproar which is about to com- 
mence in celebration of the king’s es- 


cape! Listen! it has already com- 
menced. See!—the whole town is 
topsy-turvy. 


“Surely this is the most populous 
city of the East! What a wilderness of 
people! What a jumble of all ranks 
and ages! What a multiplicity of sects 
and nations! what a variety of cos- 
tumes! what a Babel of languages! what 
a screaming of beasts! what a tinkling 
of instruments! what a parcel of phi- 
losophers!” 


Come let us be off. 

“Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub 
in the hippodrome; what is the es 
of it, I beseech your” 

That?—oh, nothing! The noble and 
free citizens of Epidaphne being, as 
they declare, well satisfied of the faith, 
valor, wisdom, and divinity of their 
king, and having, moreover, been eye- 
witnesses of his late superhuman agility, 
do think it no more than their duty to 
invest his brows (in addition to the 
poetic crown) with the wreath of vic- 
tory in the foot-race—a wreath which 
it is evident he must obtain at the 
celebration of the next Olympiad, and 
which, therefore, they now give him in 
advance. 


Some Words with a Mummy 


(First published in American Whig Review, April, 1845.—Ed.) 


THE symposium of the preceding eve- 
ning had been a little too much for 
my nerves. I had a wretched head- 
ache, and was desperately drowsy. In- 
stead of going out therefore to spend 
the evening as I had proposed, it oc- 
curred to me that I could not do a 
wiser thing than just eat a mouthful 
of supper and go immediately to bed. 

A light supper of course. I am ex- 
ceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More 
than a pound at once, however, may 
not at all times be advisable. Still, 
there can be no material objection to 
two. And really between two and three, 
there is merely a single unit of differ- 
ence. I ventured, perhaps, upon four. 
My wife will have it five—but, clearly, 
she has confounded two very distinct 


affairs. The abstract number, five, I 
am willing to admit; but, concretely, 
it has reference to bottles of brown 
stout, without which, in the way of 
condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be 
eschewed. 

Having thus concluded a frugal meal, 
and donned my night-cap, with the 
serene hope of enjoying it till noon the 
next day, I placed my head upon the 
pillow, and, through the aid of a capital 
conscience, fell into a profound slumber 
forthwith. 

But when were the hopes of human- 
ity fulfilled? I could not have com- 
pleted my third snore when there came 
a furious ringing at the street-door bell, 


and then an impatient thumping at the 


knocker, which awakened me at once. 

















~ SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 


In a minute afterward, and while I was 
still rubbing my eyes, my wife thrust 
in my face a note, from my old friend, 
Doctor Ponnonner. It ran thus: 


“Come to me, by all means, my dear 
good friend, as soon as you receive this. 
Come and help us to rejoice. At last, 
by long persevering diplomacy, I have 
gained the assent of the Directors of 
the City Museum, to my examination 
of the Mummy—you know the one I 
mean. I have permission to unswathe 
it and open it, if desirable. A few 
friends only will be present—you, of 
course. The Mummy is now at my 
house, and we shall begin to unroll it 
at eleven to-night. 

“Yours, ever, 
‘““(PONNONNER.” 


By the time I had reached the “‘Pon- 
nonner,” it struck me that I was as 
wide awake as a man need be. I 
leaped out of bed in an ecstacy, over- 
throwing all in my way; dressed my- 
self with a rapidity truly marvellous; 
and set off, at the top of my speed, 
for the doctor’s. 

There I found a very eager company 
assembled. They had been awaiting 
me with much impatience; the Mummy 
was extended upon the dining-table; 
and the moment I entered its examina- 
tion was commenced. ' 

It was one of a pair brought, sev- 
eral years previously, by Captain Ar- 
thur Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s, 
from a tomb near Eleithias, in the 
Lybian mountains, a considerable dis- 
tance above Thebes on the Nile. The 
grottos at this point, although less mag- 
nificent than the Theban sepulchres, are 
of higher interest, on account of afford- 
ing more numerous illustrations of the 


679 


private life of the Egyptians. The 
chamber from which our specimen was 
taken, was said to be very rich in such 
illustrations—the walls being completely 
covered with fresco paintings and bas- 
reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic 
work of rich patterns, indicated the 
vast wealth of the deceased. 

The treasure had been deposited in 


. the museum precisely in the same con- 


dition in which Captain Sabretash had 
found it—that is to say, the coffin had 
not been disturbed. For eight years it 
had thus stood, subject only externally 
to public inspection. We had now, 
therefore, the complete Mummy at our 
disposal; arid to those who are aware 
how very rarely the unransacked an- 
tique reaches our shores, it will be evi- 
dent, at once that we had great reason 
to congratulate ourselves upon our good 
fortune. 

Approaching the table, I saw on it a 
large box, or case, nearly seven feet 
long, and perhaps three feet wide, by 
two feet and a half deep. It was 
oblong—not coffin-shaped. The mate- 
rial was at first supposed to be the 
wood of the sycamore (platanus), but, 
upon cutting into it, we found it to 
be pasteboard, or, more properly, papier 
mache, composed of papyrus. It was 
thickly ornamented with paintings, rep- 
resenting funeral scenes, and _ other 
mournful subjects—interspersed among 
which, in every variety of position, were 
certain series of hieroglyphical char- 
acters, intended, no doubt, for the name 
of the departed. By good luck, Mr. 
Gliddon formed one of our party; and 
he had no difficulty in translating the 
letters, which were simply phonetic, and 
represented the word Allamistakeo. 

We had some difficulty in getting 


680 


this case open without injury; but, 
having at length accomplished the task, 
we came to a second, coffin-shaped, and 
very considerably less in size than the 
exterior one, but resembling it precisely 
in every other respect. The interval 
between the two was filled with resin, 
which had, in some degree, defaced the 
colors of the interior box. 


Upon opening this latter (which we ' 


did quite easily), we arrived at a third 
case, also coffin-shaped, and varying 
from the second one in no particular, 
except in that of its material, which 
was cedar, and still emitted the peculiar 
and highly aromatic odor of that wood. 
Between the second and the third case 
there was no interval—the one fitting 
accurately within the other. 

Removing the third case, we discov- 
ered and took out the body itself. We 
had expected to find it, as usual, en- 
veloped in frequent rolls, or bandages, 
of linen; but, in place of these, we 
found a sort of sheath, made of papy- 
rus, and coated with a layer of plaster, 
thickly gilt and painted. The paintings 
represented subjects connected with the 
various supposed duties of the soul, and 
its presentation to different divinities, 
with numerous identical human figures, 
intended, very probably, as portraits of 
the persons embalmed. Extending from 
head to foot was a columnar, or per- 
pendicular, inscription, in phonetic 
hieroglyphics, giving again his name and 
titles, and the names and titles of his 
relations. 

Around the neck thus unsheathed, 
was a collar of cylindrical glass beads, 
diverse in color, and so arranged as to 
form images of deities, of the scarabeus, 
etc., with the winged globe. Around the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


small of the waist was a similar collar 
or belt. 

Stripping off the papyrus, we found 
the flesh in excellent preservation, with 
no perceptible odor. The color was 
reddish. The skin was hard, smooth, 
and glossy. The teeth and hair were in 
good condition. The eyes (it seemed) 
had been removed, and glass ones sub- 
stituted, which were very beautiful and 
wonderfully life-like, with the exception 
of somewhat too determined a stare. 
The fingers and the nails were brilliantly 
gilded. 

Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from 
the redness of the epidermis, that the 
embalmment had been effected alto- 
gether by asphaltum; but, on scraping 
the surface with a steel instrument, and 
throwing into the fire some of the 
powder thus obtained, the flavor of 
camphor and other sweet-scented gums 
became apparent. 

We searched the corpse very care- 
fully for the usual openings through 
which the entrails are extracted, but, to 
our surprise, we could discover none. 
No member of the party was at that 
period aware that entire or unopened 
mummies are not unfrequently met. 
The brain it was customary to withdraw 
through the nose; the intestines through 
an incision in the side; the body was 
then shaved, washed, and salted; then 
laid aside for several weeks, when the 
operation of embalming, properly so 
called, began. 

As no trace of an opening could be 
found, Doctor Ponnonner was prepar- 
ing his instruments for dissection, when 
I observed that it was then past two 
o’clock. Hereupon it was agreed to 
postpone the internal examination until 
the next evening; and we were about to 














SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 


separate for the present, when some one 
suggested an experiment or two with 
the Voltaic pile. 

The application of electricity to a 
Mummy three or four thousand years 
old at the least, was an idea, if not very 
sage, still sufficiently original, and we 
all caught it at once. About one-tenth 
in earnest and nine-tenths in jest, we 
arranged a battery in the Doctor’s 
study, and conveyed thither the Egyp- 
tian. 

It was only after much trouble that 
we succeeded in laying bare some por- 
tions of the temporal muscle which ap- 
peared of less stony rigidity than other 
parts of the frame, but which, as we 
had anticipated, of course, gave no 
indication of galvanic susceptibility 
_ when brought in contact with the wire. 
This, the first trial, indeed, seemed de- 
_ cisive, and, with a hearty laugh at our 
own absurdity, we were bidding each 
_ other good night, when my eyes, hap- 
| pening to fall upon those of the 
_ Mummy, were there immediately riv- 
_eted in amazement. My brief glance, 
| in fact, had sufficed to assure me that 
| the orbs which we had all supposed to 
be glass, and which were originally no- 
| ‘ticeable for a certain wild stare, were 
/ now so far covered by the lids, that 
_ only a small portion of the funica al- 
buginea remained visible. 

_ With a shout I called attention to the 
fact, and it became immediately obvious 
| to all. 

I cannot say that I was alarmed at 
the phenomenon, because “alarmed” is, 
in my case, not exactly the word. It 
is possible, however, that, but for the 
_ Brown Stout, I might have been a little 
/ nervous. As for the rest of the com- 
pany, they really made no attempt at 


681 


concealing the downright fright which 
possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was 
a man to be pitied. Mr. Gliddon, by 
some peculiar process, rendered him- 
self invisible. Mr. Silk Buckingham, I 
fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to 
deny that he made his way, upon all 
fours, under the table. 

After the first shock of astonishment, 
however, we resolved, as a matter of 
course, upon further experiment forth- 
with. Our operations were now directed 
against the great toe of the right foot. 
We made an incision over the outside 
of the exterior os sesamoideum pollicis 
pedis, and thus got at the root of the 
abductor muscle. Readjusting the bat- 
tery, we now applied the fluid to the 
bisected nerves—when, with a move- 
ment of exceeding life-likeness, the 
Mummy first drew up its right knee so 
as to bring it nearly in contact with the 
abdomen, and then, straightening the 
limb with inconceivable force, bestowed 
a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner, which 
had the effect of discharging that gen- 
tleman, like an arrow from a catapult, 
through a window into the street below. 

We rushed out en masse to bring in 
the mangled remains of the victim, but 
had the happiness to meet him upon the 
staircase, coming up in an unaccount- 
able hurry, brimful of the most ardent 
philosophy, and more than ever im- 
pressed with the necessity of prosecut- 
ing our experiment with vigor and with 
zeal. 

It was by his advice, accordingly, 
that we made, upon the spot, a pro- 
found incision into the tip of the sub- 
ject’s nose, while the Doctor himself, 
laying violent hands upon it, pulled it 
into vehement contact with the wire. 

Morally and physically—figuratively 


682 


and literally—was the effect electric. 
In the first place, the corpse opened its 
eyes and winked very rapidly for sev- 
eral minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the 
pantomime; in the second place, it 
sneezed; in the third, it sat upon end; 
in the fourth, it shook its fist in Doc- 
tor Ponnonner’s face; in the fifth, 
turning to Messieurs Gliddon and Buck- 
ingham, it addressed them, in very 
capital Egyptian, thus: 

“T must say, gentlemen, that I am as 
much surprised as I am mortified at 
your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner 
nothing better was to be expected. He 
is a poor little fat fool who knows no 
better. I pity and forgive him. But 
you, Mr. Gliddon—and you, Silk—who 
have travelled and resided in Egypt 
until one might imagine you to the 
manner born—you, I say who have been 
so much among us that you speak 
Egyptian fully as well, I think, as you 
write your mother-tongue—you, whom 
I have always been led to regard ‘as 
the firm friend of the mummies—I 
really did anticipate more gentlemanly 
conduct from you. What am I to 
think of your standing quietly by and 
seeing me this unhandsomely used? 
What am I to suppose by your permit- 
ting Tom, Dick, and Harry.to strip me 
of my coffins, and my clothes, in this 
wretchedly cold climate? In what light 
(to come to the point) am I to re- 
gard your aiding and abetting that mis- 
erable little villain, Doctor Ponnonner, 
in pulling me by the nose?” 

It will be taken for granted, no 
doubt, that upon hearing this speech 
under the circumstances, we all either 
made for the door, or fell into violent 
hysterics, or went off in a_ general 
swoon. One of these three things was, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I say, to be expected. Indeed each 
and all of these lines of conduct might 
have been very plausibly pursued. And, 
upon my word, I am at a loss to know 
how or why it was that we pursued 
neither. the one nor the other. But, 
perhaps, the true reason is to be sought 
in the spirit of the age, which proceeds 
by the rule of contraries altogether, and 
is now usually admitted as the solution 
of every thing in the way of paradox 
and impossibility. Or, perhaps, after 
all, it was only the Mummy’s exceed- 
ingly natural and matter-of-course air 
that divested his words of the terrible. 
However this may be, the facts are 
clear, and no member of our party be- 
trayed any very particular trepidation, 
or seemed to consider that any thing 
had gone very especially wrong. 

For my part I was convinced it was 
all right, and merely stepped aside, out 
of the range of the Egyptian’s fist. 
Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands into 
his breeches’ pockets, looked hard at the 
Mummy, and grew excessively red in 
the face. Mr. Gliddon stroked his 
whiskers and drew up the collar of his 
shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his 
head, and put his right thumb into the 
left corner of his mouth. 

The Egyptian regarded him with a 
severe countenance for some minutes 
and at length, with a sneer, said: 

“Why don’t you speak, Mr. Bucking- 
ham? Did you hear what I asked you, 
or not? Do take your thumb out of 
your mouth!” 

Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a 
slight start, took his right thumb out 
of the left corner of his mouth, and, 
by way of indemnification inserted his 


left thumb in the right corner of the | 


aperture above-mentioned. 











SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 


Not being able to get an answer from 
Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly to 
Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, 
demanded in general terms what we all 
meant. 

Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, 
in phonetics; and but for the deficiency 
of American printing-offices in hiero- 
glyphical type, it would afford me much 
pleasure to record here, in the original, 
the whole of his very excellent speech. 

I may as well take this occasion to 
remark, that all the subsequent con- 
versation in which the Mummy took a 
part, was carried on in primitive Egyp- 
tian, through the medium (so far as 
concerned myself and other untravelled 
members of the company )—through the 
medium, I say, of Messieurs Gliddon 
and Buckingham, as interpreters. These 
gentlemen spoke the mother tongue of 
the mummy with inimitable fluency and 
grace; but I could not help observing 
that (owing, no doubt, to the introduc- 
tion of images entirely modern, and, of 
course, entirely novel to the stranger) 
the two travellers were reduced, occa- 
sionally, to the employment of sensible 
forms for the purpose of conveying 
a particular meaning. Mr. Gliddon, at 
one period, for example, could not make 
the Egyptian comprehend the term 
“politics,” until he sketched upon the 
wall, with a bit of charcoal, a little 
carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at el- 
bows, standing upon a stump, with his 
left leg drawn back, right arm thrown 
forward, with his fist, shut, the eyes 
rolled up toward Heaven, and the 
mouth open at an angle of ninety de- 
grees. Just in the same way Mr. Buck- 
ingham failed to convey the absolutely 
modern idea “whig,” until (at Doctor 
Ponnonner’s suggestion) he grew very 


683 


pale in the face, and consented to take 
off his own. 

It will be readily understood that 
Mr. Gliddon’s discourse turned chiefly 
upon the vast benefits accruing to scis 
ence from the unrolling and disem- 
bowelling of mummies; apologizing, 
upon this score, for any disturbance 
that might have been occasioned him, in 
particular, the individual Mummy 
called Allamistakeo; and _ concluding 
with a mere hint (for it could scarcely 
be considered more) that, as these little 
matters were now explained, it might 
be as well to proceed with the investiga- 
tion intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner 
made ready his instruments. 

In regard to the latter suggestions 
of the orator, it appears that Alla- 
mistakeo had certain scruples of con- 
science, the nature of which I did not 
distinctly learn; but he expressed him- 
self satisfied with the apologies tend- 
ered, and, getting down from the table, 
shook hands with the company all 
round. 

When this ceremony was at an end, 
we immediately busied ourselves in re- 
pairing the damages which our subject 
had sustained from the scalpel. We 
sewed up the wound in his temple, 
bandaged his foot, and applied a square 
inch of black plaster to the tip of his 
nose. 

It was now observed that the Count 
(this was the title, it seems, of Alla- 
mistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering— 
no doubt from the cold. The Doctor 
immediately repaired to his wardrobe, 
and soon returned with a black dress 
coat, made in Jennings’ best manner, 
a pair of sky-blue plaid pantaloons 
with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a 
flapped vest of brocade, a white sack 


684 


overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, 
a hat with no brim, patent-leather boots, 
straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, 
a pair of whiskers, and a waterfall cra- 
vat. Owing to the disparity of size 
between the Count and the Doctor (the 
proportion being as two to one), there 
was some little difficulty in adjusting 
these habiliments upon the person of 
the Egyptian; but when all was ar- 
ranged, he might have been said to be 
dressed. Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave 
him his arm, and led him to a com- 
fortable chair by the fire, while the 
Doctor rang the bell upon the spot 
and ordered a supply of cigars and 
wine. 

The conversation soon grew animated. 
Much curiosity was, of course, expressed 
In regard to the somewhat remarkable 
fact of Allamistakeo’s still remaining 
alive. 

“T should have thought,” observed 
Mr. Buckingham, ‘“‘that it is high time 
you were dead.” 

“Why,” replied the Count, very much 
astonished, “I am little more than 
seven hundred years old! My father 
lived a thousand, and was by no means 
in his dotage when he died.” 

Here ensued a brisk series of ques- 
tions and computations, by means of 
which it became evident that the an- 
tiquity of the Mummy had been grossly 
misjudged. It had been five thousand 
and fifty years and some months since 
he had been consigned to the catacombs 
at Eleithias. 

“But my remark,” resumed Mr. 
Buckingham, “had no reference to your 
age at the period of interment (I am 
willing to grant, in fact, that you are 
still a young man), and my allusion 
was to the immensity of time during 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


which, by your own showing, you must 
have been done up in asphaltum.” 

“In what?” said the Count. 

“In asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B. 

“Ah, yes; I have some faint notion 
of what you mean; it might be made 
to answer, no doubt—but in my time 
we employed scarcely any thing else 
than the Bichloride of Mercury.” 

“But what we are especially at a loss 
to understand,” said Doctor Ponnonner, 
‘is how it happens that, having been 
dead and buried in Egypt five thou- 
sand years ago, you are here to-day 
all alive and looking so delightfully 
well.” 

“Had I been, as you say, dead,” re- 
plied the Count, “it is more than prob- 
able that dead I should still be; for I 
perceive you are yet in the infancy 
of Galvanism, and cannot accomplish 
with it what was a common thing 
among us in the old days. But the 
fact is, I fell into catalepsy, and it was 
considered by my best friends that I 
was either dead or should be; they 
accordingly embalmed me at once—I 
presume you are aware oi the chief 
principle of the embalming process?” 

“Why, not altogether.” 

“Why, I perceive—a deplorable con- 
dition of ignorance! Well, I cannot 
enter into details just now: but it is 
necessary to explain that to embalm 
(properly speaking), in Egypt, was to 
arrest indefinitely all the animal func- 
tions subjected to the process. I use 
the word ‘animal’ in its widest sense, 
as including the physical not more than 
the moral and vital being. I repeat 
that the leading principle of embalm- 
ment consisted, with us, in the imme- 
diately arresting, and holding in per- 
petual abeyance, all the animal func- 























SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 


tions subjected to the process. To be 
brief, in whatever condition the indi- 
vidual was, at the period of embalm- 
ment, in that condition he remained. 
Now, as it is my good fortune to be of 
the blood of the Scarabzeus, I was em- 
balmed alive, as you see me at present.” 

“The blood of the Scarabzus!” ex- 
claimed Doctor Ponnonner. 

“Ves. The Scarabeus was the insig- 
nium, or the ‘arms,’ of a very distin- 
guished and very rare patrician family. 
To be ‘of the blood of the Scarabzus,’ 
is merely to be one of that family of 
which the Scarabeus is the insignium. 
I speak figuratively.” 

“But what has this to do with you 
being alive?” 

“Why, it is the general custom in 
Egypt to deprive a corpse, before em- 
balmment, of its bowels and brains; the 
race of the Scarabzi alone did not coin- 
cide with the custom. Had I not been 
a Scarabeus, therefore, I should have 
been without bowels and brains; and 
without either it is inconvenient to 
live.” 

“I perceive that,” said Mr. Bucking- 
ham, ‘‘and I presume that all the entire 
mummies that come to hand are of the 
race of Scarabei.” 

“Beyond doubt.” 

“T thought,’ said Mr. Gliddon, very 
meekly, “that the Scarabeus was one 
of the Egyptian gods.” 

“One of the Egyptian what?” ex- 
claimed the Mummy, starting to its 
feet. 

“Gods!” repeated the traveller. 

“Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished 
to hear you talk in this style,” said 
the Count, resuming his chair. “No 
nation upon the face of the earth has 
ever acknowledged more than one god. 


688 


The Scarabeus, the Ibis, etc., were 
with us (as similar creatures have been 
with others) the symbols, or media, 
through which we offered worship to 
the Creator too august to be more 
directly approached.” 

There was here a pause. At length 
the colloquy was renewed by Doctor 
Ponnonner. 

“Tt is not improbable, then, from 
what you have explained,” said he, 
“that among the catacombs near the 
Nile there may exist other mummies of 
the Scarabzus tribe, in a condition of 
vitality.” 

“There can be no question of it,” 
replied the Count; “all the Scarabei 
embalmed accidentally while alive, are 
alive. Even some of those purposely so 
embalmed, may have been overlooked 
by their executors, and still remain in 
the tomb.” 

“Will you be kind enough to explain,” 
I said, “what you mean by ‘purposely 
so embalmed’?”’ 

“With great pleasure,” answered the 
Mummy, after surveying me leisurely 
through his eye-glass—for it was the 
first time I had ventured to address 
him a direct question. 

“With great pleasure,” he = said. 
“The usual duration of man’s life, in 
my time, was about eight hundred 
years. Few men died, unless by most 
extraordinary accident, before the age 
of six hundred; few lived longer than 
a decade of centuries; but eight were 
considered the natural term. After the 
discovery of the embalming principle, 
as I have already described it to you, 
it occurred to our philosophers that a 
laudable curiosity might be gratified, 
and, at the same time, the interests of 
science much advanced, by living this 


686 


natural term in instalments. In the 
case of history, indeed, experience dem- 
onstrated that something of this kind 
was indispensable. An historian, for 
example, having attained the age of 
five hundred, would write a book with 
great labor and then get himself care- 
fully embalmed; leaving instructions 
to his executors pro tem., that they 
should cause him to be revivified after 
the lapse of a certain period—say five 
or six hundred years. Resuming ex- 
istence at the expiration of this time, 
he would invariably find his great work 
converted into a species of hap-hazard 
note-book—that is to say, into a kind 
of literary arena for the conflicting 
guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles 
of whole herds of exasperated com- 
mentators. These guesses, etc., which 
passed under the name of annotations, 
or emendations, were found so com- 
pletely to have enveloped, distorted, 
and overwhelmed the text, that the au- 
thor had to go about with a lantern to 
discover his own book. When discov- 
ered, it was never worth the trouble 
of the search. After rewriting it 
throughout, it was regarded as the 
bounden duty of the historian to set 
himself to work immediately in correct- 
ing, from his own private knowledge 
and experience, the traditions of the 
day concerning the epoch at which he 
had originally lived. Now this process 
of rescription and personal rectification, 
pursued by various individual sages 
from time to time, had the effect of 
preventing our history from degenerat- 
ing into absolute fable.” 

“IT beg your pardon,” said Doctor 
Ponnonner at this point, laying his 
hand gently upon the arm of the Egyp- 
tian—“I beg your pardon, sir, but may 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I presume to interrupt you for one 
moment?” 

“By all means, 
Count, drawing up. | 

“I merely wished to ask you a ques- 
tion,’ said the Doctor. “You men- 
tioned the historian’s personal correc- 
tion of traditions respecting his own 
epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what 
proportion of these Kabbala were 
usually found to be right?” 

“The Kabbala, as you properly term 
them, sir, were generally discovered to 
be precisely on a par with the facts 
recorded in the unre-written histories 
themselves—that is to say, not one in- 
dividual iota of either was ever known. 
under any circumstances, to be not 
totally and radically wrong.” 3 

“But since it is quite clear,” resumed 
the Doctor, “that at least five thou- 
sand years have elapsed since your en- 
tombment, I take it for granted that 
your histories at that period, if not your 
traditions were sufficiently explicit on 
that one topic of universal interest, the 
Creation, which took place, as I pre- 
sume you are aware, only about ten 
centuries before.” 

“Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo. 

The Doctor repeated his remarks, but 
it was only after much additional ex- 
planation that the foreigner could be 
made to comprehend them. The latter 
at length said, hesitatingly: 

“The ideas you have suggested are 
to me, I confess, utterly novel. During 
my time I never knew any one to en- 
tertain so singular a fancy as that the 
universe (or this world if you will have 
it so) ever had a beginning at all. I 
remember once, and once only, hearing 
something remotely hinted, by a man 
of many speculations, concerning the 


sir,’ replied the 





























SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 


origin of the human race; and by this 
individual, the very word Adam (or 
Red Earth), which you make use of, 
was employed. He employed it, how- 
ever, in a generical sense, with reference 
to the spontaneous germination from 
rank soil (just as a thousand of the 
lower genera of creatures are germi- 
nated)—the spontaneous germination, 
I say, of five vast hordes of men, simul- 
taneously upspringing in five distinct 
and nearly equal divisions of the globe.” 

Here, in general, the company shrugged 
their shoulders, and one or two of 
us touched our foreheads with a very 
significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham, 
first glancing slightly at the occiput and 
then at. the sinciput of Allamistakeo, 
spoke as follows: 


“The long duration of human life in © 


your time, together with the occasional 
practice of passing it, as you have ex- 
plained, in instalments, must have had, 
indeed, a strong tendency to the general 
development and conglomeration of 
knowledge. I presume, therefore, that 
we are to attribute the marked infe- 
riority of the old Egyptians in all par- 
ticulars of science, when compared with 
the moderns, and more especially with 
the Yankees, altogether to the superior 
solidity of the Egyptian skull.” 

“T confess again,’ replied the Count, 
with much suavity, “that I am some- 
what at a loss to comprehend you; 
pray, to what particulars of science do 
you allude?” 

Here our whole party, joining voices, 
detailed, at great length, the assump- 
tions of phrenology and the marvels of 
animal magnetism. 

Having heard us to an end, the Count 
proceeded to relate a few anecdotes, 
which rendered it evident that proto- 


687 


types of Gall and Spurzheim had flour- 
ished and faded in Egypt so long ago 
as to have been nearly forgotten, and 
that the manceuvres of Mesmer were 
really very contemptible tricks when 
put in collation with the positive mira- 
cles of the Teban savans, who created 
lice and a great many other similar 
things. 

I here asked the Count if his people 
were able to calculate eclipses. He 
smiled rather contemptuously, and said 
they were. 

This put me a little out, but I began 
to make other inquiries in regard to his 
astronomical knowledge, when a mem- 
ber of the company, who had never as 
yet opened his mouth, whispered in my 
ear, that for information on this head, 
T had better consult Ptolemy (whoever 
Ptolemy is), as well as one Plutarch 
de facie lune. 

I then questioned the Mummy about 
burning-glasses and lenses, and, in gen- 
eral, about the manufacture of glass; 
but I had not made an end of my 
queries before the silent member again 
touched me quietly on the elbow, and 
begged me for God’s sake to take a 
peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for the 
Count, he merely asked me, in the way 
of reply, if we moderns possessed any 
such microscopes as would enable us to 
cut cameos in the style of the Egyp- 
tians. While I was thinking how I 
should answer this question, little Doc- 
tor Ponnonner committed himself in a 
very extraordinary way. 

“Look at our architecture!” he ex- 
claimed, greatly to the indignation of 
both the travellers, who pinched him 
black and blue to no purpose. 

“Look,” he cried with enthusiasm, 
“at the Bowling-Green Fountain in New 


688 


York! or if this be too vast a contem- 
plation, regard for a moment the Capi- 
tol at Washington, D. C.!’—and the 
good little medical man went on to 
detail, very minutely, the proportions 
of the fabric to which he referred. He 
explained that the portico alone was 
adorned with no less than four and 
twenty columns, five feet in diameter, 
and ten feet apart. 

The Count said that he regretted not 
being able to remember, just at that 
moment, the precise dimensions of any 
one of the principal buildings of the 
city of Aznac, whose foundations were 
laid in the night of Time, but the ruins 
of which were still standing, at the 
epoch of his entombment, in a vast 
plain of sand to the westward of 
Thebes. He recollected, however, (talk- 
ing of the porticoes,) that one affixed 
to an inferior palace in a kind of suburb 
called Carnac, consisted of a hundred 
and forty-four columns, thirty-seven 
feet in circumference, and twenty-five 
feet apart. The approach to this por- 
tico, from the Nile, was through an 
avenue two miles long, composed of 
sphynxes, statues, and obelisks, twenty, 
sixty, and a hundred feet in height. 
The palace itself (as well as he could 
remember) was, in one direction, two 
miles long, and might have been alto- 
gether about seven in circuit. Its walls 
were richly painted all over, within and 
without, with hieroglyphics. He would 
not pretend to assert that even fifty or 
sixty of the Doctor’s Capitols might 
have been built within these walls, but 
he was by no means sure that two or 
three hundred of them might not have 
been squeezed in with some trouble. 
That palace at Carnac was an insigni- 
ficant little building after all. He (the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Count), however, could not conscien- 
tiously refuse to admit the ingenuity, 
magnificence, and superiority of the 
Fountain at the Bowling Green, as de- 
scribed by the Doctor. Nothing like 
it, he was forced to allow, had ever 
been seen in Egypt or elsewhere. 

I here asked the Count what he had 
to say to our railroads. 

“Nothing,” he replied, “in particu- 
lar.’ They were rather slight, rather 
ill-conceived, and clumsily put together. 
They could not be compared, of course, 
with the vast, level, direct, iron-grooved 
causeways upon which the Egyptians 
conveyed entire temples and solid obe- 
lisks of a hundred and fifty feet in 
altitude. 

I spoke of our gigantic mechanical 
forces. 

He agreed that we knew something in 
that way, but inquired how I should 
have gone to work in getting up the im- 
posts on the lintels of even the little 
palace at Carnac. 

This question I concluded not to 
hear, and demanded if he had any idea 
of Artesian wells; but he simply raised 
his eyebrows; while Mr. Gliddon 
winked at me very hard and said, in a 
low tone, that one had been recently 
discovered by the engineers employed 
to bore for water in the Great Oasis. 

I then mentioned our steel; but the 
foreigner elevated his nose, and asked 
me if our steel could have executed 
the sharp carved work seen on the 
Obelisks, and which was wrought alto- 
gether by edge-tools of copper. 

This disconcerted us so greatly that 
we thought it advisable to vary the 
attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a 
copy of a book called the “Dial,” and 
read out of it a chapter or two about 














SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 


something which is not very clear, but 
which the Bostonians call the Great 
Movement of Progress. 

The Count merely said that Great 
Movements were awfully common 
things in his day, and as for Progress, 
it was at one time quite a nuisance, but 
it never progressed. 

We then spoke of the great beauty 
and importance of Democracy, and 
were at much trouble in impressing the 
Count with a due sense of the advan- 
tages we enjoyed in living where there 
was suffrage ad libitum, and no king. 

He listened with marked interest, 
and in fact seemed not a little amused. 
When we had done, he said that, a 
great while ago, there had occurred 
something of a very similar sort. Thir- 
teen Egyptian provinces determined all 
at once to be free, and to set a mag- 
nificent example to the rest of mankind. 
They assembled their wise men, and 
concocted the most ingenious constitu- 
tion it is possible to conceive. For a 
while they managed remarkably well; 
only their habit of bragging was pro- 
digious. The thing ended, however, in 
the consolidation of the thirteen states, 
with some fifteen or twenty others, in 
the most odious and insupportable des- 
potism that was ever heard of upon the 
face of the Earth. 

I asked what was the name of the 
usurping tyrant. 

As well as the Count could recollect, 
it was Mob. 

Not knowing what to say to this, I 
raised my voice, and deplored the 
Egyptian ignorance of steam. 

The Count looked at me with much 
astonishment, but made no answer. The 
silent gentleman, however, gave me a 
violent nudge in the ribs with his el- 


689 


bows—told me I had sufficiently ex- 
posed myself for once—and demanded 
if I was really such a fool as not to 
know that the modern steam-engine is 
derived from the invention of Hero, 
through Solomon de Caus. 

We were now in imminent danger of 
being discomfited; but, as good luck 
would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, hav- 
ing rallied, returned to our rescue, and 
inquired if the people of Egypt would 
seriously pretend to rival the moderns 
in the all-important particular of dress. 

The Count, at this, glanced down- 
ward to the straps of his pantaloons, 
and then taking hold of the end of one 
of his coat-tails, held it up close to 
his eyes for some minutes. Letting it 
fall, at last, his mouth extended itself 

very gradually from ear to ear; but I 
do not remember that he said any neg 
in the way of reply. | 

Hereupon we recovered our spirits, 
and the Doctor, approaching the 
Mummy with great dignity, desired it 
to say candidly, upon its honor as a 
gentleman, if the Egyptians had com- 
prehended, at any period, the manufac- 
ture of either Ponnonner’s lozenges or 
Brandreth’s pills. 

We looked, with profound anxiety, 
for an answer—but in vain. It was not 
forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed 
and hung down his head. Never was 
triumph more consummate; never was 
defeat borne with so ill a grace. In- 
deed, I could not endure the spectacle 
of the poor Mummy’s mortification. I 
reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, 
and took leave. 

Upon getting home I found it past 
four o’clock, and went immediately to 
bed. It is now ten a. m. I have been 


690 


up since seven, penning these memo- 
randa for the benefit of my family and 
of mankind. The former I shall be- 
hold no more. My wife is a shrew. 
The truth is, I am heartily sick of this 
life and of the nineteenth century in 
general. I am convinced that every 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thing is going wrong. Besides, I am 
anxious to know who will be President 
in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave 
and swallow a cup of coffee, I shall 
just step over to Ponnonner’s and get 
embalmed for a couple of hundred 
years. 


Loss of Breath 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, September, 1835.—Ed.) 


O breathe not, etc—Moore’s Melodies. 


THE most notorious ill-fortune must 
in the end yield to the untiring courage 
of philosophy—as the most stubborn 
city to the ceaseless vigilance of an 
enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in 
holy writings, lay three years before 
Samaria; yet it fell. Sardanapalus— 
see Diodorus—maintained himself seven 
in Nineveh; but to no purpose. Troy 
expired at the close of the second lus- 
trum; and Azoth, as Aristzus declares 
upon his honour as a gentleman, opened 
at last her gates to Psammetichus, after 
having barred them for the fifth part of 
Wi CENTLY. yay 

“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou 
shrew!” said I to my wife on the morn- 
ing after our wedding; “thou witch!— 
thou hag! —thou whipper-snapper! — 
thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced 
quintessence of all that is abominable! 
— thou — thou” — here standing ~90n 
tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and 
placing my mouth close to her ear, I 
was preparing to launch forth a new 
and more decided epithet of opprobium, 
which should not fail, if ejaculated, to 
convince her of her insignificance, when 


to my extreme horror and astonishment 
I discovered that J had lost my breath. 

The phrases “I am out of breath,” 
“T have lost my breath,” etc., are often 
enough repeated in common conversa- 
tion; but it had never occurred to me 
that the terrible accident of which I 
speak could bona fide and actually hap- 
pen! Imagine—that is if you have a 
fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my won- 
der—my consternation—my despair! 

There is a good genius, however, 
which has never entirely deserted me. 
In my most ungovernable moods I still 
retain a sense of propriety, et le chemin 
des passions me conduit—as Lord Ed- 
ouard in the “Julie” says it did him— 
a la philosophie veritable. 

Although I could not at first precisely 
ascertain to what degree the occurrence 
had affected me, I determined at all 
events to conceal the matter from my 
wife, until further experience should 
discover to me the extent of this my 
unheard of calamity. Altering my 
countenance, therefore, in a moment, 
from its bepuffed and distorted appear- 
ance, to an expression of arch and co- 
quettish benignity, I gave my lady a 
pat on the one cheek, and a kiss on 














LOSS OF BREATH 


the other, and without saying one syl- 
lable (Furies! I could not), left her 
astonished at my drollery, as I pirou- 
etted out of the room in a pas de 
zephyr. 

Behold me then safely ensconced in 
my private boudoir, a fearful instance 
of the ill consequences attending upon 
irascibility—alive, with the qualifica- 
tions of the dead—dead, with the pro- 
pensities of the living—an anomaly on 
the face of the earth—being very calm, 
yet breathless. 

Yes! breathless. I am serious in as- 
serting that my breath was entirely 
gone. I could not have stirred with it 
a feather ti my life had been at issue, 


or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror. . 


Hard fate!—yet there was some alle- 
viation to the first overwhelming 
paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon 
trial, that the powers of utterance 
which, upon my inability to proceed in 
the conversation with my wife, I then 
concluded to be totally destroyed, were 
in fact only ‘partially impeded, and I 
discovered that had I, at that interest- 
_ ing crisis, dropped my voice to a singu- 
larly deep guttural, I might still have 
_ continued to her the communication of 
my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the 
guttural) depending, I find, not upon 
the current of the breath, but upon a 
certain spasmodic action of the muscles 
of the throat. 
_ Throwing myself upon a chair, I re- 
mained for some time absorbed in 
meditation. My reflections, be sure, 
were of no consolatory kind. A thou- 
sand vague and lachrymatory fancies 
took possession of my soul—and even 
the idea of suicide flitted across my 
brain; but it is a trait in the perversity 
of human nature to reject the obvious 


691 


and the ready, for the far-distant and 
equivocal. Thus I shuddered at self- 
murder as the most decided of atroci- 
ties while the tabby-cat purred strenu- 
ously upon the rug, and the very water- 
dog wheezed assiduously under the 


‘table; each taking to itself much merit 


for the strength of its lungs, and all 
obviously done in derision of my own 
pulmonary incapacity. 

Oppressed with a tumult of vague 
hopes and fears, I at length heard the 
footsteps of my wife descending the 
staircase. Being now assured of her 
absence, I returned with a palpitating 
heart to the scene of my disaster. 

Carefully locking the door on the 
inside, I commenced a vigorous search. 
It was possible, I thought, that, con- 
cealed in some obscure corner, or lurk- 
ing in some closet or drawer, might be 
found the lost object of my inquiry. 
It might have a vapory—it might even 
have a tangible form. Most philoso- 
phers, upon many points of philosophy, 
are still very unphilosophical. William 
Godwin, however, says in his ‘‘Mande- 
ville,’ that “invisible things are the 
only realities,” and this, all will allow, 
is a case in point. I would have the 
judicious reader pause before accusing 
such asseverations of an undue quan- 
tum of absurdity. Anaxagoras, it will 
be remembered, maintained that snow 
is black, and this I have since found 
to be the case. 

Long and earnestly did I continue 
the investigation: but the contemptible 
reward of my industry and persever- 
ance proved to be only a set of false 
teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a 
number of billets-doux from Mr. Win- 
denough to my wife. I might as well 
here observe that this confirmation of 


692 


my lady’s partiality for Mr. W. occa- 
sioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. 
Lackobreath should admire anything so 
dissimilar to myself was a natural and 
necessary evil. I am, it is well known, 
of a robust and corpulent appearance, 


and at the same time somewhat di-: 


minutive in stature. What wonder, 
then, that the lath-like tenuity of my 
acquaintance, and his altitude, which 
has grown into a proverb, should have 
met with all due estimation in the eyes 
of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to return. 

My exertions, as I have before said, 
proved fruitless. Closet after closet— 
drawer after drawer—corner after cor- 
ner—were scrutinized to no purpose. 
At one time, however, I thought myself 
sure of my prize, having, in rummaging 
a dressing-case, accidentally demolished 
a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of Archan- 
gels—which, as an agreeable perfume, 
I here take the liberty of recommend- 
ing. 

With a heavy heart I returned to my 
boudoir—there to ponder upon some 
method of eluding my wife’s penetra- 
tion, until I could make arrangements 
prior to my leaving the country, for to 
this I had already made up my mind. 
In a foreign climate, being unknown, I 
might, with some probability of suc- 
cess, endeavor to conceal my unhappy 
calamity—a calamity calculated, even 
more than beggary, to estrange the af- 
fections of the multitude, and to draw 
down upon the wretch the well-merited 
indignation of the virtuous and the 
happy. I was not long in hesitation. 
Being naturally quick, I committed to 
memory the entire tragedy of ‘‘Meta- 
mora.” I had the good fortune to 
recollect that in the accentuation of 
this drama, or at least of such portion 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of it as is allotted to the hero, the tones 
of voice in which I found myself defi- 
cient were altogether unnecessary, and 
that the deep guttural was expected to 
reign monotonously throughout. 

I practised for some time by the 
borders of a well-frequented marsh;— 
herein, however, having no reference to 
a similar proceeding of Demosthenes, 
but from a design peculiarly and con- 
scientiously my own. ‘Thus armed at 
all points, I determined to make my 
wife believe that I was suddenly smit- 
ten with a passion for the stage. In 
this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to 
every question or suggestion found my- 
self at liberty to reply in my most 
frog-like and sepulchral tones with some 
passage from the tragedy—any portion 
of which, as I soon took great pleasure 
in observing, would apply equally well 
to any particular subject. It is not to 
be supposed, however, that in the de- 
livery of such passages I was found at 
all deficient in the looking asquint—the 
showing my teeth—the working my 
knees—the shuffling my feet—or in any 
of those unmentionable graces which 
are now justly considered the charac- 
teristics of a popular performer. To 
be sure they spoke of confining me in a 
strait-jacket—but, good God! _ they 
never suspected me of having lost my 
breath. 

Having at length put my affairs in 
order, I took my seat very early one 
morning in the mail stage for ; 
giving it to be understood, among my 
acquaintances, that business of the last 
importance required my immediate per- 





- sonal attendance in that city. 


The coach was crammed to repletion; 
but in the uncertain twilight the fea- 
tures of my companions could not be 


_ 























LOSS OF BREATH 


distinguished. Without making any ef- 
fectual resistance, I suffered myself to 
be placed between two gentlemen of 
colossal dimensions; while a third, of a 
size larger, requesting pardon for the 
liberty he was about to take, threw 
himself upon my body at full length, 
and falling asleep in an instant, drowned 
all my guttural ejaculations for relief, 
in a snore which would have put to 
blush the roarings of the bull of Pha- 
laris. Happily the state of my respira- 
tory faculties rendered suffocation an 
accident entirely out of the question. 

As, however, the day broke more dis- 
tinctly in our approach to the outskirts 
of the city, my tormentor, arising and 
adjusting his shirt-collar, thanked me 
in a very friendly manner for my civil- 
ity. Seeing that I remained motionless 
(all my limbs were dislocated and my 
head twisted on one side), his appre- 
hensions began to be excited; and 
arousing the rest of the passengers, he 
communicated, in a very decided man- 
ner, his opinion that a dead man had 
been palmed upon them during the 
night for a living and responsible fel- 
low-traveller; here giving me a thump 
on the right eye, by way of demon- 
strating the truth of his suggestion. 

Hereupon all, one after another 
(there were nine in company), believed 
it their duty to pull me by the ear. A 
young practising physician, too, having 
applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, 
and found me without breath, the as- 
sertion of my prosecutor was _ pro- 
nounced a true bill; and the whole 
party expressed a determination to en- 
dure tamely no such impositions for the 
future, and to proceed no farther with 
any such carcasses for the present. 

I was here, accordingly, thrown out 


‘mediately. 


693 


at the sign of the “Crow” (by which 
tavern the coach happened to be pass- 
ing), without meeting with any further 
accident than the breaking of both my 
arms, under the left hind wheel of the 
vehicle. I must besides do the driver 
the justice to state that he did mot 
forget to throw after me the largest of 
my trunks, which, unfortunately falling 
on my head, fractured my skull in a 
manner at once interesting and extraor- 
dinary. 

The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a 
hospitable man, finding that my trunk 
contained sufficient to indemnify him 
for any little trouble he might take in 
my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon 
of his acquaintance, and delivered me 
to his care with a bill and receipt for 
ten dollars. 

The purchaser took me to his apart- 
ments and commenced operations im- 
Having cut off my ears, 
however, he discovered signs of anima- 
tion. He now rang the bell, and sent 
for a neighboring apothecary with whom 
to consult in the emergency.- In case 
of his suspicions with regard to my 
existence proving ultimately correct, he, 
in the meantime, made an incision in 
my stomach, and removed several of 
my viscera for private dissection. 

The apothecary had an idea that I 
was actually dead. This idea I endeav- 
ored to confute, kicking and plunging 
with all my might, and making the most 
furious contortions—for the operations 
of the surgeon had, in a measure, re- 
stored me to the possession of my 
faculties. All, however, was attributed 
to the effects of a new galvanic battery, 
wherewith the apothecary, who is really 
a man of information, performed sev- 
eral curious experiments, in which, from 


694 
my personal share in their fulfillment, 
I could not help feeling deeply inter- 
ested. It was a course of mortification 
to me, nevertheless, that although I 
made several attempts at conversation, 
my powers of speech were sc entirely 
in abeyance, that I could not even open 
my mouth; much less, then, make reply 
to some ingenious but fanciful theories 
of which, under other circumstances, my 
minute acquaintance with the Hippocra- 
tian pathology would have afforded me 
a ready confutation. 

Not being able to arrive at a conclu- 
sion, the practitioners remanded me for 
further examination. I was taken up 
into a garret; and the surgeon’s lady 
having accommodated me with drawers 
and stockings, the surgeon himself fas- 
tened my hands, and tied up my 
jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then 
bolted the door on the outside as he 


hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone 


to silence and to meditation. 

I now discovered to my extreme de- 
light that I could have spoken had not 
my mouth been tied up with the pocket- 
handkerchief. Consoling myself with 
this reflection, I was mentally repeating 
scme passages of the ““Omnipresence of 
the Deity,’ as is my custom before 
resigning myself to sleep, when two 
cats, of a greedy and vituperative turn, 
entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up 
with a flourish a Ja Catalani, and alight- 
ing opposite one another on my visage, 
betook themselves to indecorous con- 
tention for the paltry consideration of 
my nose. 

But, as the loss of his ears proved 
the means of elevating to the throne 
of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of 
Persia, and as the cutting off his nose 
gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the loss of a few ounces of my counte. 
nance proved the salvation of my body. 
Aroused by the pain, and burning with 
indignation, I burst, at a single effort, 
the fastenings and the bandage. Stalk- 
ing across the room I cast a glance of 
contempt at the belligerents, and throw- 
ing open the sash to their extreme 
horror and disappointment, precipitated 
myself, very dexterously, from the 
window. 

The mail-robber W. , to whom I 
bore a singular resemblance, was at this 
moment passing from the city jail to 
the scaffold erected for his execution in 
the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and 
long-continued ill-health had obtained 
him the privilege of remaining unman- 
acled; and habited in his gallows cos- 
tume—one very similar to my own,—he 
lay at full length in the bottom of the 
hangman’s cart (which happened to be 
under the windows of the surgeon at 
the moment of my precipitation) with- 
out any other guard than the driver, 
who was asleep, and two recruits of the 
sixth infantry, who were drunk. 

As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon 
my feet within the vehicle. W—, 
who was an acute fellow, perceived his 
opportunity. Leaping up immediately, 
he bolted out behind, and turning down 
an alley, was out of sight in the twink- 
ling of an eye. The recruits, aroused 
by the bustle, could not exactly com- 
prehend the merits of the transaction. 
Seeing, however, a man, the precise 
counterpart of the felon, standing up- 
right in the cart before their eyes, they 
were of the opinion that the rascal 
(meaning W. ) was after making his 
escape, (so they expressed themselves,) 
and, having communicated this opinion 
to one another, they took each a dram, 














LOSS OF BREATH 


and then knocked me down with the 
butt-ends of their muskets. 

It was not long ere we arrived at the 
place of destination. Of course nothing 
could be said in my defence. Hanging 
was my inevitable fate. I resigned my- 
self thereto with a feeling half stupid, 
half acrimonious. Being little of a 
cynic, I had all the sentiments of a 
dog. The hangman, however, adjusted 
the noose about my neck. The drop 
fell. 

I forbear to depict my sensations 
upon the gallows; although here, un- 
doubtedly, I could speak to the point, 
and it is a topic upon which nothing 
has been well said. In fact, to write 
upon such a theme it is necessary to 
have been hanged. Every author should 
confine himself to matters of expe- 
rience. Thus Mark Antony composed 
a treatise upon getting drunk. 

I may just mention, however, that die 
I did not. My body was, but I had no 
breath fo be, suspended; and but for 
the knot under my left ear (which had 
the feel of a military stock) I dare say 
that I should have experienced very 
little inconvenience. As for the jerk 
given to my neck upon the falling of 
the drop, it merely proved a corrective 
to the twist afforded me by the fat 
gentleman in the coach. 

For good reasons, however, I did my 
best to give the crowd the worth of 
their trouble. My convulsions were 
said to be extraordinary. My spasms 
it would have been difficult to beat. 
The populace encored. Several gentle- 
' men swooned; and a multitude of ladies 
_were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit 
availed himself of the opportunity to 
retouch, from a sketch taken upon the 


695 


spot, his admirable painting of the 
“Marsyas flayed alive.” 

When I had afforded _ sufficient 
amusement, it was thought proper to 
remove my body from the gallows—this 
the more especially as the real culprit 
had in the meantime been retaken and 
recognized, a fact which I was so un- 
lucky as not to know. 

Much sympathy was, of course, exer- 
cised in my behalf, and as no one made 
claim to my corpse, it was ordered that 
I should be interred in a public vault. 

Here, after due interval, I was de- 


posited. The sexton departed, and I 
was left alone. A line of Marston’s 
‘“Malcontent”— 


Death’s a good fellow and keeps open 
house— 


struck me at that moment as a palpable 
lie. 

I knocked off, however, the lid of my 
coffin, and stepped out. The place was 
dreadfully dreary and damp, and I be- 
came troubled with ennui. By way of 
amusement, I felt my way among the 
numerous coffins ranged in_ order 
around. I lifted them down, one by 
one, busied myself in speculations about 
the mortality within. 

“This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over 
a carcass, puffy, bloated, and rotund— 
“this has been, no doubt, in every sense 
of the word, an unhappy—an unfortu- 
nate man. It has been his terrible lot 
not to walk but to waddle—to pass 
through life not like a human being, but. 
like an elephant—not like a man, but 
like a rhinoceros. 

“His attempts at getting on have 
been mere abortions, and his circumgy- 
ratory proceedings a palpable failure. 


696 


Taking a step forward, it has been his 
misfortune to take two toward the 
tight, and three toward the left. His 
studies have been confined to the poetry 
of Crabbe. He can have no idea of 
the wonder of a pirouette. To him a 
pas de papillon has been an abstract 
conception. He has never ascended the 
summit of a hill. He has never viewed 
from any steeple the glories of a me- 
tropolis. Heat has been his mortal 
enemy. In the dog-days his days have 
been the days of a dog. ‘Therein, he 
has dreamed of flames and suffocation 
—of mountains upon mountains—of 
Pelion upon Ossa. He was short of 
breath—to say all in a word, he was 
short of breath. He thought it extrava- 
gant to play upon wind-instruments. 
He was the inventor of self-moving 
fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He 
patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, 
and he died miserably in attempting to 
smoke a cigar. His was a case in which 
I feel a deep interest—a lot in which I 
sincerely sympathize. 

“But here,’—said I—“here’—and I 
dragged spitefully from its receptacle a 
gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, 
whose remarkable appearance struck me 
with a sense of unwelcome familiarity— 
“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly 
commiseration.” Thus saying, in order 
to obtain a more distinct view of my 
subject, I applied my thumb and fore- 
finger to its nose, and causing it to 
assume a sitting position upon the 
ground, held it thus, at the length of 
my arm, while I continued my so- 
liloquy. 

—“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no 
earthly commiseration. Who indeed 
would think of compassioning a 
shadow? Besides, has he not had his 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


full share of the blessings of mortality? 
He was the originator of tall monu- 
ments — shot-towers — lightning-rods— 
Lombardy poplars. His treatise upon 
‘Shades and Shadows’ has immortalized 
him. He edited with distinguished abil- 
ity the last edition of ‘South on the 
Bones.’ He went early to college and 
studied pneumatics. He then came 
home, talked eternally, and played upon 
the French-horn. He patronized the 
bag-pipes. Captain Barclay, who 
walked against Time, would not walk 


against Aim. Windham and Allbreath 


were his favorite writers; his favorite 
artist, Phiz. He died gloriously while 
inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur, 
like the fama pudicitie in Hieronymus. 
He was indubitably a ¥c 

“How can you?—how—can—you?”— 
interrupted the object of my animad- 
versions, gasping for breath, and tear- 
ing off, with a desperate exertion, the 
bandage around its jaws—‘how can 
you, Mr. Lackobreath, be so infernally 
cruel as to pinch me in that manner by 
the nose? Did you not see how they 
had fastened up my mouth—and you 
must know—if you know any thing— 
how vast a superfluity of breath I have 
to dispose of! If you do not know, 
however, sit down and you shall see. 
In my situation it is really a great re- 
lief to be able to open one’s mouth— 
to be able to expatiate—to be able to 
communicate with a person like your- 
self, who do not think yourself called 
upon at every period to interrupt the 
thread of a gentleman’s discourse. In- 
terruptions are annoying and should un- 
doubtedly be abolished—don’t you think 
sop—no reply, I beg you,—one person 
is enough to be speaking at a time.—I 
shall be done by and by, and then you 

















| 





LOSS OF BREATH 


| may begin.—How the devil, sir, did you 
| get into this place?—not a word I be- 
| seech you—been here some time my- 
self—terrible accident!—heard of it, I 
| suppose?—awful calamity !—walking un- 


i 
| 


der your windows—some short while 


'ago—about the time you were stage- 
| struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of 
| ‘catching one’s breath,’ eh?p—hold your 
| tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody 
| else’s!—had always too much of my 


own—met Blab at the corner of the 


_ street—wouldn’t give me a chance for 
' a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edge- 
| ways—attacked, consequently, with epi- 
| lepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all 


fools!—they took me up for dead, and 


| put me in this place—pretty doings all 


of them!—heard all you said about 
me—every word a lie—horrible!—won- 


_ derful! — outrageous! — hideous! — 


incomprehensible! — et cetera — et 
cetera—et cetera—et cetera a 

It is impossible to conceive my as- 
tonishment at so unexpected a dis- 
course; or the joy with which I became 





_ gradually convinced that the breath so 


fortunately caught by the gentleman 
(whom I soon recognized as my neigh- 
bor Windenough) was, in fact, the 


| identical expiration mislaid by myself 
in the conversation with my wife. 


Time, place, and circumstances ren- 
dered it a matter beyond question. I 
did not, however, immediately release 


: my hold upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not 


at least during the long period in 
which the inventor of Lombardy pop- 
lars continued to favor me with his ex- 
planations. 

In this respect I was actuated by that 
habitual prudence which has ever been 
my predominating trait. I reflected 
that many difficulties might still lie in 


-quaintance?—‘T 


697 
the path of my preservation which only 
extreme exertion on my part would be 
able to surmount. Many persons, I 
considered, are prone to estimate com- 
modities in their possession—however 
valueless to the then proprietor—how- 
ever troublesome, or distressing—in di- 
rect ratio with the advantages to be de- 
rived by others from their attainment, 
or by themselves from their abandon- 
ment. Might not this be the case with 
Mr. Windenough? In displaying anxiety 
for the breath of which he was at pres- 
ent so willing to get rid, might I not 
lay myself open to the exactions of his 
avarice? ‘There are scoundrels in this 
world, I remembered with a sigh, who 
will not scruple to take unfair oppor- 
tunities with even a next-door neighbor, 
and (this remark is from Epictetus) it 
is precisely at that time when men are 
most anxious to throw off the burden 
of their own calamities that they feel 
the least desirous of relieving them in 
others. 

Upon considerations similar to these, 
and still retaining my grasp upon the 
nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought 
proper to model my reply. 

“Monster!” I began in a tone of the 
deepest indignation—‘“monster and dou- 
ble-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for 
thine iniquities it has pleased heaven to 
accurse with a twofold respiration— 
dost thou, I say, presume to address me 
in the familiar language of an old ac- 
lie” forsooth! and 
‘hold my tongue,’ to be sure!—pretty 
conversation ‘indeed, to a gentleman 
with a single breath!—all this, too, 
when I have it in my power to relieve 
the calamity under which thou dost so 
justly suffer—to curtail the superfluities 
of thine unhappy respiration.” 


698 


Like Brutus, I paused for a reply— 
with which, like a tornado, Mr. Win- 
denough immediately overwhelmed me. 
Protestation followed upon protestation, 
and apology upon apology. There were 
no terms with which he was unwilling 
to comply, and there were none of 
which I failed to take the fullest ad- 
vantage. 

Preliminaries being at length ar- 
ranged, my acquaintance delivered me 
the respiration; for which (having care- 
fully examined it) I gave him afterward 
a receipt. 

I am aware that by many I shall be 
‘held to blame for speaking in a manner 
so cursory, of a transaction so impalpa- 
ble. It will be thought that I should 
have entered more minutely, into the 
details of an occurrence by which—and 
this is very true—much new light might 
be thrown upon a highly interesting 
branch of physical philosophy. 

To all this I am sorry that I cannot 
reply. A hint is the only answer which 
I am permitted to make. There were 
circumstances—but I think it much 
safer upon consideration to say as little 
as possible about an affair so delicate— 
so delicate, I repeat, and at the time in- 
volving the interests of a third party 
whose sulphurous resentment I have not 
the least desire, at this moment, of in- 
curring. 

We were not long after this necessary 
arrangement in effecting an escape from 
the dungeons of the sepulchre. The 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


united strength of our resuscitated 
voices was soon sufficiently apparent. 
Scissors, the Whig editor, republished a 
treatise upon “‘the nature and origin of 
subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoin- 
der — confutation — and justification— 
followed in the columns of a Demo- 
cratic gazette. It was not until the 
opening of the vault to decide the con- 
troversy, that the appearance of Mr. 
Windenough and myself proved both 
parties to have been decidedly in the 
wrong. 

I cannot conclude these details of 
some very singular passages in a life at 
all times sufficiently eventful, without 
again recalling to the attention of the 
reader the merits of that indiscrimi- 
nate philosophy which is a sure and 
ready shield against those shafts of 
calamity which can neither be seen, 
felt, nor fully understoo” It was ir 
the spirit of this wisdom that, among 
the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the 
gates of Heaven would be inevitably 
opened to that sinner, or saint, who, 


with good lungs and implicit confi- — 


dence, should vociferate the word 
“Amen!” It was in the spirit of this 
wisdom that, when a great plague raged 
at Athens, and every means had been 
in vain attempted for its removal, 
Epimenides, as Laertius relates, in his 
second book, of that philosopher, ad- 
vised the erection of a shrine and tem- 
ple “to the proper God.” 
LYTTLETON Barry. 

















The Man hat Was Used Up 


A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN 
(First published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, August, 1839.—Ed.) 





Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez 
vous en eau! 
La moitie de ma vie a mis l’autre au 
tombeau. —CORNEILLE. 


I CANNOT just now remember when 
or where I first made the acquaintance 
of that truly fine-looking fellow, 
Brevet Brigadier-General John A. B. C. 
Smith. Some one did introduce me to 
the gentleman, I am sure—at some pub- 
lic meeting, I know very well—held 
about something of great importance, 
no doubt—at some place or other, I feel 
convinced,—whose name I have unac- 
countably forgotten. The truth is— 
that the introduction was attended, 
upon my part, with a degree of anxious 
embarrassment which operated to pre- 
vent any definite impressions of either 
time or place. I am constitutionally 
nervous—this, with me, is a family fail- 
ing, and I can’t help it. In especial, 
the slightest appearance of mystery—of 
any point I cannot exactly compre- 
hend—puts me at once into a pitiable 
state of agitation. 

There was something, as it were, re- 
imarkable—yes, remarkable, although 
this is but a feeble term to express my 
full meaning—about the entire individ- 
uality of the personage in question. He 
was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of 
a presence singularly commanding. 
There was an air distingue pervading 
the whole man, which spoke of high 
breeding, and hinted at high birth. 


699 


Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s 
personal appearance—I have a kind of 
melancholy satisfaction in being minute. 
His head of hair would have done honor 
to a Brutus; nothing could be more 
richly flowing, or possess a_ brighter 
gloss. It was of a jetty black; which 
was also the color, or more properly 
the no-color of his unimaginable whis- 
kers. You perceive I cannot speak of 
these latter without enthusiasm; it is 
not too much to say that they were 
the handsomest pair of whiskers under 
the sun. At all events, they encircled, 
and at times nartially overshadowed, a 
mouth utterly vwnequalled. Here were 
the most entirely even, and the most 
brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. 
From between them, upon every proper 
occasion, issued a voice of surpassing 
clearness, melody, and strength. In the 
matter of eyes, also, my acquaintance 
was pre-eminently endowed. Either one 
of such a pair was worth a couple of the 
ordinary ocular organs. ‘They were of 
a deep hazel exceedingly large and lus- 
trous; and there was perceptible about 
them, ever and anon, just that amount 
of interesting obliquity which gives 
pregnancy to expression. 

The bust of the General was un- 
questionably the finest bust I ever saw. 
For your life you could not have found 
a fault with its wonderful proportion. 
This rare peculiarity set off to great 
advantage a pair of shoulders which 
would have called up a blush of con- 


700 


scious inferiority into the countenance 
of the marble Apollo. I have a pas- 
sion for fine shoulders, and may say 
that I never beheld them in perfection 
before. The arms altogether were ad- 
mirably modelled. Nor were the lower 
limbs less superb. These were, indeed, 
the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every 
connoisseur in such matters admitted 
the legs to be good. There was neither 
too much flesh nor too little——neither 
rudeness nor fragility. I could not im- 
agine a more graceful curve than that 
of the os femoris, and there was just 
that due gentle prominence in the rear 
of the fibula which goes to the confor- 
mation of a properly proportioned calf. 
I wish to God my young and talented 
friend Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had 
but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier- 
General John A. B. C. Smith. 

But although men so absolutely 
fine-looking are neither as plenty as rea- 
sons or blackberries, still I could not 
bring myself to believe that the remark- 
able something to which I alluded just 
now,—that the odd air of je ne sais quot 
which hung about my new acquaint- 
ance,—-lay altogether, or indeed at all, 
in the supreme excellence of his bodily 
endowments. Perhaps it might be 
traced to the manner ;—yet here again 
I could not pretend to be positive. 
There was a primness, not to say stiff- 
ness, in his carriage—a degree of meas- 
ured and, if I may so express it, of rec- 
tangular precision attending his every 
movement, which, observed in a more 
diminutive figure, would have had the 
least little savor in the world of. affec- 
tation, pomposity, or constraint, but 
which, noticed in a gentleman of his un- 
doubted dimensions, was readily placed 
to the account of reserve, hauteur—of a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


commendable sense, in short, of what 
is due to the dignity of colossal propor- 
tion. 

The kind friend who presented me te 
General Smith whispered in my ear 
some few words of comment upon the 
man. He was a remarkable man—a 
very remarkable man—indeed one of 
the most remarkable men of the age. 
He was an especial favorite, too, with 
the ladies—chiefly on account of his 
high reputation for courage. 

“Tn that point he is unrivalled—indeed 
he is a perfect desperado—a downright 
fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my 
friend, here dropping his voice exces- 
sively low, and thrilling me with the 
mystery of his tone. 

“A downright fire-eater, and o mis» 
take. Showed that, I should say, to 
some purpose, in the late tremendous 
swamp-fight, away down South, with 
the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” 
[Here my friend opened his eyes to 
some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood 
and thunder, and all that!—prodigies of 
valor!—heard of him of courseP—you 
know he’s the man a 

“Man alive, how do you do? why, 
how are yer very glad to see ye, in- 
deed!” here interrupted the General 
himself, seizing my companion by the 
hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly 
but profoundly, as I was presented. I 
then thought (and I think so still) that 
I never heard a clearer nor a stronger 
voice, nor beheld a finer set of teeth: 
but I must say that I was sorry for the 
interruption just at that moment, as 
owing to the whispers and insinuations 
aforesaid, my interest had been greatly 
excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and 
Kickapoo campaign. 

However, the delightfully luminous 





- — sno 























THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP 


conversation of Brevet Brigadier-Gen- 
eral John A. B. C. Smith soon com- 
pletely dissipated this chagrin. My 
friend leaving us immediately, we had 
quite a tete-a-tete, and I was not only 
pleased but .really—instructed. I never 
heard a more fluent talker, or a man of 
greater general information. With be- 
coming modesty, he forebore, neverthe- 
less, to touch upon the theme I had 
just then most at heart—I mean the 
mysterious circumstances attending the 
Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, 
what I conceive to be a proper sense of 
delicacy forbade me to broach the sub- 


_ ject; although, in truth, I was exceed- 


ingly tempted to do so. I perceived, 
too, that the gallant soldier preferred 
topics of philosophical interest, and that 
he delighted, especially, in commenting 
upon the rapid march of mechanical in- 
vention. Indeed, lead him where I 
would, this was a point to which he in- 
variably came back. 

“There is nothing at all like it,” he 
would say; “we are a wonderful people, 
and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes 
and railroads—man-traps and _ spring- 
guns! Our steam-boats are upon every 
sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is 
about to run regular trips (fare either 
way only twenty pounds sterling) be- 
tween London and Timbuctoo. And 
who shall calculate the immense influ- 
ence upon social life—upon arts—upon 
commerce—upon literature—which will 
be the immediate result of the great 
principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is 
this all; let me assure you! ‘There is 
really no end to the march of invention. 
The most wonderful—the most ingeni- 
ous—and let me add, Mr.—Mr. Thomp- 
son, I believe, is your name—let me 
add, I say the most useful—the most 


701 


truly wseful—mechanical contrivances 
are daily springing up like mushrooms, 
if I may so express myself, or, more 
figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers— 
like grasshoppers, Mr. Thompson— 
about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!” 

Thompson, to be sure, is not my 
name; but it is needless to say that I 
left General Smith with a heightened 
interest in the man, with an exalted 
opinion of his conversational powers, 
and a deep sense of the valuable privi- 
leges we enjoy in living in this age of 
mechanical invention. My curiosity, 
however, had not been altogether sat- 
isfied, and I resolved to prosecute im- 
mediate inquiry among my acquaint- 
ances, touching the Brevet Brigadier- 
General himself, and particularly re- 
specting the tremendous events quorum 
pars magna fuit, during the Bugaboo 
and Kickapoo campaign. 

The first opportunity which presented 
itself, and which -(horresco referens) I 
did not in the least scruple to seize, oc- 
curred at the Church of the Reverend 
Doctor Drummummupp, where I found 
myself established, one Sunday, just at 
sermon time, not only in the pew, but 
by the side of that worthy and com- 
municative little friend of mine, Miss 
Tabitha T. Thus seated, I congratu- 
lated myself, and with much reason, 
upon the very flattering state of affairs. 
If any person knew any thing about 
Brevet Brigadier-General John A. B. C. 
Smith, that person it was clear to me, 
was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed 
a few signals and then commenced, sotto 
voce, a brisk tete-a-tete. 

“Smith!” said she in reply to my 
very earnest inquiry: ‘“Smith!—why, 
not General A. B. C.? Bless me, I 
thought you knew all about him! This 


702 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


is a wonderfully inventive age! Horrid 
affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, 
those Kickapoos!—fought like a hero— 
prodigies of valor—immortal renown. 
Smith!—Brevet Brigadier-General John 
A. B. C.!—why, you know he’s the 
man % 

“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drum- 
mummupp, at the top of his voice, and 
with a thump that came near knock- 
ing the pulpit about our ears—‘man 
that is born of a woman hath but a 
short time to live; he cometh up and is 
cut down like a flower!” I started to 
the extremity of the pew, and perceived 
by the animated looks of the divine, 
that the wrath which had nearly proved 
fatal to the pulpit had been excited by 
the whispers of the lady and myself. 
There was no help for it; so I submit- 
ted with a good grace, and listened, in 
all the martyrdom of dignified silence, 
to the balance of that very capital dis- 
course. 

Next evening found me a somewhat 
late visitor at the Rantipole Theatre, 
where I felt sure of satisfying my 
curiosity at once, by merely stepping 
into the box of those exquisite speci- 
mens of affability and omniscience, the 
Misses Arabella and Miranda Cognos- 
centi. That fine tragedian, Climax, was 
doing Jago to a very crowded house, 
and I experienced some little difficulty 
in making my wishes understood; espe- 
cially as our box was next the slips, and 
completely overlooked the stage. 

“Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she 
at length comprehended the purport of 
my query; ‘“Smith!—why, not General 
JohbmoAy BstCie” 

“Smith!” inquired Miranda, musing- 
ly. “God bless me, did you ever behold 
a finer figure?” 





“Never, madam, but do tell me 3 

“Or so inimitable grace?” 

“Never, upon my word! 
inform me 2 

“Or so just an appreciation of stage 
effectr” , 

“Madam!” 

“Or a more delicate sense of the true 
beauties of Shakespeare? Be so good 
as to look at that leg!” 

“The devil!” and I turned again to 
her sister. 

“Smith!” said she, “why, not General 
John A. B. C.? Horrid affair that, 
wasn’t it?— great wretches, those Bug- 
aboos—savage and so on—but we live 
in a wonderfully inventive age!— 
Smith!—O yes! great man!—perfect 
desperado!—immortal renown!—prodi- 
gies of valor! Never heard!’ [This 
was given in a scream.] “Bless my 
soul!—why, he’s the man ss 





But pray, 








“__mandragora 
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world 
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet 
sleep 
Which thou ow’dst yesterday!” 


here roared our Climax just in my ear, 
and shaking his fist in my face all the 
time, in a way that I couldn’t stand, 
and I wouldn’t. I left the Misses Cog- 
noscenti immediately, went behind the 
scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly 
scoundrel such a thrashing as I trust 
he will remember till the day of his 
death. 

At the soiree of the lovely widow, 
Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was confi- 
dent that I should meet with no similar 
disappointment. Accordingly, I was no 
sooner seated at the card-table, with my 
pretty hostess for a vis-a-vis, than I 














i] 
i 
! 
i 











THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP 


propounded those questions the solution 


' of which had become a matter so essen- 


tial to my peace. 

“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not 
General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair 
that, wasn’t itP—diamonds did you 
say?—terrible wretches those Kicka- 
poos!—we are playing whist, if you 
please, Mr. Tattle—however, this is the 
age of invention, most certainly the 
age, one may say—the age par excel- 
lence—speak French?—oh, quite a 
hero—perfect desperado!—no hearts, 
Mr. Tattle? I don’t believe it—Im- 
mortal renown and all that!—prodigies 
of valor! Never heard! !—why, bless 
me, he’s the man af 

“Mann! — Captain Mann!” here 
screamed some little feminine interloper 
from the farthest corner of the room. 
“Are you talking about Captain Mann 
and the duel?—oh, I must hear—do 
tell—go on, Mrs. O’Trump—do now go 
on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did— 
all about a certain Captain Mann, who 
was either shot or hung, or should have 
been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. 
O’Trump, she went on, and I—I went 
off. There was no chance of hearing 
any thing further that evening in regard 
to Brevet Brigadier-General John A. B. 
C. Smith. 

Still I consoled myself with the re- 
flection that the tide of ill-luck would 
not run against me forever, and so de- 
termined to make a bold push for in- 
formation at the rout of that bewitch- 
ing little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pi- 
rouette. 

“Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled 
about together in a pas de zephyr, 
“Smith!—why, not General John A. B. 
C.? Dreadful business that of the Bug- 
aboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures, 





703 


those Indians!—do turn out your toes! 
I really am ashamed of you—man of 
great courage, poor fellow!—but this is 
a wonderful age for invention—O dear 
me, I’m out of breath—quite a des- 
perado—prodigies of valor — never 
heard!—can’t believe it—I shall have 
to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! 
why, he’s the man t 

“Man-Fred, I tell you!” here bawled 
out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pi- 
rouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody 
hear the like? It’s Man-Fred, I say, 
and not at all by any means Man-Fr- 
day.” Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to 
me in a very peremptory manner; and 
I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. 
P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute 
touching the title of a certain poetical 
drama of Lord Byron’s. Although 1! 
pronounced, with great promptness, 
that the true title was Man-Friday, and 
not by any means Man-Fred yet when 
I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she 
was not to be discovered, and I made 
my retreat from the house in a very 
bitter spirit of animosity against the 
whole race of the Bas-Bleus. 

Matters had now assumed a really 
serious aspect, and I resolved to call at 
once upon my particular friend, Mr. 
Theodore Sinivate; for I knew that 
here at least I should get something like 
definite information. 

“Smith!” said he, in his well-known 
peculiar way of drawling out his syila- 
bles; ‘‘SSmith!—why, not General John 
A. B. C.? Savage affair that with the 
Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say, don’t 
you think so?—perfect despera-a-ado— 
great pity, ’_pon my honor!—wonder- 
fully inventive age—pro-o-odigies of 
valor! By the by, did you ever hear 
about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?” 





704 


“Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; 
“please to go on with your story.” 

“Hem!—oh well!—quite Ja meme 
cho-o-ose, as we say in France. Smith, 
eh? Brigadier-General John A—B—C.? 
I say”—[here Mr. S. thought proper to 
put his finger to the side of his nose |— 
“IT say, you don’t mean to insinuate 
now, really and truly, and conscien- 
tiously, that you don’t know all about 
that affair of Smith’s, as well as I do, 
eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, 
bless me, he’s the ma-a-an 3, 

“Mr. Sinivate,’ said I, imploringly, 
“7s he the man in the mask?” 

“No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, ‘“‘nor 
the man in the mo-o-on.” 

This reply I considered a pointed and 
positive insult, and so left the house at 
once in high dudgeon, with a firm re- 
solve to call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, 
to a speedy account for his ungentle- 
manly conduct and ill-breeding. 

In the meantime, however, I had no 
notion of being thwarted touching the 
information I desired. There was one 
resource left me yet. I would go to 
the fountain-head. I would call forth- 
with upon the General himself, and de- 
mand, in explicit terms, a solution of 
this abominable piece of mystery. Here, 
at least, there should be no chance for 
equivocation. I would be plain, posi- 
tive, peremptory—as short as piecrust— 
as concise as Tacitus or Montesquieu. 

It was early when I called, and the 
General was dressing, but I pleaded 
urgent business, and was shown at once 
into his bedroom by an old negro valet, 
who remained in attendance during my 
visit. As I entered the chamber, I 
looked about, of course, for the occu- 
pant, but did not immediately perceive 
him. There was a large and exceed- 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ingly odd-looking bundle of something 
which lay close by my feet on the floor, 
and, as I was not in the best humor 
in the world, I gave it a kick out of the 
way. 

“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I 
should say!” said the bundle, in one 
of the smallest, and altogether the fun- 
niest little voices, between a squeak and 
a whistle, that I ever heard in all the 
days of my existence. 

“Ahem! rather civil that, I should ob- 
serve.” 

I fairly shouted with terror, and 
made off, at a tangent, into the far- 
thest extremity of the room. 

“God bless me, my dear fellow!” 
here again whistled the bundle, “what 
—what—what—why, what is the mat- 
ter? I really believe you don’t know 
me at all.” 

What could I say to all this—what 
could I? I staggered into an arm- 
chair, and, with staring eyes and open 
mouth, awaited the solution of the 
wonder. 

“Strange you shouldn’t know me 
though, isn’t it?” presently re-squeaked 
the nondescript, which I now perceived 
was performing upon the floor some 
inexplicable evolution, very analogous 
to the drawing on of a stocking. There 
was only a single leg, however, apparent. 

“Strange you shouldn’t know me 
though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring me 
that leg!” Here Pompey handed the 
bundle a very capital cork leg, already 
dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; 
and then it stood up before my eyes. 

“And a bloody action it was,” con- 
tinued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; 
“but then one mustn’t fight with the 
Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of 
coming off with a mere scratch. Pom- 














THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP 705 


pey, I'll thank you now for that arm. 
Thomas” [turning to me] “is decidedly 
the best hand at a cork leg; but if you 
should ever want an arm, my dear fel- 
low, you must really let me recommend 
you to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed 
on an arm. | 

“We had rather hot work of it, that 
you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my 
shoulders and bosom. Pettit makes the 
best shoulders, but for a bosom you will 
have to go to Ducrow.” 

“Bosom!” said Tf. 

“Pompey, will you. never be ready 
with that wig? Scalping is a rough 
process, after all; but then you can 
procure such a capital scratch at De 
L’Orme’s.” 

ocratcns 

“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a 
good set of these you had better go 
to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but 
excellent work. I swallowed some very 
capital articles, though, when the big 
Bugaboo rammed me down with the 
butt end of his rifle.” 

“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!” 

“Q yes, by the by, my eye—here, 
Pompey, you scamp, screw it in! Those 
Kickapoos are not so very slow at a 
gouge; but he’s a belied man, that Dr. 
Williams, after all; you can’t imagine 
how well I see with the eyes of his 
make.” 

I now began very clearly to perceive 
that the object before me was nothing 
more nor less than my new acquaint- 
ance, Brevet Brigadier-General John A. 
B. C. Smith. The manipulations of 
Pompey had made, I must confess, a 
very striking difference in the personal 
appearance of the man. The voice, 
however, still puzzled me no little; but 


even this apparent mystery was speedily 
cleared up. 

“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked 
the General, “I really do believe you 
would let me go out without my 
palate.” 

Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out 
an apology, went up to his master, 
opened his mouth with the knowing 
air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted 
therein a somewhat  singular-looking 
machine, in a very dexterous manner, 
that I could not altogether comprehend. 
The alteration, however, in the entire 
expression of the General’s countenance 
was instantaneous and surprising. When 
he again spoke, his voice had resumed 
all that rich melody and strength which 
IT had noticed upon our original intro- 
duction. 

“D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in 
so clear a tone that I positively started 
at the change, ‘““D—n the vagabonds! 
they not only knocked in the roof of 
my mouth, but took the trouble to cut 
off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. 
There isn’t Bonfanti’s equal, however, 
in America, for really good articles of 
this description. I can recommend you 
to him with confidence,” [here the Gen- 
eral bowed,| “and assure you that I 
have the greatest pleasure in so doing.” 

I acknowledged his kindness in my 
best manner, and took leave of him at 
once, with a perfect understanding of 
the true state of affairs—with a full 
comprehension of the mystery which 
had troubled me so long. It was evi- 
dent. It was a clear case. Brevet 
Brigadier-General John A. B. C. Smith 
was the man—was the man that was 
used up. 


The Business Man 


(First published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, February, 1840. The Business 
Man is also known as Peter Pendulum.—Ed.) 


Method is the soul of business. 
—OLpD SAYING. 


I AM a business man. I am a me- 
thodical man. Method is the thing, 
afterall. But there are no people I more 
heartily despise than your eccentric 
fools who prate about method without 
understanding it; attending strictly to 
its letter, and violating its spirit. These 
fellows are always doing the most out- 
of-the-way things in what they call an 
orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, 
is a positive paradox. True method 
appertains to the ordinary and the 
obvious alone, and cannot be applied 
to the outre. What definite idea can 
a body attach to such expressions as 
“methodical Jack o’ Dandy,” or “a 
systematical Will o’ the Wisp?” 

My notions upon this head might not 
have been so clear as they are, but 
for a fortunate accident which hap- 
pened to me when I was a very little 
boy. <A good-hearted old Irish nurse 
(whom I shall not forget in my will) 
took me up one day by the heels, when 
I was making more noise than was 
necessary, and swinging me round two 
or three times, “d d my eyes for a 
skreeking little spalpeen,” and then 
knocked my head into a cocked hat 
against the bedpost. This, I say, de- 
cided my fate, and made my fortune. 
A bump arose at once on my sinciput, 
and turned out to be as pretty an organ 
of order as one shall see on a summer’s 
day. Hence that positive appetite for 





706 


system and regularity which has made 
me the distinguished man of business 
that I am. 

If there is any thing on earth I hate, 
it is a genius. Your geniuses are all 
arrant asses—the greater the genius the 
greater the ass—and to this rule there 
is no exception whatever. Especially, 
you cannot make a man of business out 
of a genius, any more than money out 
of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of 
pine-knots. The creatures are always 
going off at a tangent into some fan- 
tastic employment, or ridiculous specu- 
lation, entirely at variance with the “fit- 
ness of things,’ and having no business 
whatever to be considered as a business 
at all. Thus you may tell these charac- 
ters immediately by the nature of their 
occupations. If you ever perceive a 
man setting up as a merchant or a 
manufacturer; or going into the cotton 
or tobacco trade, or any of those eccen- 
tric pursuits; or getting to be a dry- 
goods dealer, or soap-boiler, or some- 
thing of that kind; or pretending to 
be a lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a 
physician—any thing out of the usual 
way—you may set him down at once 
as a genius, and then, according to the 
rule-of-three, he’s an ass. 

Now I am not in any respect a 
genius, but a regular business man. My 
day-book and ledger will evince this in 
a minute. They are well kept, thougk 
I say it myself; and, in my general 
habits of accuracy and punctuality, I 
am not to be beat by a clock. More- 





THE BUSINESS MAN 707 


over, my occupations have been always 
made to chime in with the ordinary 
habitudes of my fellow-men. Not that 
I feel the least indebted, upon this 
score, to my exceedingly weak-minded 
parents, who, beyond doubt, would have 
made an arrant genius of me at last, 
if my guardian angel had not come, in 
good time, to the rescue. In biography 
the truth is every thing, and in auto- 
biography it is especially so—yet I 
scarcely hope to be believed when I 
state, however solemnly, that my poor 
father put me, when I was about fif- 
teen years of age, into the counting- 
house of what he termed “a respectable 
hardware and commission merchant 
doing a capital bit of business!” <A 
capital bit of fiddlestick! However, 
_ the consequence of this folly was, that 
_ in two or three days, I had to be sent 
home to my button-headed family in 
a high state of fever, and with a most 
violent and dangerous pain in the sinci- 
put, all round about my organ of order. 
It was nearly a gone case with me then 
—just touch-and-go for six weeks—the 
physicians giving me up and all that 
sort of thing. But, although I suffered 
much, I was a thankful boy in the 
main. I was saved from being a 
“respectable hardware and commission 
merchant, doing a capital bit of busi- 
ness,’ and I felt grateful to~the pro- 
tuberance which had been the means 
of my salvation, as well as to the kind- 
hearted female who had originally put 
these means within my reach. 

The most of boys run away from 
home at ten or twelve years of age, 
but I waited till I was sixteen. I 
don’t know that I should have gone 
even then, if I had not happened to 
hear my old mother talk about setting 


me up on my own hook in the grocery 
way. The grocery way!—only think of 
that! I resolved to be off forthwith, 
and try and establish myself in some 
decent occupation, without dancing at- 
tendance any longer upon the caprices 
of these eccentric old people, and run- 
ning the risk of being made a genius 
of in the end. In this project I suc- 
ceeded perfectly well at the first effort, 
and by the time I was fairly eighteen, 
found myself doing an extensive and 
profitable business in the Tailor’s Walk- 
ing Advertisement line. 

I was enabled to discharge the oner- 
ous duties of this profession, only by 
that rigid adherence to system which 
formed the leading feature of my mind. 
A scrupulous method characterized my 
actions as well as my accounts. In 
my case, it was method—not money— 
which made the man—at least all of 
him that was not made by the tailor 
whom I served. At nine, every morn- 
ing, I called upon that individual for 
the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock 
found me in some fashionable prom- 
enade or other place of public amuse- 
ment. The precise regularity with 
which I turned my handsome person 
about, so as to bring successively into 
view every portion of the suit upon 
my back, was the admiration of all the 
knowing men in the trade. Noon never 
passed without my bringing home a 
customer to the house of my employ- 
ers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say 
this proudly, but with tears in my eyes 
—for the firm proved themselves the 
basest of ingrates. The little account, 
about which we quarreled and finally 
parted, cannot, in any item, be thought 
overcharged, by gentlemen really con- 
versant with the nature of the business. 


708 


Upon this point, however, I feel a 
degree of proud satisfaction in permit- 
ting the reader to judge for himself. 
My bill ran thus: 


Messrs. Cut & CoMEAGAIN, 
Merchant Tailors. 
To PETER Prorrit, Walking Advertiser, 





Drs. 
July 10—To promenade, as usual 
and customer brought home. .$ .25 
July 11—To do do~— do .25 
July 12—To one lie, second 
class; damaged black cloth 
sold for invisible green...... 225 
July 13.—To one lie, first class, 
extra quality and size; recom- 


mending milled satinet as 
DIOMCUCIOLINs tuens oetecte tte Sat Hib, 
July 20—To purchasing bran- 
new paper shirt collar or 
dickey, to set off gray Peter- 
SHAG ban clare eee er acter eee 02 


Aug. 13—To wearing double- 
padded bobtail frock, (ther- 
mometer 106 in the shade,).. .25 

Aug. 16.—Standing on one leg 
three hours, to show off new- 
style strapped pants at 12% 


cents per leg per hour...... 37% 
Aug. 17.—To promenade, as 

usual, and large customer 

brought (fat man)......... 50 
Aug. 18—To do do do 

(OSECIURT SIZe) stance ae ot a oe OS 


Aug. 19—To do do do 
(small man and bad pay)... .06 


$2.95%4 


The item chiefly disputed in this bill 
was the very moderate charge of two 
pennies for the dickey. Upon my word 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of honor, this was not an unreasonable 
price for that dickey. It was one of 
the cleanest and prettiest little dickeys 
I ever saw; and I have good reason 
to believe that it effected the sale of 
three Petershams. The elder partner 
of the firm, however, would allow me 
only one penny of the charge, and took 
it upon himself to show in what man- 
ner four of the same-sized conveni- 
ences could be got out of a sheet of 
foolscap. But it is needless to say 
that I stood upon the principle of the 
thing. Business is business, and should 
be done in a business way. ‘There was 
no system whatever in swindling me 
out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty 
per cent.—no method in any respect. 
I left at once the employment of 
Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, and set up 
in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one 
of the most lucrative, respectable, and 
independent of the ordinary occupa- 
tions. 

My strict integrity, economy, and 
rigorous business habits, here again 
came into play. I found myself driv- 
ing a flourishing trade, and soon became 
a marked man upon “Change.” ‘The 
truth is, I never dabbled in flashy mat- 
ters, but jogged on in the good old 
sober routine of the calling—a calling 
in which I should, no doubt, have 
remained to the present hour, but for 
a little accident which happened to me 
in the prosecution of one of the usual 
business operations of the profession. 


‘Whenever a rich old hunks or prodigal 


heir or bankrupt corporation gets into 
the notion of putting up a palace, there 
is no such thing in the world as stop- 
ping either of them, and this every 
intelligent person knows. The fact in 
question is indeed the basis of the Eye- 








THE BUSINESS MAN 


Sore trade. As soon, therefore, as a 
building project is fairly afoot by one 
of these parties, we merchants secure 
a nice corner of the lot in contempla- 
tion, or a prime little situation just 
adjoining, or right in front. This done, 
we wait until the palace is half-way 
up, and then we pay some tasty archi- 
tect to run us up an ornamental mud 
hovel, right against it; or a Down- 
East or Dutch pagoda, or a pig-sty, 
or an ingenious little bit of fancy work, 
either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hotten- 
tot. Of course we can’t afford to take 
these structures down under a bonus 
of five hundred per cent. upon the 
prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can 
wer I ask the question. I ask it of 
business men. It would be irrational 
to suppose that we can. And yet there 
was a rascally corporation which asked 
me to do this very thing—this very 
thing! I did not reply to their absurd 
proposition, of course; but I felt it. a 
duty to go that same night, and lamp- 
black the whole of their palace. For 
this the unreasonable villains clapped 
me into jail; and the gentlemen of the 
Eye-Sore trade could not well avoid 
cutting my connection when I came 
out. 

The Assault-and-Battery business, 
into which I was now forced to adven- 
ture for a livelihood, was somewhat 
ill-adapted to the delicate nature of my 
constitution; but I went to work in it 
with a good heart, and found my ac- 
count here, as heretofore, in those stern 
habits of methodical accuracy which 
had been thumped into me by that 
delightful old nurse—I would indeed 
be the basest of men not to remember 
her well in my will. By observing, as 
I say, the strictest system in all my 


709 


dealings, and keeping a well-regulated 
set of books, I was enabled to get 
over many serious difficulties, and, in 
the end, to establish myself very de- 
cently in the profession. The truth 
is, that few individuals, in any line, 
did a snugger little business than I. 
I will just copy a page or so out of 
my day-book; and this will save me the 
necessity of blowing my own trumpet 
—a contemptible practice of which no 
high-minded man will be guilty. Now, 
the day-book is a thing that don’t lie. 

“Jan. 1—New Year’s Day. Met 
Snap in the street, groggy. Mem—he’ll 
do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind 
drunk. Mem—he’ll answer, too. En- 
tered both gentlemen in my ledger, and 
opened a running account with each. 

“Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, 
and went up and trod on his toe. Dou- 
bled his fist and knocked me down. 
Good!—got up again. Some trifling 
difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I 
want the damages at a thousand, but 
he says that for so simple a knock- 
down we can’t lay them at more than 
five hundred. Mem—must get rid of 
Bag—no system at all. 

“Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to 
look for Gruff. Saw him sitting in a 
side box, in the second tier, between 
a fat lady and a lean one. Quizzed 
the whole party through an opera-glass, 
till I saw the fat lady blush and whis- 
per to G. Went round, then, into the 
box, and put my nose within reach of 
his hand. Wouldn’t pull it—no go. 
Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat 
down then, and winked at the lean 
lady, when I had the high satisfaction 
of finding him lift me up by the nape 
of the neck, and fling me over into 
the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg 


710 


capitally splintered. Went home in 
high glee, drank a bottle of champagne, 
and booked the young man for five 
thousand. Bag says it’ll do. 

“Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of 
Mr. Snap. Amount entered in journal 
—fifty cents—which see. 

“Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, 
Gruff, who made me a present of five 
dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and 
twenty-five cents. Net  profit,—see 
journal,—seventy-five cents.” 

Now, here is a clear gain, in a very 
brief period, of no less than one dollar 
and twenty-five cents—this is in the 
mere cases of Snap and Gruff; and I 
solemnly assure the reader that these 
extracts are taken at random from my 
day-book. 

It’s an old saying, and a true one, 
however, that money is nothing in com- 
parison with health. I found the exac- 
tions of the profession somewhat too 
much for my delicate state of body; 
and, discovering, at last, that I was 
knocked all out of shape, so that I 
didn’t know very well what to make 
of the matter, and so that my friends, 
when they met me in the street, couldn’t 
tell that I was Peter Proffit at all, it 
occurred to me that the best expedient 
I could adopt was to alter my line of 
business. I turned my attention, there- 
fore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued 
it for some years. 

The worst of this occupation is, that 
too many people take a fancy to it, 
and the competition is in consequence 
excessive. Every ignoramus of a fel- 
low who finds that he hasn’t brains in 
sufficient quantity to make his way as 
a walking advertiser, or an eye-sore 
prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, 
of course, that he’ll answer very well 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


as a dabbler of mud. But there never 
was entertained a more erroneous idea 
than that it requires no brains to mud- 
dabble. Especially, there is nothing to 
be made in this way without method. 
I did only a retail business myself, but 
my old habits of system carried me 
swimmingly along. JI selected my 
street-crossing, in the first place, with 
great deliberation, and I never put 
down a broom in any part of the town 
but that. I took care, too, to have a 
nice little puddle at hand, which I 
could get at in a minute. By these 
means I got to be well known as a man 
to be trusted; and this is one-half the 
battle, let me tell you, in trade. No- 
body ever failed to pitch me a copper, 
and got over my crossing with a clean 
pair of pantaloons. And, as my busi- 
ness habits, in this respect, were suffi- 
ciently understood, I never met with 
any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t 
have put up with it, if I had. Never 
imposing upon any one myself, I suf- 
fered no one to play the possum with 
me. The frauds of the banks of course 
I couldn’t help. Their suspension put 
me to ruinous inconvenience. These, 
however, are not individuals, but cor- 


porations; and corporations, it is very 


well known, have neither bodies to be 
kicked nor souls to be damned. 

I was making money at this business 
when, in an evil moment, I was induced 
to merge in the Cur-Spattering—a 
somewhat analogous, but, by no means, 
so respectable a profession. My loca- 
tion, to be sure, was an excellent one, 
being central, and I had capital black- 
ing and brushes. My little dog, too, 
was quite fat and up to all varieties 
of snuff. He had been in the trade a 
long time, and, I may say, understooc 








THE BUSINESS MAN 


it. Our general routine was this:— 
Pompey, having rolled himself well in 
the mud, sat upon end at the shop door, 
until he observed a dandy approaching 
in bright boots. He then proceeded to 
meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a 
rub or two with his wool. Then the 
dandy swore very much, and looked 
about for a boot-black. There I was, 
full in his view, with blacking and 
brushes. It was only a minute’s work, 
and then came a sixpence. This did 
moderately well for a time;—in fact, 
I was not avaricious, but my dog was. 
I allowed him a third of the profit, but 
he was advised to insist upon _ half. 
This I couldn’t stand—so we quarrelled 
and parted. 

I next tried my hand at the Organ- 
Grinding for a while, and may say that 
I made out pretty well. It is a plain, 
straightforward business, and requires 
no particular abilities. You can get a 
music-mill for a mere song, and to put 
it in order, you have but to open the 
works, and give them three or four 
smart raps with a hammer. It im- 
proves the tone of the thing, for busi- 
ness purposes, more than you can 
imagine. This done, you have only to 
stroll along, with the mill on your back, 
until you see tanbark in the street, and 
a knocker v-apped up in_ buckskin. 
Then you stop and grind; looking as 
if you meant to stop and grind till 
doomsday. Presently a window opens, 
and somebody pitches you a sixpence, 
with a request to “Hush up and go on,” 
etc. I am aware that some grinders have 
actually afforded to ‘“‘go on” for this 
sum; but for my part, I found the neces- 
sary outlay of capital too great to per- 
mit of my “going on” under a shilling. 

At this occupation I did a good deal; 


711 


but, somehow, I was not quite satisfied, 
and so finally abandoned it. The truth 
is, I labored under the disadvantage of 
having no monkey—and American 
streets are so muddy, and a Democratic 
rabble is so obstrusive, and so full of 
demnition mischievous little boys. 

I was now out of employment for 
some months, but at length succeeded, 
by dint of great interest, in procuring 
a situation in the Sham-Post. The 
duties, here, are simple, and not alto- 
gether unprofitable. For example:— 
very early in the morning I had to 
make up my packet of sham letters. 
Upon the inside of each of these I had 
to scrawl a few lines—on any subject 
which occurred to me as sufficiently 
mysterious—signing all the epistles 
Tom Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or 
anything in that way. Having folded 
and sealed all, and stamped them with 
sham postmarks—New Orleans, Ben- 
gal, Botany Bay, or any other place a 
great way off—I set out, forthwith, 
upon my daily route, as if in a very 
great hurry. I always called at the big 
houses to deliver the letters. and re- 
ceive the postage. Nobody hesitates 
at paying for a letter—especially for a 
double one—people are such fools— 
and it was no trouble to get round a 
corner before there was time to open 
the epistles. The worst of this pro- 
fession was, that I had to walk so much 
and so fast; and so frequently to vary 
my route. Besides, I had _ serious 
scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to 
hear innocent individuals abused—and 
the way the whole town took to cursing 
Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was 
really awful to hear. I washed my 
hands of the matter in disgust. 

My eighth and last speculation has 


712 


been in the Cat-Growing way. I have 
found this a most pleasant and lucra- 
tive business, and, really, no trouble 
at all. The country, it is well known, 
has become infested with cats—so much 
so of late, that a petition for relief, 
most numerously and _ respectably 
signed, was brought before the Legis- 
lature at its late memorable session. 
The Assembly, at this epoch, was un- 
usually well-informed, and, having 
passed many other wise and wholesome 
enactments, it crowned all with the 
Cat-Act. In its original form, this law 
offered a premium for cat-heads (four- 
pence a-piece), but the Senate suc- 
ceeded in amending the main clause, so 
as to substitute the word “tails” for 
“heads.” This amendment was so 
obviously proper, that the House con- 
curred in it mem. con. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


As soon as the governor had signed 
the bill, I invested my whole estate in 
the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At 
first I could only afford to feed them 
upon mice (which are cheap), but they 
fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so 
marvellous a rate, that I at length con- 
sidered it my best policy to be liberal, 
and so indulged them in oysters and 
turtle. Their tails, at a_ legislative 
price, now bring me in a good income; 
for I have discovered a way, in which, 
by means of Mamassar oil, I can force 
three crops in a year. It delights me 
to find, too, that the animals soon get 
accustomed to the thing, and would 
rather have the appendages cut off than 
otherwise. I consider myself, there- 
fore, a made man, and am bargaining 
for a country-seat on the Hudson. 


Diddling 


CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES 


(Published in Broadway Journal, Vol. 2:10.—Ed.) 


Hey, diddle diddle, 
The cat and the fiddle. 


Since the world began there have 
been two Jeremys. The one wrote a 
Jeremiad about usury, and was called 
Jeremy Bentham. He has been much 
admired by Mr. John Neal, and was 
a great man in a small way. The other 
gave name to the most important of 
the Exact Sciences, and was a great 
man in a great way—I may say, in- 
deed, in the very greatest of ways. 

Diddling—or the abstract idea con- 


veyed by the verb to diddle—is suffi. 
ciently well understood. Yet the fact, 
the deed, the thing diddling, is -some- 
what difficult to define. We may get, 
however, at a tolerably distinct con- 
ception of the matter in hand, by de- 
fining—not the thing diddling in itself 
—but man. as an animal that diddles. 
Had Plato but hit upon this, he would 
have been spared the affront of the 
picked chicken. 

Very pertinently it was demanded of 
Plato why a picked chicken, which was 
clearly ‘‘a biped without feathers,” was 





DIDDLING 


not, according to his own definition, a 
man? But I am not to be bothered 
by any similar query. Man is an ani- 
mal that diddles, and there is no ani- 
mal that diddles but man. It will take 
an entire hen-coop of picked chickens 
to get over that. 

What constitutes the essence, the 
nare, the principle of diddling is, in 
fact, peculiar to the class of creatures 
that wear coats and pantaloons. A 
crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel 
outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is 
his destiny. “Man was ‘made to 
mourn,” says the poet. But not so:— 
he was made to diddle. This is his 
aim—his. object—his end. And for 
this reason when a man’s diddled we 
say he’s “done.” 

Diddling, rightly considered, is a 
compound, of which the ingredients are 
minaiteness, interest, perseverance, in- 
genuity, audacity, nonchalance, original- 
ity, impertinence, and grin. 

Minuteness:—Your diddler is mi- 
nute. His operations are upon a small 
scale. His business is retail, for cash, 
or approved paper at sight. Should he 
ever be tempted into magnificent spec- 
nlation, he then, at once, loses his dis- 
tinctive features, and becomes what we 
term “financier.” This latter word con- 
veys the diddling idea in every respect 
except that of magnitude. A diddler 
may thus be regarded as a banker in 
petto—a “financial operation,’ as a 
diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to 
the other, as Homer to “Flaccus”—as 
a Mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of 
a comet to that of a pig. 

Interest:—Your diddler is guided by 
self-interest. He scorns to diddle for 
the mere sake of the diddle. He has 
an object in view—his pocket—and 


713 
yours. He regards always the main 
chance. He looks to Number One. 


You are Number Two, and must look 
to yourself. 

Perseverance:—Your diddler perse- 
veres. He is not readily discouraged. 
Should even the banks break, he cares 
nothing about it. He steadily pursues 
his end, and 

Ut canis a corio nunquam abster- 
rebitur uncto. 
so he never lets go of his game. 

Ingenuity:—Your diddler is ingen- 
ious. He has constructiveness large. 
He understands plot. He invents and 
circumvents. Were he not Alexander 
he would be Diogenes. Were he not 
a diddler, he would be a maker of pat- 
ent rat-traps or an angler for trout. 

Audacity:—Your diddler is auda- 
cious.—He is a bold man. He carries 
the war into Africa. He conquers all 
by assault. He would not fear the 
daggers of Frey Herren. With a little 
more prudence Dick Turpin would have 
made a good diddler; with a trifle less 
blarney, Daniel O’Connell; with a 
pound or two more brains Charles the 
Twelfth. 

Nonchalance:—Your diddler is non- 
chalant. He is not at all nervous. He 
never had any nerves. He is never 
seduced into a flurry. He is never put 
out—unless put out of doors. He is 
cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm 
—‘calm as a smile from Lady Bury.” 
He is easy—easy as an old glove, or the 
damsels of ancient Baiz. 

Originality :—Your diddler is origina] 
—conscientiously so. His thoughts are 


his own. He would scorn to employ 
those of another. A stale trick is his 
aversion. He would return a purse, I 


714 


am sure, upon discovering that he had 
obtained it by an unoriginal diddle. 

Impertinence:—Your diddler is im- 
pertinent. He swaggers. He sets his 
arms a-kimbo. He thrusts his hands in 
his trowsers’ pockets. He sneers in your 
face. He treads on your corns. He 
eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, 
he borrows your money, he pulls your 
nose, he kicks your poodle, and he 
kisses ‘your wife. 

Grin:—Your true diddler winds up 
all with a grin. But this nobody sees 
but himself. He grins when his daily 
work is done—when his allotted labors 
are accomplished—at night in his own 
closet, and altogether for his own pri- 
vate entertainment. He goes home. 
He locks his door. He divests himself 
of his clothes. He puts out his candle. 
He gets into bed. He places his head 
upon the pillow. All this done, and 
your diddler grins. This is no hypothe- 
sis. It is a matter of course. I reason 
a priori, and a diddle would be no did- 
dle without a grin. 

The origin of the diddle is referrable 
to the infancy of the Human Race. 
Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. 
At all events, we can trace the science 
back to a very remote period of an; 
tiquity. The moderns, however, have 
brought it to a _ perfection never 
dreamed of by our thick-headed pro- 
genitors. Without pausing to speak of 
the “old saws,” therefore, I shall con- 
tent myself with a compendious ac- 
count of some of the more “modern 
instances.” 

A very good diddle is this. A house- 
keeper in want of a sofa, for instance, 
is seen to go in and out of several cab- 
inet warehouses. At length she arrives 
at one offering an excellent variety. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PUK 


She is accosted, and invited to enter, 
by a polite and voluble individual at 
the door. She finds a sofa well adapted 
to her views, and upon inquiring the 
price, is surprised and delighted to hear 
a sum named at least twenty per cent. 
lower than her expectations. She has- 
tens to make the purchase, gets a bill 
and receipt, leaves her address, with a 
request that the article be sent home as 
speedily as possible, and retires amid a 
profusion of bows from the shop- 
keeper. The night arrives and no sofa. 
A servant is sent to make inquiry about 
the delay. The whole transaction is 
denied. No sofa has been sold—no 
money received—except by the diddler, 
who played shop-keeper for the nonce. 

Our cabinet warehouses are left en- 
tirely unattended, and thus afford every 
facility for a trick of this kind. Visi- 
tors enter, look at furniture, and depart. 
unheeded and unseen. Should any one 
wish to purchase, or to inquire the price 
of an article, a bell is at hand, and this 
is considered amply sufficient. 

Again, quite a respectable diddle is 
this. A well-dressed individual enters 
a shop; makes a purchase to the value 
of a dollar; finds, much to his vexation, 
that he has left his pocket-book in 
another coat pocket; and so says to 
the shopkeeper— 

“My dear sir, never mind! just oblige 
me, will you, by sending the bundle 
home? But stay! I really believe 
that I have nothing less than a five 
dollar bill, even there. However, you 
can send four dollars in change with 
the bundle, you know.” 

“Very good, sir,’ replies the shop~ 
keeper, who entertains, at once, a lofty 
opinion of the high-mindedness of his 
customer. “I know fellows,’ he says 




















DIDDLING 


to himself, “who would just have put 
the goods under their arm, and walked 
off with a promise to call and pay the 
dollar as they came by in the after- 
noon.” 

A boy is sent with the parcel and 
change. On the route, quite acciden- 
tally, he is met by the purchaser, who 
exclaims: 

“Ah! this is my bundle, I see—I 
thought you had been home with it, 
long ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. 
Trotter, will give you the five dollars— 
I left instructions with her to that 
effect. The change you might as well 
give to me—I shall want some silver 
for the Post Office. Very good! One, 
two, is this a good quarter?—three, 
four—quite right! Say to Mrs. Trot- 
ter that you met me, and be sure now 
and do not loiter on the way.” 

The boy doesn’t loiter at all—but he 
is a very long time in getting back from 
his errand—for no lady of the precise 
name of Mrs. Trotter is to be dis- 
covered. He consoles himself, how- 
ever, that he has not been such a fool 
as to leave the goods without the 
money, and re-entering his shop with a 
self-satisfied air, feels sensibly hurt and 
indignant when his master asks him 
what has become of the change. 

A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. 
The captain of a ship, which is about 
to sail, is presented by an official look- 
ing person with an unusually moderate 
bill of city charges. Glad to get off 
so easily, and confused by a hundred 
duties pressing upon him all at once, 
he discharges the claim forthwith. In 
about fifteen minutes, another and less 
reasonable bill is handed him by one 
who soon makes it evident that the first 


715 


collector was a diddler, and the original 
collection a diddle. 

And here, too, is a somewhat similar 
thing. A steamboat is casting loose 
from the wharf. A traveller, port- 
manteau in hand, is discovered running 
toward the wharf, at full speed. Sud- 
denly, he makes a dead halt, stoops, 
and picks up something from the 
ground in a very agitated manner. It 
is a pocket-book, and—“Has any gen- 
tleman lost a pocket-book?” he cries. 
No one can say that he has exactly 
lost a pocketbook; but a great excite- 
ment ensues, when the treasure trove is 
found to be of value. The boat, how- 
ever, must not be detained. 

“Time and tide wait for no man,” 
says the captain. 

“For God’s sake, stay only a few 
minutes,” says the finder of the book— 
“the true claimant will presently 
appear.” 

“Can’t wait!” replies the man in 
authority; “‘cast off there, d’ye hear?” 

“What am I to do?” asks the finder, 
in great tribulation. “I am about to 
leave the country for some years, and 
I cannot conscientiously retain this 
large amount in my possession. I beg 
your pardon, sir,” [here he addresses a 
gentleman on shore,| “but you have 
the air of an honest man. Will you 
confer upon me the favor of taking 
charge of this pocket-book—I know I 
can trust you—and of advertising it? 
The notes, you see, amount to a very 
considerable sum. The owner will, no 
doubt, insist upon rewarding you for 
your trouble—” 

“Me!—no, you!—it was you who 
found the book.” 

“Well, if you must have it so—/ will 
take a small reward—just to satisfy 


716 


your scruples. Let me see—why these 
notes are all hundreds—bless my soul! 
a hundred is too much to take—fifty 
would be quite enough, I am sure—” 

“Cast off there!” says the captain. 

“But then I have no change for a 
hundred, and upon the whole, you had 
better—” 

“Cast off there!” says the captain. 

“Never mind!” cries the gentleman 
on shore, who has been examining his 
own pocket-book for the last minute or 
so—‘‘never mind! J can fix it—here 
is a fifty on the Bank of North Amer- 
ica—throw me the book.” 

And the  over-conscientious finder 
takes the fifty with marked reluctance, 
and throws the gentleman the book, as 
desired, while the steamboat fumes and 
fizzes on her way. In about half an 
hour after her departure, the “large 
amount” is seen to be a “counterfeit 
presentment,” and the whole thing a 
capital diddle. 

A bold diddle is this. A camp-meet- 
ing, or something similar, is to be held 
at a certain spot which is accessible 
only by means of a free bridge. A did- 
dler stations himself upon this bridge, 
respectfully informs all passers by of 
the new county law, which establishes 
a toll of one cent for foot passengers, 
two for horses and donkeys, and so 
forth, and so forth. Some grumble but 
all submit, and the diddler goes home a 
wealthier man by some fifty or sixty 
dollars well earned. This taking a toll 
from a great crowd of people is an 
excessively troublesome thing. 

A neat diddle is this. A friend holds 
one of the diddler’s promises to pay, 
filled up and signed in due form, upon 
the ordinary blanks printed in red ink. 
The diddler purchases one or two dozen 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of these blanks, and every day dips one 
of them in his soup, makes his dog jump 
for it, and finally gives it to him as 
a bonne bouche. The note arriving at 
maturity, the diddler, with the diddler’s 
dog, calls upon the friend, and the 
promise to pay is made the topic of 
discussion. The friend produces it from 
his escritoire, and is in the act of reach- 
ing it to the diddier, when up jumps 
the diddler’s dog and devours it forth- 
with. The diddler is not only surprised 
but vexed and incensed at the absurd 
behavior of his dog, and expresses his 
entire readiness to cancel the obligation 
at any moment when the evidence of 
the obligation shall be forthcoming. 

A very mean diddle is this. A lady 
is insulted in the street by a diddler’s 
accomplice. The diddler himself flies 
to her assistance, and, giving his friend 
a comfortable thrashing, insists upon 
attending the lady to her own door. 
He bows, with his hand upon his heart, 
and most respectfully bids her adieu. 
She entreats him, as her deliverer, to 
walk in and be introduced to her big 
brother and her papa. With a sigh, he 
declines to do so. “Is there no way, 
then, sir,” she murmurs, “in’ which I 
may be permitted to testify my grat- 
itude?” 

“Why, yes, madam, there is. Will 
you be kind enough to lend me a couple 
of shillings?” 

In the first excitement of the mo- 
ment the lady decides upon fainting 
outright. Upon second thought, how- 
ever, she opens her purse-strings and 
delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is 
a diddle minute—for one entire moiety 
of the sum borrowed has to be paid to 
the gentleman who had the trouble of 
performing the insult, and who had 




















DIDDLING 717 


then to stand still and be thrashed for 
performing it. 

Rather a small, but still a scientific 
diddle is this. The diddler approaches 
the bar of a tavern, and demands a 
couple of twists of tobacco. These are 
handed to him, when, having slightly 
examined them, he says: 

“T don’t much like this tobacco. 
_ Here, take it back, and give me a glass 
_ of brandy and water in its place.” 
The brandy and water is furnished 
and imbibed, and the diddler makes his 
way to the door. But the voice of the 
tavern-keeper arrests him. 

“T believe, sir, you have forgotten to 
pay for your brandy and water.” 

“Pay for my brandy and water!— 
didn’t I give you the tobacco for the 
brandy and water? What more would 
you have?” 

“But, sir, if you please, I don’t re- 
member that you paid me for the to- 
bacco.” 

“What do you mean by that, you 
scoundrelPp—Didn’t I give you back 
your tobacco? Isn’t that your tobacco 
lying there? Do you expect me to pay 
for what I did not take?” 

“But, sir,’ says the publican, now 
rather at a loss what to say, “but 
sir—” 

“But me no buts, sir,’ interrupts the 
diddler, apparently in very high dud- 
geon, and slamming the door after him, 
as he makes his escape.—‘But me no 
buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon 
travellers.” 

Here again is a very clever diddle, 
of which the simplicity is not its’ least 
recommendation. A purse, or pocket- 
book, being really lost, the loser inserts 
in one of the daily papers of a large 
sity a fully descriptive advertisement. 


Whereupon our diddler copies the 
facts of this advertisement, with a 
change of heading, of general phrase- 
ology and address. The original, for 
instance, is long, and verbose, is headed 
“A Pocket-Book Lost!” and requires 
the treasure, when found, to be left at 
No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief, 
and being headed with “Lost” only, in- 
dicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry 
Street, as the locality in which the 
owner may be seen. Moreover, it is 
inserted in at least five or six of the 
daily papers of the day, while in point 
of time, it makes its appearance only a 
few hours after the original. Should it | 
be read by the loser of the purse, he 
would hardly suspect it to have any 
reference to his own misfortune. But, 
of course, the chances are five or six 
to one, that the finder will repair to 
the address given by the diddler, rather 
than to that pointed out by the rightful 
proprietor. ‘The former pays the re- 
ward, pockets the treasure and de- 
camps. 

Quite an analogous diddle is this. A 
lady of ton has dropped, some where in 
the street, a diamond ring of very un- 
usual value. For its recovery, she offers 
some forty or fifty dollars reward— 
giving, in her advertisement, a very 
minute description of the gem, and of 
its settings, and declaring that, on its 
restoration at No. so and so, in such 
and such Avenue, the reward would be 
paid instanter, without a single question 
being asked. During the lady’s absence 
from home, a day or two afterwards, 
a ring is heard at the door of No. so 
and so, in such and such Avenue; a 
servant appears; the lady of the house 
is asked for and is declared to be out, 
at which astounding information, the 


718 


visitor expresses the most poignant re- 
gret. His business is of importance 
and concerns the lady herself. 
he had the good fortune to find her 
diamond ring. But perhaps it would 
be as well that he should call again. 
“By no means!” says the servant; and 
“By no means!” says the lady’s sister 
and the lady’s sister-in-law, who are 
summoned forthwith. The ring is 
clamourously identified, the reward is 
paid, and the finder nearly thrust out 
of doors. The lady returns and ex- 
presses some little dissatisfaction with 
her sister and sister-in-law, because 
- they happen to have paid forty or fifty 
dollars for a fac-simile of her diamond 
ring—a fac-simile made out of real 
pinch-beck and unquestionable paste. 
But as there is really no end to did- 
dling, so there would be none to this 
essay, were I even to hint at half the 
variations, inflections, of which this 
science is susceptible. I must bring 
this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, 
and this I cannot do better than by a 
summary notice of a very decent, but 
rather elaborate diddle, of which our 
own city was made the theatre, not 
very long ago, and which was subse- 
quently repeated with success, in other 
still more verdant localities of the 
Union. A middle-aged gentleman ar- 
rives in town from parts unknown. He 
is remarkably precise, cautious, staid, 
and deliberate in his demeanor. His 
dress is scrupulously neat, but plain, 
unostentatious. He wears a_ white 
cravat, an ample waist-coat, made with 
an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled 
cosy-looking shoes, and _ pantaloons 
without straps. He has the whole air, 
in fact, of your well-to-do, sober-sided, 
exact, and respectable “man of busi- 


Infact? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ness,” par excellence—one of the stern 
and outwardly hard, internally soft, 
sort of people that we see in the crack 
high comedies—fellows whose words 
are so many bonds, and who are noted 
for giving away guineas, in charity, 
with the one hand, while, in the way of 
mere bargain, they exact the utter- 
most fraction of a farthing with the 
other. 

He makes much ado before he can 
get suited with a boarding-house. He 
dislikes children. He has been accus- 
tomed to quiet. His habits are me- 
thodical—and then he would prefer 
getting into a private and respectable 
small family, piously inclined. Terms, 
however, are no object—only he must. 
insist upon settling his bill on the first 
of every month, (it is now the second) 
and begs his landlady, when he finally 
obtains one to his mind, not on any 
account to forget his instructions upon 
this point—but to send in a bill, and 
receipt, precisely at ten o’clock on the 
first day of every month, and under no 
circumstances to put it off to the 
second. 

These arrangements made, our man 
of business rents an office in a reputable 
rather than a fashionable quarter of 
the town. There is nothing he more 
despises than pretense. ‘‘Where there 
is much show,” he says, “there is sel- 
dom any thing very solid behind”—an 
observation which so profoundly im- 
presses his landlady’s fancy, that she 
makes a pencil memorandum of it 
forthwith, in her great family Bible, on 
the broad margin of the Proverbs of 
Solomon. 

The next step is to advertise, after 
some such fashion as this, in the prin- 
cipal business six-pennies of the city— 














DIDDLING 


the pennies are eschewed as not “re- 
spectable’—and as demanding pay- 
ment for all advertisements in advance. 
Our man of business holds it as a point 
of his faith that work should never be 
paid for until done. 

“WANTED.—The advertisers, being 
about to commence extensive business 
operations in this city, will require the 
services of three or four intelligent and 
competent clerks, to whom a liberal 
salary will be paid. The very best rec- 
ommendations, not so much for capac- 
ity, as for integrity, will be expected. 
Indeed, as the duties to be performed, 
involve high responsibilities, and large 
amounts of money must necessarily 
pass through the hands of those en- 
gaged, it is deemed advisable to de- 
mand a deposit of fifty dollars from 
each clerk employed. No person need 
apply, therefore, who is not prepared 
to leave this sum in the possession of 
the advertisers, and who cannot furnish 
the most satisfactory testimonials of 
morality. Young gentlemen piously in- 
clined will be preferred. Application 
should be made between the hours of 
ten and eleven a. m., and four and 
five p. m., of Messrs. 

“Bocs, Hocs, Locs, Frocs & Co., 

“No. 110 Dog Street.” 


By the thirty-first day of the month, 
this advertisement has brought to the 
office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, 
Frogs, and Company, some fifteen or 
twenty young gentlemen piously in- 


719 


clined. But our man of business is in 
no hurry to conclude a contract with 
any—no man of business is ever pre- 
cipitate—and it is not until the most 
rigid catechism in respect to the piety 
of each young gentleman’s inclination, 
that his services are engaged and his 
fifty dollars receipted for, just by way 
of proper precaution, on the part of the 
respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs, Logs, 
Frogs, and Company. On the morning 
of the first day of the next month, the 
landlady does not present her bill, ac- 
cording to promise—a piece of neglect 
for which the comfortable head of the 
house ending in ogs would no doubt 
have chided her severely, could he 
have been prevailed upon to remain in 
town a day or two for that purpose. 

As it is, the constables have had a 
sad time of it, running hither and 
thither, and all they can do is to declare 
the man of business most emphatically, 
a “hen knee high”—by which some per- 
sons imagine them to imply that, in 
fact, he is n. e. i—by which again the 
very classical phrase non esi inventus, 
is supposed to be understood. In the 
meantime the young gentlemen, one 
and all, are somewhat less piously in- 
clined than before, while the landlady 
purchases a shilling’s worth of the In- 
dian rubber, and very carefully obliter- 
ates the pencil memorandum that some 
fool has made in her great family Bible, 
on the broad margin of the Proverbs 
of Solomon. 


Ltonizing 
{This tale was published in the Southern Literary Messenger, May, 1835. It is 
also called Some Passages in the Life of a Lion.—Ed.) 


. all people went 
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment. 
Bishop Hall’s Satires. 


I am, that is to say I was, a great man, 
but I am neither the author of Junius 
nor the Man in the Iron Mask, for my 
name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and 
I was born somewhere in the city of 
Fum-Fudge. 

The first action of my life was the 
taking hold of my nose with both 
hands. My mother saw this and called 
me a genius, my father wept for joy 
and presented .me with a treatise on 
Nosology. This I mastered before I 
was breeched. 

I now began to feel my way in the 
science, and soon came to understand 
that, provided a man had a nose suffi- 
ciently conspicuous he might, by merely 
following it, arrive at a Lionship. But 
my attention was not confined to 
theories alone. Every morning I gave 
my proboscis a couple of pulls and 
swallowed a half-dozen of drams. 

When I came of age my father asked 
me one day if £ would step with him 
into his study. 

“My son,” said he, when we were 
seated, ‘“‘what is the chief end of your 
existence?” 

“My father,” I answered, “it is the 
study of Nosology.” 

“And what, Robert,” he inquired, 
“is Nosology?” 

“Sir,” I said, “it is the science of 
Noses.” ; 


720 


“And can you tell me,” he demanded, 
“what is the meaning of a nose?” 

“A nose, my father,” I replied, 
greatly softened, “has been variously 
defined by about a thousand different 
authors.” [Here I pulled out my 
watch.] “It is now noon, or there- 
abouts—we shall have time enough to 
get through with them all before mid- 
night. To commence then:—The nose, 
according to Bartholinus, is that pro- 
tuberance—that bump—that excresence 
—tha 4 

“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the 
good old gentleman. “I am thunder- 
struck at the extent of your informa- 
tion—I am positively—upon my soul.” 
[Here he closed his eyes and placed 
his hand upon his heart.] “Come 
here!” [Here he took me by the arm.] 
“Your education may now be consid- 
ered as finished—it is high time you 
should scuffle for yourseli—and you 
cannot do a better thing than merely 
follow your nose—so—so—so—” | Here 
he kicked me down stairs and out of 
the door.]—‘“‘So get out of my house, 
and God bless you!”’ 

As I felt within me the 
afflatus, I considered this accident 
rather fortunate than otherwise. I re- 
solved to be guided by the paternal 
advice. I determined to follow my 
nose. I gave it a pull or two upon the 
spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosol- 
ogy forthwith. 

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar. 





divine 


Ee ee re ee 


—- es 








LIONIZING 721 


“Wonderful genius!” said the Quar- 
terly. 

“Superb physiologist!” 
Westminster. 

“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign. 

“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh. 

“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin. 

“Great man!” said Bentley. 

“Divine soul!” said Fraser. 

“One of us!” said Blackwood. 

“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas- 
Bleu. 

“What can he be?” said big Miss 
Bas-Bleu. 

“Where can he be?” said little Miss 
Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these people no 
attention what ever—I just stepped 
into the shop of an artist. 

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was 
sitting for her portrait; the Marquis of 
So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ 
poodle; the Earl of This-and-That was 
flirting with her salts; and his Royal 
Highness of Touch-me-Not was leaning 
upon the back of her chair. 

I approached the artist and turned 
up my nose. 

“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace. 

“Oh, my!” lisped the Marquis. 

“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl. 

“Oh, abominable!” growled his 
Royal Highness. 

“What will you take for it?” asked 
the artist. 

“For his nose!” shouted her Grace. 


said the 


“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting 


down. 
_ “A thousand pounds?” inquired the 
artist, musingly. 
“A thousand pounds,” said I. 
“Beautiful!” said he, entranced. 
« “A thousand pounds,” said I. 
“Do you warrant it?” he asked, turn- 
ing the nose to the light. 


“T do,” said I, blowing it well. 

“Ts it quite original?” he inquired, 
touching it with reverence. 

“Humph!”’ said I, twisting it to one 
side. . 

“Has no copy been taken?” he de- 
manded, surveying it through a micro- 
scope. 

“None,” said I, turning it up. 

“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown 
quite off his guard by the beauty of the 
manceuvre. 

“A thousand pounds,” said I. 

“A thousand pounds?” said he. 

“Precisely,” said I. 

“A thousand pounds?” said he. 

“Just so,” said I. 

“You shall have them,” said he. 
‘What a piece of virtu!” So he drew 
me a check upon the spot, and took a 
sketch of my nose. I engaged rooms 
in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty 
the ninety-ninth edition of the ‘“Nos- 
ology,” with a portrait of the proboscis. 
—That sad little rake, the Prince of 
Wales, invited me to dinner. 

We are all lions and recherches. 

There was a modern Platonist. He 
quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus, Plotinus, 
Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, 
and Syrianus. 

There was a_human-perfectibility 
man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priest- 
ley, Condorcet, De Stael, and the “Am- 
bitious Student in Ill-Health.” 

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He 
observed that all fools were philoso- 
phers, and that all philosophers were 
fools. 

There was A%stheticus Ethix. He 
spoke of fire, unity, and atoms; bi-part 
and pre-existent soul; affinity and dis- 
cord; primitive intelligence and ho- 
moomeria. 


722 


There was Theologos Theology. He 
talked of Eusebius and Arianus; heresy 
and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and 
con-substantialism; Homousios and 
Homouioisios. 

There was Fricassee from the Rocher 
de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of 
red tongue; cauliflowers with veloute 
sauce; veal a Ja St. Menehoult; mari- 
nade a Ja St. Florentin; and orange jel- 
lies en mosaiques. 

There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He 
touched upon Latour and Markbrun- 
nen; upon Mosseux and Chambertin; 
upon Richbourg and St. George; upon 
Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon 
Barac and Preignac; upon Grave, upon 
Sauterne, upon Lafitt., and upon St. 
Peray. He shook his head at Clos de 
Vougeot, and told with his eyes shut, 
the difference between Sherry and 
Amontillado. 

There was Signor Tintontintino from 
Florence. He discoursed of Cimabue, 
Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of 
the gloom of Caravaggio, of the amen- 
ity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, 
of the frows of Rubens, and of the 
waggeries of Jan Steen. 

There was the President of the Fum- 
Fudge University. He was of the opin- 
ion that the moon was called Bendis in 
Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in 
Rome, and Artemis in Greece. 

There was a Grand Turk from Stam- 
boul. He could not help thinking that 
the angels were horses, cocks, and 
bulls; that somebody in the sixth 
heaven had seventy thousand heads; 
and that the earth was supported by a 
sky-blue cow with an incalculable num- 
ber of green horns. 

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He 
told us what had become of the eighty- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


three lost tragedies of A%schylus; of the 
fifty-four orations of Iseus; of the 
three hundred and ninety-one speeches 
of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty 
treatises of Theophrastus; of the 
eighth book of the conic sections of 
Apollonius; of Pindar’s hymns and 
dithyrambics; and of the five and forty 
tragedies of Homer Junior. 

There was Ferdinand Fitz Fossillus 
Feltspar. He informed us all about 
internal fires and tertiary formations; 
about aeriforms, fluidiforms, and solid- 
forms; about quartz and marl; about 
schist and schorl; about gypsum and 
tran; about talc and calc; about blende 
and horn-blende; about mica-slate and 
pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepi- 
dolite; about hematite and tremolite; . 
about antimony and calcedony; about 
manganese and whatever you please. 

There was myself. I spoke of my- 
self;—of myself, of myself, of myself; 
—of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and 
of myself. I turned up my nose, and 
I spoke of myself. 

“Marvellous clever man!” said the 
Prince. 

“Superb!” said his guests;—and next 
morning her Grace of Bless-my-Scul 
paid me a visit. 

“Will you go to Almack’s, pretty 
creature?” she said, tapping me under 
the chin. 

“Upon honor,” said I. 

“Nose and all?” she asked. 

“As I live,” I replied. 

“Here then is a card, my life. 
I say you will be there?” 

“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.” 

“Pshaw, no!—but with all your, 
nose?” | 

“Every bit of it, my love,’ said I: 


Shall 


_ tor of Bluddennuff. 





LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. 


—so I gave it a twist or two, and found 
myself at Almack’s. 

The rooms were crowded to suffoca- 
tion. 

“He is coming!” said somebody on 
the staircase. 

“He is coming!” said somebody far- 
ther up. 

“He is coming!” said somebody far- 
ther still. | 

“He is come!” exclaimed the Duch- 
ess, “He is come, the little love!”— 
and, seizing me firmly by both hands, 
she kissed me thrice upon the nose. 


A marked sensation immediately 
ensued. 

“Diavolo!’? cried Count Capricor- 
 nutti. 
“Dios guarda!’’ muttered Don Sti- 
letto. 

“Mille tonnerres!” ejaculated the 


| Prince de Grenouille. 


“Tousand teufel!” growled the Elec- 


It was not to be borne. I grew 


|-angry. I turned short upon Bludden- 
nuff. 


“Sir!” said I to him, “you are a 


baboon.” 


723 


“Sir,” he replied, 
“Donner und Blitzen!’ 

This was all that could be desired. 
We exchanged cards. At Chalk-Farm, 
the next morning, I shot off his nose— 
and then called upon my friends. 

“Bete!” said the first. 

“Fool!” said the second. 

‘Dolt!” said the third. | 

“Ass!”? said the fourth. 

“Ninny!” said the fifth. 

“Noodle!” said the sixth. 

“Be off!” said the seventh. 

At all this I felt mortified, and ss 
called upon my father. 

“Father,” I asked, “what is the chief 
end of my existence?” 

“My son,” he replied, “it is still the 
study of Nosology; but in hitting the 
Elector upon the nose you have over- 
shot your mark. You have a fine nose, 
it is true; but then Bluddennuff has 
none. You are damned, and he has 
become the hero of the day. I grant 
you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness 
of a lion is in proportion to the size 
of his proboscis—but, good heavens! 
there is no competing with a lion who 
has no proboscis at all.” 


after a pause, 


Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq. 


(Late Editor of the Goosetherumfoodle.) 


BY HIMSELF 


—_—_—_—_—. 


TI AM now growing in years, and— 


since I understand that Shakespeare 


and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is 
not impossible that I may even die. It 


_has occurred to me, therefore, that I 


may as well retire from the field of Let- 
ters and repose upon my laurels. But 
I am ambitious of signalizing my ab- 
dication of the literary sceptre by some 
important bequest to posterity; and, 


724 


perhaps, I cannot do a better thing than 
just pen for it an account of my earlier 
career. My name, indeed, has been so 
long and so constantly before the pub- 
lic eye, that I am not only willing to 
admit the naturalness of the interest 
which it has everywhere excited, but 
ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity 
which it has inspired. In fact, it is no 
more than the duty of him who achieves 
greatness to leave behind him, in his 
ascent, such landmarks as may guide 
others to be great. I propose, there- 
fore, in the present paper (which I had 
some idea of calling ‘‘Memoranda to 
Serve for the Literary History of 
America’’) to give a detail of those im- 
portant, yet feeble and tottering, first 
steps, by which, at length, I attained 
the high road to the pinnacle of human 
renown. 

Of one’s very remote ancestors it is 
superfluous to say much. My father, 
Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years 
at the summit of his profession, which 
was that of a merchant-barber, in the 
city of Smug. His warehouse was the 
resort of all the principal people of the 
place, and especially of the editorial 
corps—a body which inspires all about 
it with profound veneration and awe. 
For my own part, I regarded them as 
gods, and drank in with avidity the rich 
wit and wisdom which continuously 
flowed from their august mouths during 
the process of what is styled “lather.” 
My first moment of positive inspiration 
must be dated from that ever-memor- 
able epoch, when the brilliant conduc- 
tor of the Gad-Fly, in the intervals of 
the important process just mentioned, 
recited aloud, before a conclave of our 
apprentices, an inimitable poem in honor 
of the “Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob” (so 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


called from its talented inventor, my 
father), and for which effusion the ed- 
itor of the Fly was remunerated with 
a regal liberality by the firm of Thomas 
Bob & Company, merchant-barbers. 

The genius of the stanzas to the “‘Oil- 
of-Bob” first breathed into me, I say, 
the divine affiatus. I resolved at once 
to become a great man, and to com- 
mence by becoming a great poet. 
very evening I fell upon my knees at 
the feet of my father. 

“Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but 
I have a soul above lather. It is my 
firm intention to cut the shop. I would 
be an editor—I would be a poet—I 
would pen stanzas to the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ 
Pardon me and aid me to be great!” 

“My dear Thingum,” replied father, 
(I had been christened Thingum after 
a wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My 
dear Thingum,” he said, raising me from 
my knees by the ears—“Thingum, my 
boy, you’re a trump, and take after 
your father in having a soul. You have 
an immense head, too, and it must hold 
a great many brains. This I have long 
seen, and therefore had thoughts of 
making you a lawyer. The business, 
however, has grown ungenteel, and that 
of politician don’t pay. Upon the whole 
you judge wisely;—the trade of editor 
is best:—and if you can be a poet at 
the same time,—as most of the editors 
are, by the by,—why, you will kill two 
birds with the one stone. To encour- 
age you in the beginning of things, I 
will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and 
paper; a rhyming dictionary; and a 
copy of the Gad-Fly. I suppose you 
would scarcely demand any more.” 

“T would be an ungrateful villain if I 
did,” I replied with enthusiasm. “Your 
generosity is boundless. I will repay it 


That — 


: 


LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM. BOB, ESQ. 


by making you the father of a genius.” 

Thus ended my conference with the 
best of men, and immediately upon its 
termination I betook myself with zeal 
to my poetical labors; as upon these, 
chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate 
elevation to the editorial chair. 

In my first attempts at composition I 
found the stanzas to “The Oil-of-Bob” 
rather a drawback than _ otherwise. 
Their splendor more dazzled than en- 
lightened me. The contemplation of 
their excellence tended, naturally, to 
discourage me by comparison with my 
own abortions; so that for a long time 
I labored in vain. At length there came 


into my head one of those exquisitely 
original ideas which now and then will 
_ permeate the brain of a man of genius. 
It was this:—or, rather, thus was it 


- carried into execution. 


From the rub- 
bish of an old book-stall, in a very re- 


- mote corner of the town, I got together 


several antique and altogether unknown 
or forgotten volumes. The bookseller 


- sold them to me for a song. From one 
_ of these, which purported to be a trans- 


lation of one Dante’s ‘Inferno,” I 
copied with remarkable neatness a long 


_ passage about a man named Ugolino, 


who had a parcel of brats. From an- 
other, which contained a good many old 


_ plays by some person whose name I for- 


get, I extracted in the same manner, 
and with the same care, a great number 
of lines about “angels” and “minis- 
ters saying grace,’ and “goblins 
damned,” and more besides of that sort. 
From a third, which was the composi- 
tion of some blind man or other, either 
a Greek or a Choctaw—I cannot be at 
the pains of remembering every trifle 
exactly—I took about fifty verses be- 
ginning with ‘Achilles’ wrath” and 


725 


“grease,” and something else. From a 
fourth, which I recollect was also the 
work of a blind man, I selected a page 
or two all about “hail” and “holy light’; 
and, although a blind man has no busi- 
ness to write about light, still the verses 
were sufficiently good in their way. 
Having made fair copies of these 
poems, I signed every one of them “Op- 
podeldoc” (a fine sonorous name), and, 
doing each up nicely in a separate en- 
velope, I dispatched one to each of the 
four principal magazines, with a request 
for speedy insertion and prompt pay. 
The result of this well-conceived plan, 
however, (the success of which would 
have saved me much trouble in after- 
life,) served to convince me that some 
editors are not to be bamboozled, and 
gave the coup-de-grace (as they say in 
France) to my nascent hopes (as they 
say in the city of the transcendentals). 
The fact is, that each and every one 
of the magazines in question gave Mr. 
“Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in 
the “Monthly Notices to Correspond- 
ents.” The Hum-Drum gave him a 
dressing after this fashion: 
“‘‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) has 
sent us a long tirade concerning a bed. 
lamite whom he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who 
had a great many children that should 
have been all whipped and sent to bed 
without their suppers. The whole af- 
fair is exceedingly tame—not to say 
flat. ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) is 
entirely devoid of imagination—and 
imagination, in our humble opinion, is 
not only the soul of Poesy, but also its 
very heart. ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he 
is) has the audacity to demand of us, 
for his twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and 
prompt pay.’ We neither insert nor 
purchase any stuff of the sort. There 


726 


can be no doubt, however, that he 
would meet with a ready sale for all the 
balderdash he can scribble, at the office 
of either the Rowdy-Dow, the Lollipop, 
or the Goosetherumfoodle.” 


All this, it must be acknowledged, 
was very severe upon “Oppodeldoc,”— 
but the unkindest cut was putting the 
word Porsy in small caps. In those 
five pre-eminent letters what a world 
of bitterness is there not involved! 

But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with 
equal severity in the Rowdy-Dow, 
which spoke thus: 


“We have received a most singular 
and insolent communication from a 
person (whoever he is) signing himself 
‘Oppodeldoc,’— thus desecrating the 
greatness of the illustrious Roman em- 
peror so named. Accompanying the 
letter of ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) 
we find sundry lines of most disgusting 
and unmeaning rant about ‘angels and 
ministers of grace,—rant such as ‘no 
madman short of a Nat Lee, or an 
‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. 
And for this trash of trash, we are 
modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’ 
No, sir—no! We pay for nothing of 
that sort. Apply to the Hum-Drum, 
the Lollipop, or the Goosetherumfoodle. 
These periodicals will undoubtedly ac- 
cept any literary offal you may send 
them—and as undoubtedly promise to 
pay for it.” 


This was bitter indeed upon poor 
“Oppodeldoc”’; but, in this instance, the 
weight of the satire falls upon the 
Hum-Drum, the Lollipop, and the 
Goosetherumfoodle, who are pungently 
styled “periodicals”—in Italics, too—a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thing that must have cut them to the 
heart. 

Scarcely less savage was the Lollipop, 
which thus discoursed: 


“Some individual, who rejoices in the 
appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (to what low 
uses are the names of the illustrious 
dead too often applied!) has enclosed 
us some fifty or sixty verses commenc- 
ing after this fashion: 


‘Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful 
spring 


~ Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.’ 


“‘Qppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) is 
respectfully informed that there is not 
a printer’s devil in our office who is not 
in the daily habit of composing better 


lines. ‘Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’ will not 
scan. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to 
count. But why he should have con- 


ceived the idea that we (of all others, 
we!) would disgrace our pages with his 
ineffable nonsense is utterly beyond 
comprehension. Why, the absurd twat- 
tle is scarcely good enough for the 
Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, the 
Goosetherumfoodle,—things that are in 
the practice of publishing ‘Mother 
Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. 
And ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) has 
even the assurance to demand pay for 
this drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc’ (who- 
ever he is) know—is he aware that we 
could not be paid to insert it?” 


As I perused this I felt myself grow- 
ing gradually smaller and smaller, and 
when I came to the point at which the 
editor sneered at the poem as “verses,” 
there was little more than an ounce of 
me left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I be- 


LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM’ BOB, ESQ. 


gan to experience compassion for the 
poor fellow. But the Goosetherum- 
foodle showed, if possible, less mercy 
than the Lollipop. It was the Goose- 
therumfoodle that said— 

“A wretched poetaster, who signs 
himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly enough to 
fancy that we will print and pay for a 
medley of incoherent and ungrammati- 
cal bombast which he has transmitted 
to us, and which commences with the 
following most intellogible line: 


‘Hail, Holy Light! Offspring of 
Heaven, first born.’ 


“We say, ‘most intelligible.’ ‘Oppo- 
deldoc’ (whoever he is) will be kind 


~ enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘hail’ 


can be ‘holy light.’ We always re- 
garded it as frozen rain. Will he in- 
form us, also, how frozen rain can be, 
at one and the same time, both ‘holy 
light’ (whatever that is) and an ‘off- 
spring’?—which latter term (if we 
understand anything about English) is 
only employed, with propriety, in refer- 
ence to small babies of about six weeks 
old. But it is preposterous to descant 
upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppo- 
deldoc’ (whoever he is) has the un- 
paralleled effrontery to suppose that we 
will not only ‘insert’ his ignorant rav- 
ings, but (absolutely) pay for them! 

“Now this is fine—it is rich!—and 
we have half a mind to punish this 
young scribbler for his egotism by 
really publishing his effusion verbatim 
et literatim, as he has written it. We 
could inflict no punishment so severe, 
and we would inflict it, but for the 
boredom which we should cause our 
readers in so doing. » 

‘Let ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) 


727 


send any future composition of like 
character to the Hum-Drum, the Lolli- 
pop, or the Rowdy-Dow. They will 
‘insert’ it. They ‘insert’ every month 
just such stuff. Send it to them. WE 
are not to be insulted with impunity.” 


This made an end of me; and as for 
the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and 
the Lollipop, I never could comprehend 
how they survived it. The putting 
them in the smallest possible minion, 
(that was the rub—thereby insinuating 
their lowness—their baseness,) while 
WE stood looking down upon them in 
gigantic capitals!—oh it was too bitter!. 
—it was wormwood—it was gall. Had 
I been either of these periodicals I 
would have spared no pains to have 
the Goosetherumfoodle prosecuted. It 
might have been done under the Act 
for the “Prevention of Cruelty to Ani- 
mals.” As for Oppodeldoc (whoever 
he was) I had by this time lost all 
patience with the fellow, and sympa- 
thized with him no longer. He was a 
fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) 
and got not a kick more than he de- 
served. 

The result of my experiment with 
the old books convinced me, in the 
first place, that “honesty is the best 
policy,” and, in the second, that if I 
could not write better than Mr. Dante, 
and the two blind men, and the rest 
of the old set, it would, at least, be a 
difficult matter to write worse. I took 
heart, therefore, and determined to 
prosecute the “entirely original’ (as 
they say on the covers of the maga- 
zines), at whatever cost of study and 
pains. I again placed before my eyes, 
as a model, the brilliant stanzas on 
“The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the 


728 


Gad-Fly and resolved to construct an 
ode on the same sublime theme, in 
rivalry of what had already been done. 

With my first line I had no material 
difficulty. It ran thus: 


“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ ” 


Having carefully looked out, how- 
ever, all the legitimate rhymes to 
“Bob,” I found it impossible to pro- 
ceed. .In this dilemma I had recourse 
to paternal aid; and, after some hours 
of mature thought, my father and my- 
self thus constructed the poem: 


“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ 
Is all sorts of a job. 
(Signed) SNOB.” 
To be sure, this composition was of 
no very great length,—but I “have yet 
to learn,” as they say in the Edinburgh 
Review, that the mere extent of a 
literary work has anything to do with 
its merit. As for the Quarterly cant 
about “sustained effort,” it is impossi- 
ble to see the sense of it. Upon the 
whole, therefore, I was satisfied with 
the success of my maiden attempt, and 
now the only question regarded the dis- 
posal I should make of it. My father 
suggested that I should send it to the 
Gad-Fly,—but there were two reasons 
which operated to prevent me from so 
doing. I dreaded the jealousy of the 
editor—and I had ascertained that he 
did not pay for original contributions. 
I therefore, after due deliberation, con- 
signed the article to the more dignified 
pages of the Lollipop and awaited the 
event in anxiety, but with resignation. 
In the very next published number I 
had the proud satisfaction of seeing my 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


poem printed at length, as the leading 
article, with the following significant 
words, prefixed in italics and between 
brackets: 


[We call the attention of our readers 
to the subjoined admirable stanzas on 
“The Oil-of-Bob.” We need say noth- 
ing of their sublimity, or of their 
pathos:—it is impossible to peruse 
them without tears. Those who have 
been nauseated with a sad dose on the 
same august topic from the goose-quill 
of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,”’ will do 
well to compare the two compositions. 

P. S—We are consumed with anx- 
iety to probe the mystery which en- 
velops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” 
May we hope for a personal inter- - 
view? | 


All this was scarcely more than jus: 
tice, but it was, I confess, rather more 
than I had expected:—I acknowledged 
this, be it observed, to the everlasting. 
disgrace of my country and of man- 
kind. I lost no time, however, in call- 
ing upon the editor of the Lollipop and 
had the good fortune to find this gen- 
tleman at home. He saluted me with 
an air of profound respect, slightly 
blended with a fatherly and patronizing 
admiration, wrought in him, no doubt, 
by my appearance of extreme youth 
and inexperience. Begging me to be 
seated, he entered at once upon the 
subject of my poem;—but modesty 
will ever forbid me to repeat the thou- 
sand compliments which he lavished 
upon me. The eulogies of Mr. Crab 
(such was the editor’s name) were, 
however, by no means fulsomely indis- 
criminate. He analyzed my composi- 
tion with much freedom and_ great 


LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM. BOB, ESQ. 


ability—not hesitating to point out a 
few trivial defects—a circumstance 
which elevated him highly in my es- 
teem. The Gad-Fly was, of course, 
brought upon the fapis, and I hope 
never to be subjected to a criticism so 
searching, or to rebukes so withering, 
as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon 
that unhappy effusion. I had been ac- 
customed to regard the editor of the 
Gad-Fly as something superhuman; but 
Mr. Crab soon disabused me of that 
idea. He set the literary as well as 
the personal character of the Fly (so 
Mr. C. satirically designated the rival 
editor), in its true light. He, the Fly, 
was very little better than he should 
be. He had written infamous things. 
He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. 
He was a villain. He had composed 
a tragedy which set the whole country 
in a guffaw, and a farce which deluged 
the universe in tears. Besides all this, 
he had the impudence to pen what he 
meant for a lampoon upon himself 
(Mr. Crab), and the temerity to style 
him “an ass.” Should I at any time 
wish to express my opinion of Mr. 
Fly, the pages of the Lollipop, Mr. 
Crab assured me, were at my unlimited 
disposal. In the meantime, as it was 
very certain that I would be attacked 
in the Fly for my attempt at composing 
a rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he 
(Mr. Crab) would take it upon himself 
to attend, pointedly, to my private and 
personal interests. If I were not made 
a man of at once, it should not be the 
fault of himself (Mr. Crab). 

Mr. Crab having now paused in his 
discourse (the latter portion of which 
I found it impossible to comprehend), 
I ventured to suggest something about 
the remuneration which I had been 


729 


taught to expect for my poem, by an 
announcement on the cover of the 
Lollipop, declaring that it (the Lolli- 
pop) “insisted upon being permitted to 
pay exorbitant prices for all accepted 
contributions, — frequently expending 
more money for a single brief poem 
than the whole annual cost of the 
Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the 
Goosetherumfoodle combined.” 

As I mentioned the word ‘“remunera- 
tion,’ Mr. Crab first opened his eyes, 
and then his mouth, to quite a remark- 
able extent, causing his personal ap- 
pearance to resemble that of a highly 
agitated elderly duck in the act of 
quacking; and in this condition he re- 
mained (ever and anon pressing his 
hands tightly to his forehead, as if in 
a state of desperate bewilderment) 
until I had nearly made an end of what 
I had to say. 

Upon my conclusion, he sank back 
into his seat, as if much overcome, let- 
ting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, 
but keeping his mouth still rigorously 
open, after the fashion of the duck. 
While I remained in speechless aston- 
ishment at behavior so alarming, he 
suddenly leaped to his feet and made a 
rush at the bell-rope; but just as he 
reached this, he appeared to have al- 
tered his intention, whatever it was, for 
he dived under a table and immediately 
re-appeared with a cudgel. This he 
was in the act of uplifting (for what 
purpose I am at a loss to imagine), 
when all at once, there came a benign 
smile over his features, and he sank 
placidly back in his chair. 

“Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent 
up my card before ascending myself,) 
“Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I pre- 
sume—very?” 


730 


I assented; adding that I had not yet 
concluded my third lustrum. 

“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see 
how it is—say no more! Touching this 
matter of compensation, what you ob- 
serve is very just,—in fact it is exces- 
sively so. But ah—ah—the first con- 
tribution—the first, I say—it is never 
the magazine custom to pay for,—you 
comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are 
usually the recipients in such case.” 
[ Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he empha- 
sized the word “recipients.”] “For the 
most part, we are paid for the insertion 
of a maiden attempt—especially in 
verse. In the second place, Mr. Bob, 
the magazine rule is never to disburse 
what we term in France the argent 
comptant:—I have no doubt you un- 
derstand. In a quarter or two after 
publication of the article—or in a year 
or two—we make no objection to giv- 
ing our note at nine months; provided, 
always, that we can so arrange our 
affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst 
up’ in six. I really do hope, Mr. Bob, 
that you will look upon this explanation 
as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab con- 
cluded, and the tears stood in his eyes. 

Grieved to the soul at having been, 
however innocently, the cause of pain 
to so eminent and so sensitive a man, 
I hastened to apologize, and to reassure 
him, by expressing my perfect coinci- 
dence with his views, as well as my 
entire appreciation of the delicacy of 
his position. Having done all this in a 
neat speech, I took leave. 

One fine morning, very shortly after- 
ward, “I awoke and found myself fa- 
mous.” The extent of my renown will 
be best estimated by reference to the 
editorial opinions of the day. These 
Opinions, it will be seen, were embodied 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in critical notices of the number of the 
Lollipop containing my poem, and are 
perfectly satisfactory, conclusive, and 
clear with the exception, perhaps, of 
the hieroglyphical marks, “Sep. 15— 
17,” appended to each of the critiques. 

The Owl, a journal of profound sa- 
gacity, and well known for the deliber- 
ate gravity of its literary decisions— 
the Owl, I say, spoke as follows: 

“The Lollipop! The October num- 
ber of this delicious magazine surpasses 
its predecessors, and sets competition 
at defiance. In the beauty of its typog- 
raphy and paper—in the number and 
excellence of its steel plates—as well 
as in the literary merit of its contribu- 
tions—the Lollipop compares with its 
slow-paced rivals as Hyperion with 
Satyr. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy- 
Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle, ex- 
cel, it is true, in braggadocio, but in all 
other points, give us the Lollipop! 
How this celebrated journal can sustain 
its evidently tremendous expenses, is 
more than we can understand. To be 
sure, it has a circulation of 100,000, 
and its subscription list has increased 
one fourth during the last month; but, 
on the other hand, the sums it disburses 
constantly for contributions are incon- 
ceivable. It is reported that Mr. Slyass 
received no less than thirty-seven and 
a half cents for his inimitable paper on 
‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Cras, as editor, and 
with such names upon the list of con- 
tributors as SNop and Slyass, there can 
be no such word as ‘fail’ for the Lolli- 
pop. Go and subscribe. Sep. 15—1 ¢.” 


I must say that I was gratified with 
this high-toned notice from a paper so 
respectable as the Owl. The placing 
my name—that is to say, my nom de 





LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM, BOB, ESQ. 


guerre—in priority of station to that 
of the great Slyass, was a compliment 
as happy as I felt it to be deserved. 

My attention was next arrested by 
these paragraphs in the Toad—a print 
highly distinguished for its uprightness 
and independence—from its entire free- 
dom from sycophancy and subservience 
to the givers of dinners: 


“The Lollipop for October is out in 
advance of all its contemporaries, and 
infinitely surpasses them, of course, in 
the splendor of its embellishments, as 
well as in the richness of its contents. 
The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and 
the Goosetherumfoodle excel, we ad- 
mit, in braggadocio, but, in all other 
points, give us the Lollipop. How this 
celebrated magazine can sustain its evi- 
dently tremendous expenses is more 
than we can understand. To be sure, it 
has a circulation of 200,000, and its 
subscription list has increased one 
third during the last fortnight, but, on 
the other hand, the sums it disburses, 
monthly, for contributions, are fear- 
fully great. We learn that Mr. Mum- 
blethumb received no less than fifty 
cents for his late ‘Monody in a Mud- 
Puddle.’ 

“Among the original contributors to 
the present number we notice (besides 
the eminent editor, Mr. Cras), such 
men as SNoB, Slyass, and Mumble- 
thumb. Apart from the editorial mat- 
ter, the most valuable paper, neverthe- 
less, is, we think, a poetical gem by 
Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob,—but our 
readers must not suppose from the title 
of this incomparable bijou, that it bears 
any similitude to some balderdash on 
the same subject by a certain con- 
temptible individual whose name _ is 


731 


unmentionable to ears polite. The 
present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has 
excited universal anxiety and curiosity 
in respect to the owner of the evident 
pseudonym, ‘Snob,—a curiosity which, 
happily, we have it in our power to 
satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the zom de plume of 
Mr. Thingum Bob, of this city—a rela- 
tive of the great Mr. Thingum (after 
whom he is named), and otherwise 
connected with the most illustrious 
families of the State. His father, 
Thomas Bob, Esq., is an opulent mer- 
chant in Smug. Sep. 15—1?.” 


This generous approbation touched 
me to the heart—the more especially as 
it emanated from a source so avowedly 
—so proverbially pure as the Toad. 
The word “balderdash,” as applied to 
the “‘Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I consid- 
ered singularly pungent and appropri- 
ate. The words “gem” and “bijou,” 
however, used in reference to my com- 
position, struck me as being, in some 
degree, feeble. They seemed to me to 
be deficient in force. They were not 
sufficiently prononces (as we have it in 
France). 

I had hardly finished reading the 
Toad, when a friend placed in my hands 
a copy of the Mole, a daily, enjoying 
high reputation for the keenness of its 
perception about matters in general, 
and for the open, honest, above-ground 
style of its editorials. The Mole spoke 
of the Lollipop as follows: 


“We have just received the Lollipop 
for October, and must say that never 
before have we perused any single 
number of any periodical which af- 
forded us a felicity so supreme. We 
speak advisedly. The Hum-Drum, the 


732 


Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoo- 
dle must look well to their laurels. 
These prints, no doubt, surpass every- 
thing in loudness of pretension, but, 
in all other points, give us the Lollipop! 
How this celebrated magazine can sus- 
tain its evidently tremendous expenses, 
is more than we can comprehend. To 
be sure, it has a circulation of 300,000; 
and its subscription list has increased 
one half within the last week, but then 
the sum it disburses, monthly, for con- 
tributions, is astonishingly enormous. 
We have it upon good authority that 
Mr. Fatquack received no less than 
sixty-two cents and a half for his late 
domestic nouvellette, the ‘Dish-Clout.’ 

“The contributors to the number be- 
fore us are Mr. Crap (the eminent edi- 
tor), SNop, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, 
and others; but, after the inimitable 
compositions of the editor himself, we 
prefer a diamond-like effusion from the 
pen of a rising poet who writes over 
the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre 
which we predict will one day extin- 
guish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘SNos,’ 
we learn, is a Mr. THINGUM Bop, Esq., 
sole heir of a wealthy merchant of this 
city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near 
relative of the distinguished Mr. 
Thingum. The title of Mr. B.’s ad- 
mirable poem is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a 
somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, 
as some contemptible vagabond con- 
nected with the penny press has already 
disgusted the town with a great deal 
of drivel upon the same topic. There 
will be no danger, however, of con- 


founding the compositions. Sep. 15 
—1 ¢.” 
The generous approbation of so 


clear-sighted a journal as the Mole 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


penetrated my soul with delight. The 
only objection which occurred to me 
was, that the terms “contemptible vaga- 
bond” might have been better written 
“odious and contemptible wretch, vil- 
lain, and vagabond.” This would have 
sounded more gracefully, I think. 
“Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it 
will be admitted, of sufficient intensity 
to express what the Mole evidently 
thought of the brilliancy of the “Oil- 
of-Bob.” 

On the same aftcrnoon in which I 
saw these notices in the Owl, the Toad, 
and the Mole, I happened to meet with 
a copy of the Daddy-Long-Legs, a peri- 
odical proverbial for the extreme extent 
of its understanding. And it was the 
Daddy-Long-Legs which spoke thus: 


“The Lollipop!! This gorgeous mag- 
azine is already before the public for 
October. The question of pre-eminence 
is forever put to rest, and hereafter it 
will be excessively preposterous in the 
Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, or the 
Goosetherumfoodle to make any fur- 
ther spasmodic attempts at competi- 
tion, . These journals may excel the 
Lollipop in outcry, but, in all other 
points, give us the Lollipop! How this 
celebrated magazine can sustain its evi- 
dently tremendous expenses, is past 
comprehension. To be sure it has a 
circulation of precisely half a million, 
and its subscription list has increased 
seventy-five per cent. within the last 
couple of days, but then the sums it 
disburses, monthly, for contributions, 
are scarcely credible; we are cognizant 
of the fact, that Mademoiselle Criba- 
little received no less than eighty-seven 
cents and a half for her late valuable 
Revolutionary tale, entitled ‘The York. 





LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM, BOB, ESQ. 


Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill 
Katy-Didn’t.’ 

“The most able papers in the present 
number are, of course, those furnished 
by the editor (the eminent Mr. Cras), 
but there are numerous magnificent 
contributions from such names as 
Snos, Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, 
Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb, Mrs. 
Squibalittle, and last, though not least, 
Fatquack. The world may well be 
challenged to produce so rich a galaxy 
of genius. 

“The poem over the signature ‘SNoB’ 
is, we find, attracting universal com- 
mendation, and, we are constrained to 
say, deserves, if possible, even more 
applause than it has received. The 
‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this master- 
piece of eloquence and art. One or 
two of our readers may have a very 
faint, although sufficiently disgusting 
recollection of a poem (?) similarly 
entitled, the perpetration of a misercble 
penny-a-liner, mendicant, and _ cut- 
throat, connected in the capacity of 
scullion, we believe, with one of the 
indecent prints about the purlieus of 
the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, 
not to confound the compositions. The 
author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is, we hear, 
THINGUM Bos, ‘Esq., a gentleman of 
high genius, and a scholar. ‘Snob’ is 
merely a nom de guerre. Sep. 15.— 
4327 


I could scarcely restrain my indigna- 
tion while I perused the concluding 
portions of this diatribe. It was clear 
to me that the yea-nay manner—not to 
say the gentleness—the positive for- 
bearance—with which the Daddy-Long- 
Legs spoke of that pig, the editor of 
the Gad-Fly,—it was evident to me, I 


733 


say, that this gentleness of speech could 
proceed from nothing else than a par- 
tiality for the Fly—whom it was clearly 
the intention of the Daddy-Long-Legs 
to elevate into reputation at my ex- 
pense. Any one, indeed, might per- 
ceive, with half an eye, that, had the 
real design of the Daddy been what it 
wished to appear, it (the Daddy) might 
have expressed itself in terms more 
direct, more pungent, and altogether 
more to the purpose. The words 
“penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,’” “‘scul- 
lion,” and “cut-throat,” were epithets 
so intentionally inexpressive and equiv- 
ocal, as to be worse than nothing when 
applied to the author of the very worst 
stanzas ever penned by one of the 
human race. We all know what is 
meant by “damning with faint praise,” 
and, on the other hand, who could fail 
seeing through the covert purpose of 
the Daddy,—that of glorifying with 
feeble abuse? 

What the Daddy chose to say to the 
Fly, however, was no business of mine. 
What it said of myself was. After the 
noble manner in which the Owl, the 
Toad, the Mole, had expressed them- 
selves in respect to my ability, it was 
rather too much to be coolly spoken of 
by a thing like the Daddy-Long-Legs, 
as merely “a gentleman of high genius 
and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I 
made up my mind at once either to get 
a written apology from the Daddy- 
Long-Legs, or to call it out. 

Full of this purpose, I looked about 
me to find a friend whom I could en- 
trust with a message to his Daddyship, 
and as the editor of the Lollipop had 
given me marked tokens of regard, I 
at length concluded to seek assistance 
upon the present occasion. 


734 


I have never yet been able to ac- 
count, in a manner satisfactory to my 
own understanding, for the very pecu- 
liar countenance and demeanor with 
which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I 
unfolded to him my design. He again 
went through the scene of the bell-rope 
and cudgel, and did not omit the duck. 
At one period I thought he really in- 
tended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, 
finally subsided as before, and he began 
to act and speak in a rational way. 
He declined bearing the cartel, how- 
ever, and in fact, dissuaded me from 
sending it at all; but was candid enough 
to admit that the Daddy-Long-Legs had 
been disgracefully in the wrong—more 
especially in what related to the epi- 
thets “gentleman and scholar.” 

Toward the end of this interview 
with Mr. Crab, who really appeared to 
take a paternal interest in my welfare, 
he suggested to me that I might turn 
an honest penny, and at the same time, 
advance my reputation, by occasionally 
playing Thomas Hawk for the Lollipop. 

I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who 
was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how it 
was expected that I should play him. 

Here Mr. Crab again “made great 
eyes” (as we say in Germany), but at 
length, recovering himself from a pro- 
found attack of astonishment, he as- 
sured me that he employed the words 
“Thomas Hawk” to avoid the colloqui- 
alism, Tommy, which was low—but 
that the true idea was Tommy Hawk— 
or tomahawk—and that by “playing 
tomahawk” he referred to scalping, 
brow-beating, and otherwise using up 
the herd of poor-devil authors. 

I assured my patron that, if this was 
all, I was perfectly resigned to the task 
of playing Thomas Hawk. MHereupon 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Mr. Crab desired me to use up the 
editor of the Gad-Fly forthwith, in the 
fiercest style within the scope of my 
ability, and as a specimen of my 
powers. This I did, upon the spot, in 
a review of the original “Oil-of-Bob,” 
occupying thirty-six pages of the Lolli- 
pop. I found playing Thomas Hawk, 
indeed, a far less onerous occupation 
than poetizing; for I went upon system 
altogether, and thus it was easy to do 
the thing thoroughly well. My prac- 
tice was this. I bought auction copies 
(cheap) of “Lerd Brougham’s Speech- 
es,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the 
“New Slang-Syiiabus,” the “Whole Art 
of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s Billingsgate” 
(folio edition), and “Lewis G. Clarke 
on Tongue.” These works I cut up 
thoroughly with a curry-comb, and 
then, throwing the shreds into a sieve, 
sifted out carefully all that might be 
thought decent (a mere trifle); reserv- 
ing the hard phrases, which I threw 
into a large tin pepper-castor with 
longitudinal holes, so that an entire 
sentence could get through without ma- 
terial injury. The mixture was then 
ready for use. When called upon to 
play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet 
of foolscap with the white of a gander’s 
egg; then, shredding the thing to be 
reviewed as I had previously shredded 
the books—only with more care, so as 
to get every word separate—I threw 
the latter shreds in with the former, 
screwed on the lid of the castor, gave 
it a shake, and so dusted out the mix- 
ture upon the egged foolscap; where it 
stuck. The effect was beautiful to be- 
hold. It was captivating. Indeed, the 
reviews I brought to pass by this sim- 
ple expedient have never been ap- 
proached, and were the wonder of the 


LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM, BOB, ESQ. 


world. At first, through bashfulness— 
the result of inexperience—I was a 
‘Tittle put out by a certain inconsistency 
—a certain air of the bizarre (as we 
say in France), worn by the composi- 
tion as a whole. All the phrases did 
not fit (as we say in the Anglo-Saxon). 
Many were quite awry. Some, even, 
were upside-down; and there were none 
of them which were not in some meas- 
ure, injured in regard to effect, by this 
latter species of accident, when # oc- 
curred—with the exception of Mr. 
Lewis Clarke’s paragraphs, which were 
sO vigorous and altogether stout, that 
they seemed not particularly discon- 
certed by any extreme of position, but 
looked equally happy and satisfactory, 
whether on their heads, or on their 
heels. 

What, became of the editor of the 
Gad-Fly after the publication of my 
criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is 
somewhat difficult to determine.- The 
most reasonable conclusion is, that he 
wept himself to death. At all events 
he disappeared instantaneously from the 
face of the earth, and no man has seen 
even the ghost of him since. 

This matter having been properly ac- 
complished, and the Furies appeased, I 
grew at once into high favor with Mr. 
Crab. He took me into his confidence, 
gave me a permanent situation as 
Thomas Hawk of the Lollipop, and, as 
for the present, he could afford me no 
salary, allowed me to profit, at dis- 
cretion, by his advice. 

“My dear Thingum,” said he to me 
one day after dinner, “I respect your 
abilities and love you as a son. You 
shall be my heir. When I die I will 
bequeath you the Lollipop. In the 
meantime I will make a man of you— 


735 


I will—provided always that you follow. 
my counsel. The first thing to do is 
to get rid of the old bore.” 

“Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh? 
—aper? (as we say in Latin)—whor— 
where?” 

“Vour father,” said he. 

“Precisely,” I replied—“pig.” 

“You have your fortune to make, 
Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, ‘and 
that governor of yours is a millstone 
about your neck. We must cut him at 
once.” [Here I took out my knife.] 
“We must cut him,’ continued Mr. 
Crab, “decidedly and forever. He 
won’t do—he won’t. Upon second 
thoughts, you had better kick him, or 
cane him, or something of that kind.” 

“What do you say,” I suggested mod- 
estly, “ to my kicking him in the first 
instance, caning him afterward, hnd 
winding up by tweaking his nose?” 

Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for 
some moments, and then answered: 

“T think, Mr. Bob, that what you 
propose would answer sufficiently well 
—indeed remarkably well—that is to 
say, as far as it went—but barbers are 
exceedingly hard to cut, and I think, 
upon the whole, that, having performed 
upon Thomas Bob the operations you 
suggest, it would be advisable to 
blacken, with your fists, both his eyes, 
very carefully and thoroughly, to pre- 
vent his ever seeing you again in fash- 
ionable promenades. After doing this, 
I really do not perceive that you can 
do any more. However—it might be 
just as well to roll him once or twice 
in the gutter, and then put him in 
charge of the police. Any time the 
next morning you can call at the watch- 
house and swear an assault.” 

I was much affected by the kindness 


736 


of feeling toward me personally, which 
was evinced in this excellent advice of 
Mr. Crab, and I did not fail to profit 
by it forthwith. The result was, that 
I got rid of the old bore, and began 
to feel a little independent and gentle- 
man-like. The want of money, how- 
ever, was, for a few weeks, a source 
of some discomfort; but at length, by 
carefully putting to use my two eyes, 
and observing how matters went just 
in front of my nose, I perceived how 
the thing was to be brought about. I 
say “thing”—be it observed—for they 
tell me the Latin for it is rem. By 
the way, talking of Latin, can any one 
tell me the meaning of quocunque—or 
what is the meaning of modo? 

My plan was exceedingly simple. I 
bought, for a song, a sixteenth of the 
Snapping-Turtle:—that was all. The 
thing was done, and I put money in my 
purse. There were some trivial ar- 
rangements afterward, to be sure; but 
these formed no portion of the plan. 
They were a consequence—a, result. 
For example, I bought pen, ink, and 
paper, and put them into furious activ- 
ity. Having thus completed a Magazine 
article, I gave it, for appellation, “For 
Lot, by the Author of ‘THE OIL-oF- 
Bos,’” and enveloped it to the Goose- 
therumfoodle. That journal, however, 
having pronounced it “twattle” in the 
“Monthly Notices to correspondents,” I 
reheaded the paper “‘ ‘Hey-Diddle-Did- 
dle,” by THincum Bos, Esq., Author 
of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob, and 
Editor of the Snapping-Turile.” With 
this amendment, I re-enclosed it to the 
Goosetherumfoodle, and, while I awaited 
a reply, published daily, in the Turtle, 
six columns of what may be termed 
philosophical and analytical investiga- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tion of the literary merits of the Goose- 
therumfoodle, as well as of the personal 
character of the editor of the Goose- 
therumfoodle. At the end of a week 
the Goosetherumfoodle discovered that 
it had, by some odd mistake, “con- 
founded a stupid article, headed ‘Hey- 
Diddle-Diddle,’ and composed by some 
unknown ignoramus, with a gem of 
resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the 
work of Thingum Bob, Esq., the cele- 
brated author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’” 
The Goosetherumfoodle deeply “re- 
gretted this very natural accident,” and 
promised, moreover, an insertion of the 
genuine ‘‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the 
very next number of the Magazine. 
The fact is, I thought—I really 
thought—I thought at the time—I 
thought then—and have no reason for 
thinking otherwise mow—that the 
Goosetherumfoodle did make a mistake. 
With the best intentions in the world, 
IT never knew any thing that made as 
many singular mistakes as the Goose- 
therumfoodle. From that day I took a 
liking to the Goosetherumfoodle, and 
the result was I soon saw into the very 
depths of its literary merits, and did not 
fail to expatiate upon them, in the 
Turtle, whenever a fitting opportunity 
occurred. And it is to be regarded as 
a very peculiar coincidence—as one of 
those positively remarkable coincidences 
which set a man to serious thinking— 
that just such a total revolution of 
opinion—just such entire bouleverse- 
ment (as we say in French)—just such 
thorough topsiturviness Gif I may be 
permitted to employ a rather forcible 
term of the Choctaws), as happened, 
pro and con, between myself on the 
one part, and the Goosetherumfoodle 
on the other, did actually again happen, 


LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM, 


in a brief period afterwards, and with 
precisely similar circumstances, in the 
case of myself and the Rowdy-Dow, 
and in the case of myself and the Hum- 
Drum. 

Thus it was that, by a master-stroke 
of genius, I at length consummated 
my triumphs by “putting money in my 
purse,” and thus may be said really and 
fairly to have commenced that brilliant 
and eventful career which rendered me 
illustrious, and which now enables me 
to say with Chateaubriand: “I have 
made history”—“J’az fait Il’ histoire.” 

I have indeed “made history.” From 
the bright epoch which I now record, 
my actions—my works—are the prop- 
erty of mankind. They are familiar 
to the world. It is, then, needless for 
me to detail how, soaring rapidly, I 
fell heir to the Lollibop—how I merged 
this journal in the Hum-Dum—how 
again I made purchase of the Rowdy- 
Dow, thus combining the three periodi- 
cals—how lastly, I effected a bargain 
for the sole remaining rival, and united 
all the literature of the country in one 
magnificent Magazine known every- 
where as the 





Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum, 
and 
Goosetherumfoodle. 


Yes; I have made history. My fame 


BOB, ESQ. ¥37 
is universal. It extends to the utter- 
most ends of the earth. You cannot 
take up a common newspaper in which 
you shall not see some allusion to the 
immortal THINcuM Bos. It is Mr. 
Thingum Bob said so, and Mr. Thingum 
Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob 
did that. But I am meek and expire 
with an humble heart. After all, what 
is it?—this indescribable something 
which men will persist in terming 
“genius”? I agree with Buffon—with 
Hogarth—it is but diligence after all. 

Look at me!—how I labored—how I 
toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods, did I 
not write? I knew not the word “ease.” 
By day I adhered to my desk, and at 
night, a pale student, I consumed the 
midnight oil. You should have seen 
me—you should. I leaned to the right. 
I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I 
sat backward. I sat tete baissee (as 
they have it in the Kickapoo), bowing 
my head close to the alabaster page. 
And, through all, I—wrote. Through 
joy and through sorrow, I—wrote. 
Through hunger and through thirst, I 
—wrote. Through good report and 
through ill report—I wrote. Through 
sunshine and through moonshine, I— 
wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary 
to say. The style/—that was the thing. 
IT caught it from Fatquack—whizz!— 
fizz!—and I am giving you a specimen 
of it now. 


Flow to Write a Blackwood Article 


(This tale has another name, Signora Zenobia. 


Published in Broadway Journal, 


vol. 2:1.—Ed.) 


“In the name of the prophet—figs!!” 
—Cry of Turkish fig-peddler. 


I PRESUME everybody has heard of 
me. My name is the Signora Psyche 
Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. 
Nobody but my enemies ever calls me 
Suky Snobbs. I have been assured 
that Suky is but a vulgar corruption 
of Psyche, which is good Greek, and 
means “the soul” (that’s me, I’m all 
soul) and sometimes “a_ butterfly,” 
which latter meaning undoubtedly al- 
ludes to my appearance in my new 
crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue 
Arabian mantelet, and the trimmings of 
green agraffas, and the seven flounces of 
orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs 
—any person who should look at me 
would be instantly aware that my name 
wasn’t Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip 
propagated that report through sheer 
envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the 
little wretch! But what can we expect 
from a turnip? Wonder if she remem- 
bers the old adage about “blood out of 
a turnip,” etc.? [Mem.: put her in mind 
of it the first opportunity.] [Mem. 
again—pull her nose.]| Where was I? 
Ah! I have been assured that Snobbs 
is a mere corruption of Zenobia, and 
that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. 
Dr. Moneypenny always calls me the 
Queen of Hearts)—and that Zenobia, 
as well as Psyche, is good Greek, and 
that my father was “a Greek,” and 
that consequently I have a right to 
our patronymic, which is Zenobia and 


not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but 
Tabitha Turnip calls me Suky Snobbs. 
I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. 

As I said before, everybody has 
heard of me. I am that very Signora 
Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as 
corresponding secretary to the “Phila- 
delphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, 
Young, Belles, Letters, Universal, Ex- 
perimental, Bibliographical, Association, 
To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Money- 
penny made the title for us, and says 
he chose it because it sounded big 
like an empty rum-puncheon. (A vul- 
gar man that sometimes—but he’s 
deep.) We all sign the initials of the 
society after our names, in the fashion 
of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts 
—the S. D. U. K., Society for the 
Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, etc., 
etc. Dr. Moneypenny says that S. 
stands for stale, and that D. U. K. 
spells duck, (but it don’t,) that that 
S. D. U. K. stands for Stale Duck, 
and not for Lord Brougham’s society 
—but then Dr. Moneypenny is such 
a queer man that I am never sure 
when he is telling me the truth. At 
any rate we always add to our names 
the initials. P, R. E..To:Ts VYioB. eZ. 
U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say, 
Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, 
Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, 
Experimental, Bibliographical, Associa- 
tion, To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter 
for each word, which is a decided im- 
provement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. 
Moneypenny will have it that our ini- 


738 


HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE 


tials give our true character—but for 
my life I can’t see what he means. 
Notwithstanding the good offices of 
the Doctor, and the strenuous exer- 
tions of the association to get itself into 
notice, it met with no very great suc- 
-cess until I joined it. The truth is, 
the members indulged in too flippant 
a tone of discussion. The papers read 


every Saturday evening were character-. 


jzed less by depth than _ buffoonery. 
They were all whipped syllabub. There 
was no investigation of first cause, first 
principles. There was no investigation 
of any thing at all. There was no at- 
tention paid to that great point, the 
“fitness of things.” In short there was 
no fine writing like this. It was all low 
—very! No profundity, no reading, 
no metaphysics—nothing which the 
learned call spirituality, and which the 
unlearned choose to stigmatize as cant. 
[Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant’’ 
with a capital K—but I know better. ] 

When I joined the society it was my 
endeavor to introduce a better style of 
thinking and writing, and all the world 
knows how well I have succeeded. We 
get up as. good papers now in the 
Pad bea Va Buran Ue Hes Boot 
T. C. H. as any to be found even in 
Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because 
I have been assured that the finest 
writing, upon every subject, is to be 
discovered in the pages of that justly 
celebrated Magazine. We now take 
it for our model upon all themes, and 
are getting into rapid notice accord- 
ingly. And, after all, it’s not so 
very difficult a matter to compose 
an article of the genuine Blackwood 
stamp, if one only goes properly about 
it. Of course I don’t speak of the po- 
litical articles Everybody knows how 


739 


they are managed, since Dr. Money- 
penny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has 
a pair of tailor’s-shears, and three ap- 
prentices who stand by him for orders. 
One hands him the Times, another the 
Examiner and a third a “Gulley’s New 
Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. 
merely cuts out and intersperses. It is 
soon done—nothing but Examiner, 
“Slang-Whang,”’ and Times—then Times, 


“Slang-Whang,’ and Examiner—and 
then Times, Examiner, and “Slang- 
Whang.” 


But the chief merit of the Magazine 
lies in its miscellaneous articles; and 
the best of these come under the head 
of what Dr. Moneypenny calls the 
bizarreries (whatever that may mean) 
and what everybody else calls the in- 
tensities. This is a species of writing 
which I have long known how to appre- 
ciate, although it is only since my late 
visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by 
the society) that I have been made 
aware of the exact method of composi- 
tion. This method is very simple, but 
not so much so as the politics. Upon 
my calling at Mr. B.’s, and making 
known to him the wishes of the society, 
he received me with great civility, 
took me into his study, and gave 
me a clear explanation of the whole 
process. 

“My dear madman,” said he, evi- 
dently struck with my majestic appear- 
ance, for I had on the crimson satin, 
with the green agraffas, and orange- 
colored auriculas. ‘My dear madam,” 
said he, “sit down. The matter stands 
thus: In the first place your writer of 
intensities must have very black ink, 
and a very big pen, with a very blunt 
nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche 
Zenobia!” he continued, after a pause, 


740 


with the most expressive energy and 
solemnity of manner, “mark me!—+that 
pen—must—never be mended! Herein, 
madam, lies the secret, the soul, of 
intensity. I assume upon myself to 
say, that no individual, of however 
great genius ever wrote with a good 
pen—understand me—a good article. 
You may take it for granted, that 
when manuscript can be read it is never 
worth reading. This is a leading prin- 
ciple in our faith, to which if you 
cannot readily assent, our conference is 
at an end.” 

He paused. But, of course, as I had 
no wish to put an end to the conference, 
I assented to a proposition so very 
obvious, and one, too, of whose truth 
I had all along been sufficiently aware. 
He seemed pleased, and went on with 
his instructions. 

“It may appear invidious in me, Miss 
Psyche Zenobia, to refer you to an ar- 
ticle, or set of articles, in the way of 
model or study; yet perhaps I may 
as well call your attention to a few 
cases. Let me see. There was “The 
Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the rec- 
ord of a gentleman’s sensations when 
entombed before the breath was out 
of his body—full of tastes, terror, senti- 
ment, metaphysics, and erudition. You 
would have sworn that the writer had 
been born and brought up in a coffin. 
Then we had the ‘Confessions of an 
Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious 
imagination — deep philosophy — acute 
speculation—plenty of fire and fury, 
and a good spicing of the decidedly un- 
intelligible. That was a nice bit of 
flummery, and went down the throats 
of the people delightfully. They would 
have it that Coleridge wrote the paper 
—but not so. It was composed by my 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of 
Hollands and water, ‘hot, without 
sugar.’”’? [This I could scarcely have 
believed had it been anybody but Mr. 
Blackwood, who assured me of it.] 
“Then there was “The Involuntary Ex- 
perimentalist,’ all about a gentleman 
who got baked in an oven, and came 
out alive and well, although certainly 
done to a turn. And then there was 
‘The Diary of a Late Physician,’ where 
the merit lay in good rant, and indif- 
ferent Greek—both of them taking 
things with the public. And then there 
was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by- 
the-by, Miss Zenobia, which I cannot 
sufficiently recommend to your atten- 
tion. It is the history of a young 
person who goes to sleep under the 
clapper of a church bell, and is awak- 
ened by its tolling for a funeral. The 
sound drives him mad, and, accord- 
ingly, pulling out his tablets, he gives 
a record of his sensations. Sensations 
are the great things after all. Should 
you ever be drowned or hung, be sure 
and make a note of your sensations— 
they will be worth to you ten guineas 
a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, 
Miss Zenobia, pay minute attention to 
the sensations.” 

“That I certainly will, Mr. 
wood,” said I. , 

“Good!” he replied. “I see you are 
a pupil after my own heart. But I 
must put you au fait to the details nec- 
essary in composing what may be de- 
nominated a genuine Blackwood article 
of the sensation stamp—the kind which 
you will understand me to say I con- 
sider the best for all purposes. 

“The first thing requisite is to get 
yourself into such a scrape as no one 
ever got into before. The oven, for 


Black- 


| 
| 
| 
| 





HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE 


instance—that was a good hit. But 
if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, 
and if you cannot conveniently tumble 
put of a balloon, or be swallowed up in 
an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a 
chimney, you will have to be contented 
with simply imagining some similar mis- 
adventure. I should prefer, however, 
that you have the actual fact to bear 
you out. Nothing so well assists the 
fancy, as an experimental knowledge 
of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is 
strange, you know, ‘stranger than fc- 
tion’—besides being more to the pur- 
pose.” 

Here I assured him I had an excellent 
pair of garters, and would go and hang 
myself forthwith. 

“Good!” he replied, “do so—although 
hanging is somewhat hackneyed. Per- 
haps you might do better. Take a 
dose of Brandreth’s pills, and then give 
us your sensations. However, my in- 
structions will apply equally well to 
any variety of misadventure, and in 
your way home you may easily get 
knocked in the head, or run over by 
an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, 
or drowned in a gutter. But to proceed. 

“Having determined upon your sub- 
ject, you must next consider the tone, 
or manner, of your narration. There 
is the tone didactic, the tone enthusias- 
tic, the tone natural—all common-place 
enough. But then there is the tone 
laconic, or curt, which has lately come 
much into use. It consists in short 
sentences. Somehow thus: Can’t be too 
brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always 
a full stop. And never a paragraph. 

“Then there is the tone elevated, dif- 
fusive, and interjectional. Some of our 
best novelists patronize this tone. The 
words must be all in a whirl, like a 


741 


humming-top, and make a noise very 
similar, which answers remarkably well 
instead of meaning. This is the best 
of all possible styles where the writer 
is in too great a hurry to think. 

“The tone metaphysical is also a 
good one. If you know any big words 
this is your chance for them. Talk 
of the Ionic and Eleatic schools—of 
Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmezon. Say 
something about objectivity and sub- 
jectivity. Be sure and abuse a man 
named Locke. Turn up your nose at 
things in general, and when you let 
slip any thing a little too absurd, you 
need not be at the trouble of scratch- 
ing it out, but just add a foot-note and 
say that you are indebted for the above 
profound observation to the ‘Kritik der 
reinem Vernunft, or to the ‘Meta- 
physithe Anfongsgrunde der Noturwis- 
senchaft.’ This would look erudite and 
—and—and frank. 

“There are various other tones of 
equal celebrity, but I shall mention only 
two more—the tone transcendental and 
the tone heterogeneous. In the former 
the merit consists in seeing into the 
nature of affairs a very great deal 
farther than anybody else. This second 
sight is very efficient when properly 
managed. A little reading of the Dial 
will carry you a great way. Eschew, 
in this case, big words; get them as 
small as possible, and write them up- 
side down. Look over Channing’s 
poems and quote what he says about a 
‘fat little man with a delusive show of 
Can.’ Put in something about the Su- 
pernal Oneness. Don’t say a syllable 
about the Infernal Twoness. Above 
all, study innuendo. Hint everything— 
assert nothing, If you feel inclined to 
say ‘bread and butter,’ do not by any 


742 


means say it outright. You may say 
any thing and every thing approaching 
to ‘bread and butter.’ You may hint 
at buck-wheat cake, or you may even 
go so far as to insinuate oatmeal por- 
ridge, but if bread and butter be your 
real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss 
Psyche, not on any account to say 
‘bread and butter!’ ” 

I assured him that I should never 
say it again as long as I lived. He 
kissed me and continued: 

“As for the tone heterogeneous, it 
is merely a judicious mixture, in equal 
proportions, of all the other tones in 
the world, and is consequently made 
up of every thing deep, great, odd, 
piquant, pertinent, and pretty. 

“Let us suppose now you have deter- 
mined upon your incidents and tone. 
The most important portion—in fact, 
the soul of the whole business, is yet to 
be attended to—I allude to the filling 
up. It is not to be supposed that a 
lady, or gentleman either, has been 
leading the life of a book-worm. And 
yet above all things it is necessary that 
your article have an air of erudition, 
or at least afford evidence of extensive 
general reading. Now I'll put you in 
the way of accomplishing this point. 
See here!” (pulling down some three 
or four ordinary-looking volumes, and 
opening them at random). ‘By casting 
your eye down almost any page of any 
book in the world, you will be able 
to perceive at once a host of little 
scraps of either learning or bel-esprit- 
ism, which are the very thing for the 
spicing of a Blackwood article. You 
might as well note down a few while I 
read them to you. I shall make two 
divisions: first, Piguant Facts for the 
Manufacture of Similes; and, second, 


in the botanical line. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Piquant Expressions to be introduced 
as occasion may require. Write now!” 
—and I wrote as he dictated. 

“PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. “There 
were originally but three Muses—Me- 
lete, Mneme, Acede—meditation, mem- 
ory, and singing.” You may make a 
good deal of that little fact if properly 
worked. You see it is not generally 
known, and looks recherche. You must 
be careful and give the thing with a 
downright improviso air. 

“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed 
beneath the sea, and emerged without 
injury to the purity of its waters.’ 
Rather stale that, to be sure, but, if 
properly dressed and dished up, will 
look quite as fresh as ever. 

“Here is something better. “The 
Persian Iris appears to some persons to 
possess a sweet and very powerful per- 
fume, while to others it is perfectly 
scentless.? Fine that, and very delicate! 
Turn it about a little, and it will do 
wonders. We'll have some thing else 
There’s nothing 
goes down so well, especially with the 
help of a little Latin. Write! 

“<The Epidendrum Fios Aeris, of 
Java, bears a very beautiful flower, and 
will live when pulled up by the roots. 
The natives suspend it by a cord from 
the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance for 


years.’ That’s capital! That will do 
for the similes. Now for the Piquant 
Expressions. 


“PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘The Vener- 
able Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.’ Good! 
By introducing these few words with 
dexterity you will evince your intimate 
acquaintance with the language and lit- 
erature of the Chinese. With the aid 
of this you may possibly get along 
without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or 


HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE 


Chickasaw. There is no passing muster, 
however, without Spanish, Italian, Ger- 
man, Latin, and Greek. I must look 
you out a little specimen of each. Any 
scrap will answer, because you must 
depend upon your own ingenuity to 
make it fit into your article. Now 
write! 

“ “Aussi tendre que Zaire’—as tender 
as Zaire—French. Alludes to the fre- 
quent repetition of the phrase, Ja tendre 
Zaire, in the French tragedy of that 
name. Properly introduced, will show 
not only your knowledge of the lan- 
guage, but your general reading and 
wit. You can say, for instance, that 
the chicken you were eating (write an 
article about being choked to death 
by a chicken-bone) was not altogether 
aussi tendre que Zaire. Write! 


‘Van muerte tan escondida, 
Que no te sienta venir, 
Porque el plazer del morir, 

No mestorne a dar la vida.’ 


*That’s ‘Spanish—from Miguel de 
Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death! 
but be sure and don’t let me see you 
coming, lest the pleasure I shall feel at 
your appearance should unfortunately 
bring me back again to life” This you 
may slip in quite a propos when you 
are struggling in the last agonies with 
the chicken-bone. Write! 


‘Il pover *huomo che non se’n era 
accorto, 
Andava combattendo, e era morto.’ 


That’s Italian, you perceive—from 
Ariosto. It means that a great hero, 
in the heat of combat, not perceiving 
that he had been fairly killed, continued 


743 


to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The 
application of this to your own case is 
obvious—for I trust, Miss Psyche, that 
you will not neglect to kick for at least 
an hour and a half after you have been 
choked to death by that chicken-bone. 
Please to write! 


‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn 
Durch sie—durch sie! 


That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And 
if I die, at least I die—for thee—for 
thee!’ Here it is clear that you are 
apostrophizing the cause of your dis- 
aster, the chicken. Indeed what gentle- 
man (or lady either) of sense, wouldn’t 
die, I should like to know, for a well 
fattened capon of the right Molucca 
breed, stuffed with capers and mush- 
rooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, 
with orange-jellies en mosaiques. Write! 
(You can get them that way at Tore 
toni’s)-—Write, if you please! 

“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, 
and rare too, (one can’t be too recherche 
or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so 
common—ignoratio elenchi. He has 
committed an ignoratio elenchi—that is 
to say, he has understood the words of 
your proposition, but not the idea. 
The man was a fool, you see. Some 
poor fellow whom you address while 
choking with that chicken-bone, and 
who therefore didn’t precisely under- 
stand what you were talking about. 
Throw the zgnoratio elenchi in his teeth, 
and, at once, you have him annihilated. 
Tf he dares to reply, you can tell him 
from Lucan (here it is) that speeches 
are mere anemonae verborum, ane- 
mone words. The anemone, with great 
brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he be- 
gins to bluster, you may be down upon 


744 


him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of 
Jupiter—a phrase which Silius Italicus 
(see here!) applies to thoughts pom- 
pous and inflated. This will be sure and 
cut him to the heart. He can do noth- 
ing but roll over and die. Will you be 
kind enough to write? 

“In Greek we must have some thing 
pretty—from Demosthenes, for example. 


‘Aner o pheugoen kai palin makesetai.’ 


There is a tolerably good translation of 
it in Hudibras— 


‘For he that flies may fight again, 
Which he can never do that’s slain.’ 


In < Blackwood article nothing makes 
so fine a show as your Greek. The 
very letters have an air of profundity 
about them. Only observe, madam, the 
astute look of that Epsilon! .That Phi 
ought certainly to be a bishop! Was 
ever there a smarter fellow than that 
Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In 
short, there is nothing like Greek for 
a genuine sensation-paper. In the pres- 
ent case your application is the most 
obvious thing in the world. Rap out 
the sentence, with a huge oath, and 
by way of zltimatum at the good-for- 
nothing dunder-headed villain who 
couldn’t understand your plain English 
in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll 
take the hint and be off, you may 
depend upon it.” 

These were all the instructions Mr. 
B. could afford me upon the topic in 
question, but I felt they would be en- 
tirely sufficient. I was, at length, able 
to write a genuine Blackwood article, 
and determined to do it forthwith. In 
taking leave of me, Mr. B. made a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


proposition for the purchase of the 
paper when written; but as he could 
offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I 
thought it better to let our society have 
it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a sum. 
Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, 
however, the gentleman showed his 
consideration for me in all other re- 
spects, and indeed treated me with the 
greatest civility. His parting words 
made a deep impression upon my heart, 
and I hope I shall always remember 
them with gratitude. 

“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, 
while the tears stood in his eyes, “is 
there any thing else I can do to 
promote the success of your laudable 
undertaking? Let me reflect! It is 
just possible that you may not be 
able, so soon as convenient, to—to— 
get yourself drowned, or—choked with 
a chicken-bone, or—or hung,—or—bit- 
ten by a—but stay! Now I think me 
of it, there are a couple of very excel- 
lent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fel- 
lows, I assure you—savage, and all 
that—indeed just the thing for your 
money—they’ll have you eaten up, 
auriculas and all, in less than five min- 
utes (here’s my watch!)—and then 
only think of the sensations! Here! 
T say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you vil-~ 
lain!—let out those”’—but as I was 
really in a great hurry, and had not an- 
other moment to spare, I was reluc- 
tantly forced to expedite my departure, 
and accordingly took leave at once— 
somewhat more abruptly, I admit, than 
strict courtesy would have otherwise 
allowed. 

It was my primary object upon quit. 
ting Mr. Blackwood, to get into some 
immediate difficulty, pursuant to his ad- 
vice, and with this view I spent the 





A PREDICAMENT 745 


greater part of the day in wandering 
about Edinburgh, seeking for desperate 
adventures—adventures adequate to the 
intensity of my feelings, and adapted 
to the vast character of the article I 
intended to write. In this excursion I 
was attended by one negro-servant, 
Pompey, and my little lap-dog Diana, 


whom I had brought with me from 
Philadelphia. It was not, however, until 
late in the afternoon that I fully suc- 
ceeded in my arduous undertaking. An 
important event then happened of 
which the following Blackwood article, 
in the tone heterogeneous, is the sub- 
stance and result. 


A Predicament 


(The tale, The Scythe of Time is the same as A Predicament.—Ed.) 
(A Sequel) 


What chance, good lady, hath bereft 
you thus?>—Comus. 


Ir was a quiet and still afternoon 
when I strolled forth in the goodly city 
of Edina. The confusion and _ bustle 
in the streets were terrible. Men were 
talking. Women were screaming. Chil- 
dren were choking. Pigs were whistling. 
Carts they rattled. Bulls they bellowed. 
Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. 
Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they 
danced. Danced! Could it then be 
possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, 
my dancing days are over! ‘Thus it is 
ever. What a host of gloomy recollec- 
tions will ever and anon be awakened 
in the mind of genius and imaginative 
contemplation, especially of a genius 
doomed to the everlasting, and eternal, 
and continual, and, as one might say, 
the—continued—yes, the continued and 
continuous, bitter, harassing, disturbing, 
and, if I may be allowed the expression, 
the very disturbing influence of the 
serene, and god-like, and heavenly, and 
exalting. and elevated, and purifying ef- 


fect of what may be rightly termed the 
most enviable, the most truly enviable 
—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the 
most deliciously ethereal, and, as it 
were, the most pretty (if I may use so 
bold an expression) thing (pardon me, 
gentle reader!) in the world—but I am 
always led away by my feelings. In 
such a mind, I repeat, what a host of 
recollections are stirred up by a trifle! 
The dogs danced! J—I could not! 
They frisked—I wept. They capered— 
I sobbed aloud. Touching circum. 
stances! which cannot fail to bring to 
the recollection of the classical reader 
that exquisite passage in relation to the 
fitness of things, which is to be found in 
the commencement of the third volume 
of that admirable and venerable Chinese 
novel the Jo-Go-Slow. 

In my solitary walk through the city 
I had two humble but faithful compan- 
ions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of 
creatures! She had a quantity of hair 
over her one eye, and a blue riband tied 
fashionably around her neck. Diana 
was not more than five inches in height, 


746 


but her head was somewhat bigger than 
her body, and her tail being cut off ex- 
ceedingly close, gave an air of injured 
innocence to the interesting animal 
which rendered her a favorite with all. 

And Pompey, my negro!—sweet 
Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? 
I had taken Pompey’s arm. He was 
three feet in height (I like to be par- 
ticular) and about seventy, or perhaps 
eighty, years of age. He had bow-legs 
and was corpulent. His mouth should 
not be called small, nor his ears short. 
His teeth, however, were like pearl, and 
his large full eyes were deliciously 
white. Nature had endowed him with 
no neck, and had placed his ankles (as 
usual with that race) in the middle of 
the upper portion of the feet. He was 
clad with a striking simplicity. His 
sole garments were a stock of nine 
inches in height, and a _ nearly-new 
drab overcoat which had formerly been 
in the service of the tall, stately, and 
illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was 
a good overcoat. It was well cut. It 
was well made. The coat was nearly 
new. Pompey held it up out of the 
dirt with both hands. 

There were three persons in our 
party, and two of them have already 
been the subject of remark. There was 
a third—that person was myself. I 
am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I 
am not Suky Snobbs. My appearance 
is commanding. On the memorable oc- 
casion of which I speak I was habited 


in a crimson satin dress, with a sky-— 


blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress 
had trimmings of green agraffas, and 
seven graceful flounces of the orange- 
colored auricula. I thus formed the 
third of the party. There was the 
poodle. There was Pompey. There 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POR 


was myself. We were three. Thus it 
is said there were originally but three 
Furies—Melty, Nimmy, and Hetty— 
Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling. 

Leaning upon the arm of the gallant 
Pompey, and attended at a respectable 
distance by Diana, I proceeded down 
one of the populous and very pleasant 
streets of the now deserted Edina. On 
a sudden, there presented itself to view 
a church—a Gothic cathedral—vast, 
venerable, and with a tall steeple, which 
towered into the sky. What madness 
now possessed me? Why did I rush 
upon my fate? I was seized with an 
uncontrollable desire to ascend the 
giddy pinnacle, and then survey the 
immense extent of the city. The door 
of the cathedral stood invitingly open. 
My destiny prevailed. I entered the 
ominous archway. Where then was my 
guardian angel?—if indeed such angels 
there be. Jf! Distressing monosyllable! 
what a world of mystery, and meaning, 
and doubt, and uncertainty is there 
involved in thy two letters! I entered 
the ominous archway! I entered; and, 
without injury to my orange-colored 
auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, 
and emerged within the vestibule. Thus 
it is said the immense river Alfred 
passed, unscathed, and unwetted, be- 
neath the sea. 

I thought the staircase would never 
have an end. Round! Yes, they went 
round and up, and round and up and 
round and up, until I could not hel 
surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, 
upon whose supporting arm I leaned in 
all the confidence of early affection—I 
could not help surmising that the upper 
end of the continuous spiral ladder had 
been accidentally, or perhaps design- 
edly, removed. I paused for breath; 








A PREDICAMENT 


and, in the meantime, an accident oc- 
curred of too momentous a nature in a 
moral, and also in a metaphysical point 
of view, to be passed over without no- 
tice. It appeared to me—indeed I was 
quite confident of the fact—I could not 
be mistaken—no! I had, for some mo- 
ments, carefully and anxiously observed 
the motions of my Diana—lI say that 
I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt 
a rat! At once I called Pompey’s at- 
tention to the subject, and he—he 
agreed with me. There was then no 
longer any reasonable room for doubt. 
The rat had been smelled—and by 
Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget 
the intense excitement of the moment? 
The rat!—it was there—that is to say, 
it was somewhere. Diana smelled the 
rat. I—J could not! Thus it is said 
the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, 
a sweet and very powerful perfume, 
while to others it is perfectly scentless. 

The staircase had been surmounted, 
and there were now only three or four 
more upward steps intervening between 
us and the summit. We still ascended, 
and now only one step remained. One 
step! One little, little step! Upon 
one such little step in the great stair- 
case of human life how vast a sum of 
human happiness or misery depends! 
I thought of myself, then of Pompey, 
and then of the mysterious and inex- 
plicable destiny which surrounded us. 
I thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought 
of love! I thought of my many false 
steps which have been taken, and may 
be taken again. I resolved to be more 
cautious, more reserved. I abandoned 
the arm of Pompey, and, without his 
assistance, surmounted the one remain- 
ing step, and gained the chamber of the 
belfry. I was followed immediately 


747 


afterward by my poodle. Pompey 
alone remained behind. I stood at the 
head of the staircase, and encouraged 
him to ascend. He stretched forth to 
me his hand, and unfortunately in so 
doing was forced to abandon his firm 
hold upon the overcoat. Will the gods 
never cease their persecution? The 
overcoat is dropped, and, with one of 
his feet, Pompey stepped upon the 
long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. 
He stumbled and _ fell—this conse- 
quence was inevitable. He fell for- 
ward, and, with his accursed head, strik- 
ing me full in the—in the breast, pre- 
cipitated me headlong, together with 
himself, upon the hard, filthy, and de- 


testable floor of the belfry. But my 


revenge was sure, sudden, and com- 
plete. Seizing him furiously by the 
wool with both hands, I tore out a 
vast quantity of black, and crisp, and 
curling material, and tossed it from me 
with every manifestation of disdain. It 
fell among the ropes of the belfry and 
remained. Pompey arose, and said no 
word. But he regarded me piteously 
with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye 
Gods—that sigh! It sunk into my 
heart. And the hair—the wool! Could 
T have reached that wool I would have 
bathed it with my tears, in testimony 
of regret. But alas! it was now far 
beyond my grasp. As it dangled among 
the cordage of the bell, I fancied it 
alive. I fancied that it stood on end 
with indignation. Thus the happy- 
dandy Flos Aeris of Java bears, it is 
said, a beautiful flower, which will live 
when pulled up by the roots. The na- 
tives suspend it by a cord from the 
ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for 
years. 

Our quarrel was now made up, and 


748 


we looked about the room for an aper- 
ture through which to survey the city 
of Edina. Windows there were none. 
The sole light admitted into the gloomy 
chamber proceeded from a square open- 
ing, about a foot in diameter, at a 
height of about seven feet from the 
floor. Yet what will the energy of true 
genius not effect? I resolved to clamber 
up to this hole. A vast quantity of 
wheels, pinions, and other cabalistic- 
looking machinery stood opposite the 
hole, close to it; and through the hole 
there passed an iron rod from the ma- 
chinery. Between the wheels and the 
wall where the hole lay there was barely 
room for my body—yet I was des- 
perate, and determined to persevere. I 
called Pompey to my side. 

“Vou perceive that aperture, Pompey. 
I wish to look through it. You will 
stand here just beneath the hole—so. 
Now, hold out one of your hands, 
Pompey, and let me step upon it— 
thus. Now, the other hand, Pompey, 
and with its aid I will get upon your 
shoulders.” 

He did every thing I wished, and I 
found, upon getting up, that I could 
easily pass my head and neck through 
the aperture. The prospect was sub- 
lime. Nothing could be more magnifi- 
cent. I merely paused a moment to 
bid Diana behave herself, and assure 
Pompey that I would be considerate 
and bear as lightly as possible upon his 
shoulders. I told him I would be tender 
of his feelings—ossz tender que beef- 
steak. Having done this justice to my 
faithful friend, I gave myself up with 
great zest and enthusiasm to the en- 
joyment of the scene which so oblig- 
ingly spread itself out before my eyes. 

Upon this subject, however, I shall 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


forbear to dilate. I will not describe 
the city of Edinburgh. Every one has 
been to the city of Edinburgh. Every 
one has been to Edinburgh—the classic 
Edina. I will confine myself to the mo- 
mentous details of my own lamentable 
adventure. Having, in some measure, 
satisfied my curiosity in regard to the 
extent, situation, and general appear- 
ance of the city, I had leisure to survey 
the church in which I was, and the deli- 
cate architecture of the steeple. I 
observed that the aperture through 
which I had thrust my head was an 
opening in the dial-plate of a gigantic 
clock, and must have appeared, from 
the street, as a large key-hole, such as 
we see in the face of the French watches. 
No doubt the true object was to admit 
the arm of an attendant, to adjust, 
when necessary, the hands of the clock 
from within. I observed also, with sur- 
prise, the immense size of these hands, 
the longest of which could not have 
been less than ten feet in length, and, 
where broadest, eight or nine inches 
in breadth. They were of solid steel 
apparently, and their edges appeared to 
be sharp. Having noticed these par- 
ticulars, and some others, I again 
turned my eyes upon the glorious pros- 
pect below, and soon became absorbed 
in contemplation. 

From this, after some minutes, I was 
aroused by the voice of Pompey, who 
declared that he could stand it no 
longer, and requested that I would be 
so kind as to come down. This was 
unreasonable, and I told him so in a 
speech of some iength. He replied, but 
with an evident misunderstanding of 
my ideas upon the subject. I accord- 
ingly grew angry, and told him in plain 
words, that he was a fool, that he had 





A PREDICAMENT 


committed an zgnoramus e-clench-eye, 
that his notions were mere imsommary 
Bovis, and his words little better than 
an ennemywerrybor’em. With this he 
appeared satisfied, and I resumed my 
“contemplations. 

It might have been half an hour after 
this altercation when, as I was deeply 
absorbed in the heavenly scenery be- 
weath me, I was startled by something 
very cold which pressed with a gentle 
pressure on the back of my neck. It 
is needless to say that I felt inex- 
pressibly alarmed. 
pey was beneath my feet, and that 
Diana was sitting, according to my ex- 
plicit directions, upon her hind legs, in 
the farthest corner of the room. What 
could it be? Alas! I but too soon 
discovered. Turning my head gently to 
one side, I perceived, to my extreme 
horror, that the huge, glittering, scime- 
tar-like minute hand of the clock had, 
in the course of its hourly revolution, 
descended upon my neck. ‘There was, 
I knew, not a second to be lost. I 
pulled back at once—but it was too 
late. There was no chance of forcing 
my head through the mouth of that 
terrible trap in which it was so fairly 
caught, and which grew narrower and 
narrower with a rapidity too horrible to 
be conceived. The agony of that mo- 
ment is not to be imagined. I threw 
up my hands and endeavored, with all 
my strength, to force upward the pon- 
derous iron bar. I might as well have 
tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, 
down, down it came, closer and yet 
closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; 
but he said that I had hurt his feelings 
by calling him “an ignorant old squint- 
eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only 
said “bow-wow-wow,’ and that I had 


I knew that Pom-. 


749 


told her “on no account to stir from 
the corner.” Thus I had no relief to 
expect from my associates. 

Meantime the ponderous and terrific | 
Scythe of Time (for I now discovered 
the literal import of that classical 
phrase) had not stopped, nor was it 
likely to stop, in its career. Down 
and still down, it came. It had al- 
ready buried its sharp edge a full inch 
in my flesh, and my sensations grew 
indistinct and confused. At one time 
I fancied myself in Philadelphia with 
the stately Dr. Moneypenny, at an- 
other in the back parlor of Mr. Black- 
wood receiving his invaluable instruc- 
tions. And then again the sweet recol- 
lection of better and earlier times came 
over me, and I thought of that happy 
period when the world was not all a 
desert, and Pompey not altogether cruel. 

The ticking of the machinery amused 
me. Amused me, I say, for my sensa- 
tions now bordered upon perfect happi- 
ness, and the most trifling circum- 
stances afforded me pleasure. - The 
eternal click-clak, click-clak, click-clak 
of the clock was the most melodious 
of music in my ears, and occasionally 
even put me in mind of the graceful 
sermonic harangues of Dr. Ollapod. 
Then there were the great figures upon 
the dial-plate—how intelligent, how in- 
tellectual, they all looked! And pres- 
ently they took to dancing the Ma- 
zurka, and I think it was the figure 
V. who performed the most to my satis- 
faction. She was evidently a lady of 
breeding. None of your swaggerers, 
and nothing at all indelicate in her mo- 
tions. She did the pirouette to admira- 
tion—whirling round upon her apex. 
I made an endeavor to hand her a 
chair, for I saw that she appeared 


750 


fatigued with her exertions—and it was 
not until then that I fully perceived my 
lamentable situation. Lamentable in- 
deed! The bar had buried itself two 
‘inches in my neck. I was aroused to 
a sense of exquisite pain. I prayed 
for death, and, in the agony of the 
moment, could not help repeating those 
exquisite verses of the poet Miguel De 
Cervantes: 


Vanny Buren, tan escondida 
Query no te senty venny 

Pork and pleasure, delly morry 
Nommy, torny, darry, widdy! 


But now a new horror presented 
itself, and one indeed sufficient to 
. Startle the strongest nerves. My eyes, 
from the cruel pressure of the machine, 
were absolutely starting from their 
sockets. While I was thinking how I 
should possibly manage without them, 
one actually tumbled out of my head, 
and, rolling down the steep side of the 
steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which 
ran along the eaves .f the main build- 
ing. The loss of the eye was not so 
‘much as the insolent air of independ- 
ence and contempt with which it re- 
garded me after it was out. There it 
lay in the gutter just under my nose, 
and the airs it gave itself would have 
been ridiculous had they not been dis- 
gusting. Such a winking and blinking 
were never before seen. This _ be- 
havior on the part of my eye in the 
gutter was not only irritating on ac- 
count of its manifest insolence and 
shameful ingratitude, but was also ex- 
ceedingly inconvenient on account of 
the sympathy which always exists be- 
tween two eyes of the same _ head, 
however far apart. I was forced, in 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


a manner, to wink and to blink, whether 
I would or not, in exact concert with 
the scoundrelly thing that lay just 
under my nose. I was presently re- 
lieved, however, by the dropping out 
of the other eye. In falling it took the © 
same direction (possibly a concerted 
plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out 
of the gutter together, and in truth 
I was very glad to get rid of them. 

The bar was now four inches and a 
half deep in my neck, and there was 
only a litle hit of skin to cut through. 


‘My sensations were those of entire 


happiness, for I felt that in a few 
minutes, at farthest, I should be re- 
lieved from my disagreeable situation. 
And in this expectation I was not at 
all deceived. At twenty-five minutes 
past. five in the afternoon, precisely, the 
huge minute-hand had proceeded suffi- 
ciently far on its terrible revolution to 
sever the small remainder of my neck. 
I was not sorry to see the head which 
had occasioned me so much embarrass- 
ment at length make a final separation 
from my body. It first rolled down 
the side of the steeple, then lodged, for 
a few seconds, in the gutter, and then 
made its way, with a plunge, into the 
middle of the street. 

I will candidly confess that my feel- 
ings were now of the most singular — 
nay, of the most mysterious, the mcst 
perplexing and incomprehensible char- 
acter. My senses were here and there 
at one and the same moment. With 
my head I imagined, at one time, that 
{, the head, was the real Signora Psyche 
Zenobia—at another I felt convinced 
that myself, the body, was the proper 
identity. To clear my ideas on this 
topic I felt in my pocket for my snuff- 
box. but, upon getting it, and endeavor- 





A PREDICAMENT 751 


ing to apply a pinch of its grateful 
contents in the ordinary manner, I 
became immediately aware of my pecu- 
liar deficiency, and threw the box at 
once down to my head. It took a 
pinch with great satisfaction, and 
smiled me an acknowledgement in re- 
turn. Shortly afterward it made me a 
speech, which I could hear but indis- 
tinctly without ears. I gathered enough, 
however, to know that it was astonished 
at my wishing to remain alive under 
such circumstances. In the concluding 
sentences it quoted the noble words of 
Ariosto— 


Il pover hommy che non sera corty 
And have a combat tenty erry morty; 


thus comparing me to the hero who, 
in the heat of the combat, not perceiv- 
ing that he was dead, continued to con- 
test the battle with inextinguishable 
valor. There was nothing now to pre- 
vent my getting down from my eleva- 
tion, and I did so. What it was that 
Pompey saw so very peculiar in my 
appearance I have never yet been able 
to find out. The fellow opened his 
mouth from ear to ear, and shut his 
two eyes as if he were endeavoring to 
crack nuts between the lids. Finally, 
throwing off his overcoat, he made one 
spring for the staircase and disappeared. 


I hurled after the scoundrel these vehe- 
ment words of Demosthenes— 


Andrew O’Phlegethon, you really make 
haste to fly, 


and then turned to the darling of my 
heart, to the one-eyed! the shaggy- 
haired Diana. Alas! what a horrible 
vision affronted my eyes? Was that a 
rat I saw skulking into his hole? Are 
these the picked bones of the little 
angel who has been cruelly devoured by 
the monster? Ye gods! and what do 
I behold—is that the departed spirit, 
the shade, the ghost, of my beloved 
puppy, which I perceive sitting with 
a grace so melancholy, in the corner? 
Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! 
it is in the German of Schiller — 


“Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun 
Duk she! duk she!” 


Alas! and are not her words too true}? 


“And if I died, at least I died 
For thee—for thee.” 


Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed 
herself in my behalf. Dogless, nigger- 
less, headless, what mow remains for the 
unhappy Signora Psyche ZenobiaP 
Alas—nothing! I have done. 


*" 


X-ing a Paragrab 


As it is well known that the “wise 
men” came “from the East,” and as 
Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came 
from the East, it follows that Mr. Bul- 
let-head was a wise man; and if col- 
lateral proof of the matter be needed, 
here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor. 
Trascibility was his sole foible; for in 
fact the obstinacy of which men ac- 
cused him was anything but his fozble, 
since he justly considered it his forte. 
It was his strong point—his virtue; 
and it would have required all the logic 
of a Brownson to convince him that it 
was “anything else.” 

T have shown that Touch-and-go Bul- 
let-head was a wise man; and the only 
occasion on which he did not prove 
infallible, was when, abandoning that 
legitimate home for all wise men, the 
East, he migrated to the city of Alex- 
ander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some place 
of a similar title, out West. 

I must do him the justice to say, 
however, that when he made up his 
mind finally to settle in that town, it 
was under the impression that no news- 
paper, and consequently no editor, ex- 
isted in that particular section of the 
country. In establishing The Tea-Pot 
he expected to have the field all to 
himself. I feel confident he never 
would have dreamed of taking up his 
residence in Alexander-the-Great-o-nop- 
olis had he been aware that, in Alex- 
ander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a 
gentleman named John Smith (if I 
rightly remember), who for many 
years had there quietly grown fat in 
editing and publishing the Alexander-~ 
the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette. It was 


552 


solely, therefore, on account of having 
been misinformed, that Mr. Bullet- 
head found himself in Alex sup- 
pose we call it Nopolis, “for short”— 
but, as he did find himself there, he 
determined to keep up his character 
for obst—for firmness, and remain. So 
remain he did; and he did more; he 
unpacked his press, type, etc., etc., 
rented an office exactly opposite to that 
of the Gazette, and, on the third morn- 
ing after his arrival, issued the first 
number of The Alexan—that is to say, 
of The Nopolis Tea-Pot—as nearly as 
IT can recollect, this was the name of 
the new paper. 

The leading article, I must admit, 
was brilliant—not to say severe. It 
was especially bitter about things in 
general—and as for the editor of The 
Gazette, he was torn all to pieces in 
particular. Some of Bullet-head’s re- 
marks were really so fiery that I have 
always, since that time, been forced to 
look upon John Smith, who is still 
alive, in the light of a salamander. I 
cannot pretend to give all the Tea-Pot’s 
paragraphs verbatim, but one of them 
runs thus: 

“Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no 
doubt! The editor over the way is a 
genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gra- 
cious!—what is this world coming to? 
Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!” 

A philippic at once so caustic and so 
classical, alighted like a bombshell 
among the hitherto peaceful citizens of 
Nopolis. Groups of excited individuals 
gathered at the corners of the streets. 
Every one awaited, with heartfelt anx- 





X-ING A PARAGRAB 


jety, the reply of the dignified Smith. 
Next morning it appeared as follows: 

“We quote from The Tea-Pot of 
yesterday the subjoined paragraph: 
‘Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! 
doubt! Ok, my! Ok, goodness! 
tempora! Oh, Moses!’ Why, the fel- 
low is all O! That accounts for his 
reasoning in a circle, and explains why 
there is neither beginning nor end to 
him, nor to anything he says. Ws 
really do not believe the vagabond can 
write a word that hasn’t an O in it. 
Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? 
By-the-by, he came away from Down- 
East in a great hurry. Wonder if he 
O’s as much there as he does here? ‘O/ 
it is pitiful.’ ” 

The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head 
at these scandalous insinuations, I shall 
not attempt to describe. On the eel- 
skinning principle, however, he did not 
seem to be so much incensed at the 
attack upon his integrity as one might 
have imagined. It was the sneer at 
his style that drove him to desperation. 
What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head! 
—not able to write a word without an 
O in it! He would soon let the jack- 
anapes see that he was mistaken. Yes! 
he would let him see how much he was 
mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and- 
go Bullet-head, of Frogpondium, would 
let Mr. John Smith perceive that he, 
Bullet-head, could indite, if it so 
pleased him, a whole paragraph—ay! a 
whole article—in which that contempt- 
ible vowel should not once—not even 
once—make its appearance. But no;— 
that. would be yielding a point to the 
said John Smith. He, Bullet-head, 
~ would make no alteration in his style, 
to suit the caprices of any Mr. Smith 
in Christendom. Perish so vile a 


Oh, 


Oh, no- 


753 


thought! The O forever! He would 
persist in the O. He would be as O-wy 
as O-wy could be. 

Burning with the chivalry of this 
determination, the great Touch-and-go, 
in the next Tea-Pot, came out merely 
with this simple but resolute para- 
graph, in reference to this unhappy 
affair: 

“The editor of the Tea-Pot has the 
honor of advising the editor of the 
Gazette that he (the Tea-Pot) will take 
an opportunity in to-morrow morning’s 
paper, of convincing him (the Gazette) 
that he (the Tea-Pot) both can and 
will be his own master, as regards 
style;—he (the Tea-Pot) intending to 
show him (the Gazette) the supreme, 
and indeed the withering contempt with 
which the criticism of him (the Ga- 
zette) inspires the independent bosom 
of him (the Tea-Pot) by composing for 
the especial gratification (?) of him 
(the Gazette) a leading article, of some 
extent, in which the beautiful vowel— 
the emblem of Eternity—yet so offen- 
sive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of 
him (the Gazette) shall most certainly 
not be avoided by his (the Gazette’s) 
most obedient, humble servant, the 
Tea-Pot. ‘So much for Buckingham!’ ” 

In fulfilment of the awful threat 
thus darkly intimated rather than de- 
cidedly enunciated, the great Bullet- 
head, turning a deaf ear to all entreaties 
for “copy,” and simply requesting his 
foreman to “go to the d 1,” when 
he (the foreman) assured him (the 
Tea-Pot!) that it was high time to “go 
to press”: turning a deaf ear to every- 
thing, I say, the great Bullet-head sat 
up until daybreak, consuming the mid- 
night oil, and absorbed in the compo- 





754 


sition of the really unparalleled para- 
graph, which follows:— 

“So ho, John! how now? Told you 
so, you know. Don’t crow, another 
time, before you’re out of the woods! 
Does your mother know you’re out? 
Oh, no, no!—so go home at once, now, 
John, to your odious old woods of 
Concord! Go home to your woods, old 
owl,—go! You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, 
John, don’t do so! You've got to go, 
you know! So go at once, and don’t 
go slow; for nobody owns you here, 
you know! Oh! John, John, if you 
don’t go you’re no homo—no! You're 
only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a 
doll, a poll; a poor, old, good-for-noth- 
ing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or frog, 
come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now 
—cool! Do be cool, you fool! None 
of your crowing, old cock! Don’t 
frown so—don’t! Don’t hollo, nor 
howl, nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! 
Good Lord, John, how you do look! 
Told you so, you know—but stop roll- 
ing your goose of an old poll about so, 
and go and drown your sorrows in a 
bowl!” 

Exhausted, very naturally, by so stu- 
pendous an effort, the great Touch-and- 
go could attend to nothing farther that 
night. Firmly, composedly, yet with 
an air of conscious power, he handed 
his MS. to the devil in waiting, and 
then, walking leisurely home, retired, 
with ineffable dignity to bed. 

Meantime the devil, to whom the 
copy was entrusted, ran up stairs to his 
“case,’ in an unutterable hurry, and 
forthwith made a commencement at 
“setting” the MS. “up.” 

In the first place, of course,—as the 
opening word was “So,’—he made a 
plunge into the capital S hole and came 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


out in triumph with a capital S. Elatec 
by this success, he immediately threw 
himself upon the little-o box with a 
blindfold impetuosity—but who shall 
describe his horror when his fingers 
came up without the anticipated letter 
in their clutch? who shall paint his as- 
tonishment and rage at perceiving, as 
he rubbed his knuckles, that he had 
been only thumping them to no pur- 
pose, against the bottom of an empty 
box. Not a single little-o was in the 
little-o hole; and, glancing fearfully at 
the capital-O partition, he found that, 
to his extreme terror, in a precisely 
similar predicament. Awe-stricken, his 
first impulse was to rush to the fore- 
man. 

“Sir!” said he, gasping for breath, 
“I can’t never set up nothing without 
no 0's.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 
growled the foreman, who was in a 
very ill humor at being kept so late. 

“Why, sir, there beant an o in the 
office, neither a big un nor a little un!” 

“What—what the d—l has become 
of all that were in the case?” 

“ZT don’t know, sir,” said the boy, 
“but one of them ere G’zette devils is 
bin prowling "bout here all night, and 
I spect he’s gone and cabbaged ’em 
every one.” 

“Dod rot him! I haven’t a doubt 
of it,” replied the foreman, getting pur- 
ple with rage—“but I tell you what you 
do, Bob, that’s a good boy—you go 
over the first chance you get and hook 
every one of their i’s and (d—n them!) 
their izzards.” 

“Jist' so,” replied Bob, with a wink 
and a frown—“T’ll be into ’em, J’J] let 
’em know a thing or two; but in de 
meantime, that ere paragrab? Mus go 





X-ING A PARAGRAB 


in to-night, you know—else there’ll be 
the d—1 to pay, and—” 

“And not a bit of pitch hot,” inter- 
rupted the foreman, with a deep sigh, 
and an emphasis on the “bit.” “Is it 
a long paragraph, Bob?” 

“Shouldn’t call it a wery long para- 
gral,” said Bob. 

“Ah, well, then! do the best you can 
with it! We must get to press,” said 
the foreman, who was over head and 
ears in work; “just stick in some other 
letter for 0; nobody’s going to read the 
fellow’s trash anyhow.” 

“Wery well,” replied Bob, “here goes 
it!” and off he hurried to his case; 
muttering as he went: ‘‘Considdeble 
vell, them ere expressions, perticcler 
for a man as doesn’t swar. So I’s to 
gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d—n 
all their gizzards! Vell! this here’s the 
chap as is just able for to do it.” The 
fact is that although Bob was but 
twelve years old and four feet high, he 
was equal to any amount of fight, in a 
small way. 

The exigency here described is by no 
means of rare occurrence in printing- 
offices; and-I cannot tell how to ac- 
-ount for it, but the fact is indisputable, 
that when the exigency does occur, it 
almost always happ2ns that xi adopted 
as a substitute for the letter deficient. 
The true reason, perhaps, is that x is 
rather the most superabundant letter 
in the cases, or at least was so in the 
old times long enough to render the 
substitution in question an_ habitual 
thing with printers. As for Bob, he 
would have considered it heretical to 
employ any other character, in a case 
of this kind, than the x to which he 
had been accustomed. 

“I shell have to x this ere paragrab,” 


755 


said he to himself, as he read it over 
in astonishment, “but it’s jest about 
the awfulest o-wy paragrab I ever did 
see’: so x it he did, unflinchingly, and 
to press it went x-ed. 

Next morning the population of 
Nopolis were taken all aback by read- 
ing in The Tea-Pot, the following ex- 
traordinary leader: 

“Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu 
sx, yxu knxw. Dxn’t crxw, anxther 
time, befxre yxu’re xut xf the wxxds! 
Dxes yxur mxther kuxw yxu’re xut? 
Xh, nx, nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, 
Jxhn, tx yxur xdixus xld wxxds xf 
Cxncxrd! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld 
xwl,—gx! Yxu wxn’t? Xh, pxh, pxh, 
Jxhn, dxn’t dx sx! Yxu’ve gxt tx gx, 
yxu knxw; sx gx at xnce, and dxn’t gx 
slxw; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here, yxu 
knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn’t 
gx yxu’re nx hxmx—nx! Yxu’re xnly 
a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a 
pxll; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx- 
nxbxdy, Ixg, dxg, hxg, xr frxg, cxme 
xut xf a Cxncexrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw— 


cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu fxxl! Nxne 
xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck! Dxn’t 
frxwn sx—dxn’t! Dxn’t hxllx, nxr 


hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw! 
Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw yxu dx Ixxk! 
Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,~—but stxp rxll- 
ing yxur gxxse xf an xld pxll abxut sx, 
and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a 
bxwl!” 

The uproar occasioned by this mys- 
tical and cabalistical article, is not to 
be conceived. The first definite idea 
entertained by the populace was, that 
some diabolical treason lay concealed in 
the hieroglyphics; and there was a gen- 
eral rush to Bullet-head’s residence, for 
the purpose of riding him on a rail; 
but that gentleman was nowhere to be 


756 


found. He had vanished, no one could 
tell how; and not even the ghost of him 
has ever been seen since. 

Unable to discover its legitimate ob- 
ject, the popular fury at length sub- 
sided; leaving behind it, by way of 
sediment, quite a medley of opinion 
about this unhappy affair. 

One gentleman thought the whole an 
X-ellent joke. 

Another said that, indeed, Bullet- 
head had shown much X-uberance of 
fancy. 

A third admitted him X-entric, but 
no more. 

A fourth could only suppose it the 
Yankee’s design to X-press, in a general 
way, his X-asperation. 

“Say, rather, to set an X-ample to 
posterity,” suggested a fifth. 

That Bullet-head had been driven to 
an extremity, was clear to all; and in 
fact, since that editor could not be 
found, there was some talk about 
lynching the other one. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The more common conclusion, how: 
ever, was that the affair was, simply, 
X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even 
the town mathematician confessed that 
he could make nothing of so dark a 
problem. X, everybody knew, was an 
unknown quantity; but in this case (as 
he properly observed), there was an 
unknown quantity of X. 

The opinion of Bob, the devil (whe 
kept dark about his having “X-ed the 
paragrab”), did not meet with so much 
attention as I think it deserved, al- 
though it was very openly and very 
fearlessly expressed. He said that, for 
his part, he had no doubt about the 
matter at all, that it was a clear case, 
that Mr. Bullet-head “never could be 
persvaded fur to drink like other folks, 
but vas continually a-svigging o’ that 
ere blessed XXX ale, and, as a naiteral 
consekvence, it just puffed him up sav- 
age, and made him X (cross) in the 
X-treme.” 


Morning on the Wussahiccon 


(This tale is also called The Elk and was published in The Opal, a literary 
annual, 1844.—Ed.) 


THE natural scenery of America has 
often been contrasted, in its general 
Yeatures as well as in detail, with the 
landscape of the Old World—more 
especially of Europe—and not deeper 
has been the enthusiasm, than wide the 
dissension, of the supporters of each 
region. The discussion is one not likely 
to be soon closed, for, although much 
has been said on both sides, a word 
more yet remains to be said. 


The most conspicuous of the British 
tourists who have attempted a com- 
parison, seem to regard our northern 
and eastern seaboard, comparatively 
speaking, as all of America, at least, as 
all of the United States, worthy consid- 
eration. They say little, because they 
have seen less, of the gorgeous interior 
scenery of some of our western and 
southern districts—of the vast valley 
of Louisiana, for example—a_ realiza- 











MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON 


tion of the wildest dreams of paradise. 
For the most part, these travellers con- 
tent themselves with a hasty inspection 
of the natural lions of the land—the 
Hudson, Niagara, the Catskills, Harper’s 
Ferry, the lakes of New York, the Ohio, 
the prairies, and the Mississippi. These, 
indeed, are objects well worthy the con- 
templation even of him who has just 
clambered by the castellated Rhine, or 
roamed 


By the blue rushing of the arrowy 
Rhone; 


but these are not all of which we can 
boast; and, indeed, I will be so hardy 
as to assert that there are innumerable 
quiet, obscure, and scarcely explored 
nooks, within the limits of the United 
States, that, by the true artist, or cul- 
tivated lover of the grand and beautiful 
amid the werks of God, will be pre- 
ferred to each and fo all of the chron- 
icled and better accredited scenes to 
which I have referred. 

In fact, the real Edens of the land 
lie far away from the track of our own 
most deliberate tourists—how very far, 
then, beyond the reach of the foreigner, 
who, having made with his publisher at 
home arrangements for a certain amount 
of comment upon America, to be fur- 
nished in a stipulated period, can hope 
to fulfil his agreement in no other man- 
ner than by steaming it, memorandum- 
book in hand, through only the most 
beaten thoroughfares of the country! 

I mentioned, just above, the valley 
of Louisiana. Of all extensive areas of 
natural loveliness, this is perhaps the 
most lovely. No fiction has approached 
it. The most gorgeous imagination 
might derive suggestions from its exu- 


757 


berant beauty. And beauty is, indeed, 
its sole character. It has little, or 
rather nothing, of the sublime. Gentle 
undulations of soil, interwreathed with 
fantastic crystallic streams, banked by 
flowery slopes, and backed by a forest 
vegetation, gigantic, glossy, multicol- 
oured, sparkling with gay birds and 
burthened with perfume—these features 
make up, in the vale of Louisiana, the 
most voluptuous natural scenery upon 
earth. 

But, even of this delicious region, 
the sweeter portions are reached only 
by the bypaths. Indeed, in America 
generally, the traveller who would be- 
hold the finest landscapes, must seek 
them not by the railroad, nor by the 
steamboat, not by the stage-coach, nor 
in his private carriage, not yet even on 
horseback—but on foot. He must walk, 
he must leap ravines, he must risk his 
neck among precipices, or he must leave 
unseen the truest, the richest, and most 
unspeakable glories of the land. 

Now in the greater portion of Europe 
no such necessity exists. In England 
it exists not at all. The merest dandy 
of a tourist may there visit every nook 
worth visiting without detriment to his 
silk stockings; so thoroughly known are 
all. points of interest, and so well-ar- 
ranged are the means of attaining them. 
This consideration has never been al- 
lowed its due weight, in comparisons of 
the natural scenery of the Old and New 
Worlds. The entire loveliness of the 
former is collated with only the most 
noted, and with by no means the most 
eminent items in the general loveliness 
of the latter. 

River scenery has, unquestionably. 
within itself, all the main elements of 
beauty, and, time out of mind, has been 


758 


the favourite theme of the poet. But 
much of this fame is attributable to the 
predominance of travel in fluvial over 
that in mountainous districts. In the 
same way, large rivers, because usually 
highways, have, in all countries, ab- 
sorbed an undue share of admiration. 
They are more observed, and, conse- 
quently, made more the subject of dis- 
course, than less important, but often 
more interesting streams. 

A singular exemplification of my re- 
marks upon this head may be found in 
the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for mere it 
can scarcely be called,) which empties 
itself into the Schuylkill, about six 
miles westward of Philadelphia. Now 
the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a 
loveliness that, were it flowing in Eng- 
land, it would be the theme of every 
bard, and the common topic of every 
tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not 
parcelled off in lots, at an exorbitant 
price, as building-sites for the villas of 
the opulent. Yet it is only within a 
very few years that any one has more 
than heard of the Wissahiccon, while 
the broader and more navigable water 
into which it flows, has been long cele- 
brated as one of the finest specimens 
of American river scenery. The Schuyl- 
kill, whose beauties have been much 
exaggerated, and whose banks, at least 
in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, are 
marshy like those of the Delaware, is 
not at all comparable, as an object of 
picturesque interest, with the more 
humble and less notorious rivulet of 
which we speak. 

It was not until Fanny Kemble, in 
her droll book about the United States, 
pointed out to the Philadelphians the 
rare loveliness of a stream which lay 
at their own doors, that this loveliness 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


was more than suspected by a few ad: 
venturous pedestrians of the vicinity. 
But, the “Journal” having opened all 
eyes, the Wissahiccon, to a certain ex- 
tent, rolled at once into notoriety. I 
say “to a certain extent,” for, in fact, 
the true beauty of the stream lies far 
above the route of the Philadelphian 
picturesque-hunters, who rarely proceed 
farther than a mile or two above the 
mouth of the rivulet-—for the very ex- 
cellent reason that here the carriage- 
road stops. I would advise the adven- 
turer who would behold its finest points 
to take the Ridge Road, running west- 
wardly from the city, and, having 
reached the second lane beyond the 
sixth mile-stone, to follow this lane to 
its termination. He will thus strike the 
Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, 
and, in a, skiff, or by clambering along 
its banks, he can go up or down the 
stream, as best suits his fancy, and in 
either direction will meet his reward. 

I have already said, or should have 
said, that the brook is narrow. Its 
banks are generally, indeed almost uni- 
versally, precipitous, and consist of high 
hills, clothed with noble shrubbery near 
the water, and crowned at a greater 
elevation, with some of the most mag- 
nificent forest trees of America, among 
which stands conspicuous the Jirio- 
dendron tulipiferum. The immediate 
shores, however, are of granite, sharply- 
defined or moss-covered, against which 
the pellucid water lolls in its gentle 
flow, as the blue waves of the Mediter- 
ranean upon the steps of her palaces of 
marble. Occasionally in front of the 
cliffs, extends a small definite plateau 
of richly herbaged land, affording the 
most picturesque position for a cottage 
and garden which the richest imagina- 


MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON 


tion could conceive. The windings of 
the stream are many and abrupt, as 
is usually the case where banks are 
precipitous, and thus the impression 
conveyed to the voyager’s eye, as he 
proceeds, is that of an endless succes- 
sion of infinitely varied small lakes, or, 
more properly speaking, tarns. The 
Wissahiccon, however, should be visited, 
not like “fair Melrose,” by moonlight, 
or even in cloudy weather, but amid the 
brightest glare of a noonday sun; for 
the narrowness of the gorge through 
which it flows, the height of the hills 
on either hand, and the density of the 
foliage, conspire to produce a gloomi- 
ness, if not an absolute dreariness of 
effect, which, unless relieved by a bright 
general light, detracts from the mere 
beauty of the scene. 

Not long ago I visited the stream by 
the route described, and spent the bet- 
ter part of a sultry day in floating in a 
skiff upon its bosom. The heat grad- 
ually overcame me, and, resigning my- 
self to the influence of the scenes and 
of the weather, and of the gentle mov- 
ing current, I sank into a half slumber, 
during which my imagination revelled 
in visions of the Wissahiccon of ancient 
days—of the “good old days” when the 
Demon of the Engine was not, when 
}ic-nics were undreamed of, when 
“water privileges” were neither bought 
nor sold, and when the red man trod 
alone, with the elk, upon the ridges 
that now towered above. And, while 
gradually these conceits took possession 
of my mind, the lazy brook had borne 
me, inch by inch, around one prom- 
ontory and within full view of another 
that bounded the ,prospect at the dis- 
tance of forty or fifty yards. It was a 
steep rocky cliff, abutting far into the 


759 


stream, and presenting much more of 
the Salvator character than any portion 
of the shore hitherto passed. What I 
saw upon this cliff, although surely an 
object of very extraordinary nature, 
the place and season considered, at first 
neither startled nor amazed me—so 
thoroughly and appropriately did it 
chime in with the half-slumberous 
fancies that enwrapped me. I saw, or 
dreamed that I saw, standing upon the 
extreme verge of the precipice, with 
neck outstretched, with ears erect, and 
the whole attitude indicative of pro- 
found and melancholy inquisitiveness, 
one of the oldest and boldest of those 
identical elks which had been coupled 
with the red men of my vision. 

I say that, for a few moments, this 
apparition neither startled nor amazed 
me. During this interval my whole 
soul was bound up in intense sympathy 
alone. I fancied the elk repining, not 
less than wondering, at the manifest 
alterations for the worse, wrought upon 
the brook and its vicinage, even within 
the last few years, by the stern hand 
of the utilitarian. But a slight move- 
ment of the animal’s head at once dis- 
pelled the dreaminess which invested 
me, and aroused me to a full sense of 
novelty of the adventure. I arose upon 
one knee within the skiff, and, while I 
hesitated whether to stop my career, or 
let myself float nearer to the object of 
my wonder, I heard the words “hist!” 
“hist!” ejaculated quickly but cau- 
tiously, from the shrubbery overhead. 
In an instant afterwards, a negro 
emerged from the thicket, putting aside 
the bushes with care, and treading 
stealthily. He bore in one hand a quan- 
tity of salt, and, holding it towards the 


760 


elk, gently yet steadily approached. 
The noble animal, although a little 
fluttered, made no attempt at escape. 
The negro advanced; offered the salt; 
and spoke a few words of encourage- 
ment or conciliation. Presently, the elk 
howed and stamped, and then lay 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


quietly down and was secured with a 
halter. 

Thus ended my romance of the elk. 
It was a pet of great age and very 
domestic habits, and belonged to an 
English family occupying a villa in the 
vicinity. 


Bi. 























VOLUME VIII 








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rest 


Letter to Mr. B 


WEsT Pornt, 1831. 
Dear B ah a ees eee de 

Believing only a portion of my former 
volume to be worthy a second edition— 
that small portion I thought it as well 
to include in the present book as to 
republish by itself. I have therefore 
herein combined “Al Aaraaf” and 
“Tamerlane” with other poems hitherto 
unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to in- 
sert from the “Minor Poems,” now 
omitted, whole lines, and even passages, 
to the end that being placed in a 
fairer light, and the trash shaken from 
them in which they were imbedded, 
they may have some chance of being 
seen by posterity. 

It has been said that a good critique 
on a poem may be written by one who 
is no poet himself. This, according to 
your idea and mine of poetry, I feel 
to be false—the less poetical the critic, 
the less just the critique, and the con- 
verse. On this account, and because 
there are but few B s in the world, 
I would be as much ashamed of the 
world’s good opinion as proud of your 
own. Another than yourself might 
here observe, “Shakespeare is in pos- 
session of the world’s good opinion, 
and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of 
poets. It appears then that as the world 
judges correctly, why should you be 
ashamed of their favourable judg- 
ment?” The difficulty lies in the inter- 
pretation of the word “judgment” or 
“opinion.” The opinion is the world’s, 
truly, but it may be called theirs as a 
man would call a book his, having 








761 





bought it; he did not write the book, 
but it is his; they did not originate the 
opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for 
example, thinks Shakespeare a great 
poet—yet the fool has never read 
Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbour, 
who is a step higher on the Andes of 
the mind, whose head (that is to say, 
his more exalted thought) is too far 
above the fool to be seen or under- 
stood, but whose feet (by which I 
mean his every-day actions) are suffi- 
ciently near to be discerned, and by 
means of which that superiority is as- 
certained, which but for them would 
never have been discovered—this neigh- 
bour asserts that Shakespeare is a great 
poet—the fool believes him, and it is 
henceforward his opinion. ‘This neigh- 
bour’s own opinion has, in like manner, 
been adopted from one above him, and 
so, ascendingly, to a few gifted indi- 
viduals who kneel around the summit, 
beholding, face to face, the master 
spirit who stands upon the pinnacle. 
You are aware of the great barrier 
in the path of an American writer. He 
is read, if at all, in preference to the 
combined and established wit of the 
world. I say established; for it is 
with literature as with law or empire— 
an established name is an estate in 
tenure, or a throne in possession. Be- 
sides, one might suppose that books, 
like their authors, improve by travel— 
their having crossed the sea is, with us, 
so great a distinction. Our antiquaries 
abandon time for distance; our very 
fops glance from the binding to the 


762 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


bottom of the title-page, where the 
mystic characters which spell London, 
Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many 
letters of recommendation. 

I mentioned just now a vulgar error 
as regards criticism. I think the notion 
that no poet can form a correct esti- 
mate of his own writings is another. 
I remarked before that in proportion 
to the poetical talent would be the 
justice of a critique upon poetry. 
Therefore a bad poet would, I grant, 
make a false critique, and his self-love 
would infallibly bias his little judg- 
ment in his favour; but a poet. who is 
indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail 
of making a just critique; whatever 
should be deducted on the score of self- 
love might be replaced on account of 
his intimate acquaintance with the sub- 
ject; in short, we have more instances 
of false criticism than of just where 
one’s own writings are the test, simply 
because we have more bad poets than 
good. There are, of course, many ob- 
jections to what I say: Milton is a 
great example of the contrary; but his 
opinion with respect to the “Paradise 
Regained” is by no means fairly ascer- 
tained. By what trivial circumstances 
men are often led to assert what they 
do not really believe! Perhaps an in- 
advertent world has descended to pos- 
terity. But, in fact, the “Paradise Re- 
gained” is little, if at all, inferior to the 
“Paradise Lost,” and is only supposed 
so to be because men do not like epics, 
whatever they may say to the contrary, 
and reading those of Milton in their 
natural order, are too much wearied 
with the first to derive any pleasure 
from the second. 

I dare say Milton preferred “Comus” 
to either—if so—justly. 


As I am speaking of poetry, it will 
not be amiss to touch slightly upon the 
most singular heresy in its modern his- 
tory—the heresy of what is called, very 
foolishly, the Lake School. Some years 
ago I might have been induced, by an 
occasion like the present, to attempt a 
formal refutation of their doctrine; at 
present it would be a work of super- 
erogation. The wise must bow to the 
wisdom of such men as Coleridge and 
Southey, but being wise, have laughed 
at poetical theories so prosaically ex- 
emplified. 

Aristotle, with singular assurance, 
has declared poetry the most philosoph- 
ical of all writings—but it required a 
Wordsworth to pronounce it the most 
metaphysical. He seems to think that 
the end of poetry is, or should be, in- 
struction; yet it is a truism that the 
end of our existence is happiness; if so, 
the end of every separate part of our 
existence, everything connected with our 
existence, should be still happiness. 
Therefore the end of instruction should 
be happiness; and happiness is another 
name for pleasure;—therefore the end 
of instruction should be pleasure; yet 
we see the above-mentioned opinion im- 
plies precisely the reverse. 

To proceed: ceteris paribus, he who 
pleases is of more importance to his 
fellow-men than he who instructs, since 
utility is happiness, and pleasure is the 
end already obtained while instruction 
is merely the means of obtaining. 

I see no reason, then, why our meta- 
physical poets should plume themselves 
so much on the utility of their works, 
unless indeed they refer to instruction 
with eternity in view; in which case, 
sincere respect for their piety would 
not allow me to express my contempt 


LETTER TO MR. B—— 


for their judgment; contempt which it 
would be difficult to conceal, since their 
writings are professedly to be under- 
stood by the few, and it is the many 
who stand in need of salvation. In 
such case I should no doubt be tempted 
to think of the devil in ‘“Melmoth,” 
who labours indefatigably, through 
three octavo volumes, to accomplish 
the destruction of one or two souls, 
while any common devil would have 
demolished one or two thousand. 

Against the subtleties which would 
make poetry a study—not a passion— 
it becomes the metaphysician to reason 
—but the poet to protest. Yet Words- 
worth and Coleridge are men in years; 
the one imbued in contemplation from 
his childhood; the other a giant in in- 
tellect and learning. The diffidence, 
then, with which I venture to dispute 
their authority would be overwhelming’ 
did I not feel, from the bottom of my 
heart, that learning has little to do with 
the imagination—intellect with the pas- 
sions—or age with poetry. 


Trifles, like straws, upon the surface 
flow; 

He who wou'l search for pearls must 
dive below, ’ 


are lines which have done much mis- 
chief. As regards the greater truths, 
men oftener err by seeking them at the 
bottom than at the top; Truth lies in 
the huge abysses where wisdom is 
sought—not in the palpable palaces 
where she is found. The ancients were 
not always right in hiding the goddess 
in a well; witness the light which Bacon 
has thrown upon philosophy; witness 
the principles of our divine faith—that 
moral mechanism by which the simplic- 


763 


ity of a child may overbalance the wis- 
dom of a man. 

We see an instance of Coleridge’s 
liability to err, in his Biographia Liter- 
aria—professedly his literary life and 
opinions, but, in fact, a treatise de omni 
scibilt et quibusdam aliis.* He goes 
wrong by reason of his very profundity, 
and of his error we have a natural 
type in the contemplation of a star. 
He who regards it directly and intensely 
sees, it is true, the star, but it is the 
star without a ray—while he who 
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious 
of all for which the star is useful to 
us below—its brilliancy and its beauty. 

As to Wordsworth, I have no faith 
in him. That he had in youth the 
feelings of a poet I believe—for there 
are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his 
writings—(and delicacy is the poet’s 
own kingdom—his El Dorado)—but 
they have the appearance of a better 
day recollected; and glimpses, at best, 
are little evidence of present poetic fire; 
we know that a few straggling flowers 
spring up daily in the crevices of the 
glacier. 

He was to blame in wearing away 
his youth in contemplation with the 
end of poetizing in his manhood. With 
the increase of his judgment the light 
which should make it apparent has 
faded away. His judgment conse- 
quently is too correct. This may not 
be understood,—but the old Goths of 
Germany would have understood it, who 
used to debate matters of importance 
to their State twice, once when drunk, 


* This is a common phrase of phi- 
losophy. Critics of Poe, ignorant of 
philosophy, often condemn him ridic- 
ulously.—Ed, 


764 


and once when sober—sober that they 
might not be deficient in formality— 
drunk lest they should be destitute of 
vigour. 

The long wordy discussions by which 
he tries to reason us into admiration 
of his poetry, speak very little in his 
favour: they are full of such assertions 
as this (I have opened one of his vol- 
umes at random)—‘Of genius the only 
proof is the act of doing well what is 
worthy to be done, and what was never 
done before’ ;—indeed? then it follows 
that in doing what is wzworthy to be 
done, or what fas been done before, no 
genius can be evinced; yet the picking 
of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets 
have been picked time immemorial, and 
Barrington, the pickpocket, in point of 
genius, would have thought hard of a 
comparison with William Wordsworth, 
the poet. 

Again, in estimating the merit of cer- 
tain poems, whether they be Ossian’s 
or Macpherson’s, can surely be of little 
consequence, yet, in order to prove 
their worthlessness, Mr. W. has ex- 
pended many pages in the controversy. 
Tantene animis? Can great minds de- 
scend to such absurdity? But worse 
still: that he may bear down every 
argument in favour of these poems, he 
triumphantly drags forward a passage, 
in his abomination with which he ex- 
pects the reader to sympathise. It is 
the beginning of the epic poem 
“Temora.” “The blue waves of Ullin 
roll in light; the green hills are covered 
with day; trees shake their dusty heads 
in the breeze.” And this—this gor- 
geous, yet simple imagery, where all is 
alive and panting with immortality— 
this, William Wordsworth, the author 
of “Peter Bell,” has selected for his 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


contempt. We shall see what better 
he, in his own person, has to offer. 
Imprimis: 


And now she’s at the pony’s tail, 
And now she’s at the pony’s head, 
On that side now, and now on this; 
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. ... 
She pats the pony, where or when 
She knows not .. . happy Betty Foy! 
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor! 


Secondly: 


The dew was falling fast, the—stars 
began to blink; 

I heard a voice: it said—“Drink, pretty 
creature, drink!” 

And, looking o’er the hedge, be—fore 
me I espied 

A snow-white mountain lamb, with a— 
maiden at its side. 

No. other sheep was near,——the lamb 
was all alone, 

And by a slender cord was—tether’d to 
a stone. 


Now, we have no doubt this is all 
true; we will believe it, indeed we will, 
Mr. W. Is.it sympathy for the sheep 
you wish to excite? I love a sheep 
from the bottom of my heart. 

But there are occasions, dear B ; 
there are occasions when even Words- 
worth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, 
it is said, shall have an end, and the 
most unlucky blunders must come to 
a conclusion. Here is an extract from 
his preface:— 

“Those who have been accustomed 
to the phraseology of modern writers, 
if they persist in reading this book to 
a conclusion (impossible!) will. no 





LETTER TO MR. B—— 


doubt, have to struggle with feelings 
of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they 
will look round for poetry (ha! ha! 
ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire 
by what species of courtesy these 
attempts have been permitted to as- 
sume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! 

Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has 

given immortality to a waggon, and 
the bee Sophocles has transmitted to 
eternity a sore toe, and dignified 4 
tragedy with a chorus of turkeys. 
' Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but 
with reverence. His towering intellect! 
his gigantic power! ‘To use an author 
quoted by himself, “J’ai trouve souvent 
que la plupart des sectes ont raison 
dans une bonne partie de ce qu’elles 
avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles 
nient”; and to employ his own lan- 
guage, he has imprisoned his own con- 
ceptions by the barrier he has erected 
against those of others. It is lamenta- 
ble to think that such a mind should 
be buried in metaphysics, and, like the 
Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon 
the night alone. In reading that man’s 
poetry, I tremble like one who stands 
upon a volcano, conscious from the 
very darkness bursting from the crater, 
of the fire and the light that are wel- 
tering below. 

What is poetryP—Poetry! that Pro- 
teus-like idea, with as many appellations 
as the nine-titled Corcyra! ‘Give me,” 
I demanded of a scholar some time 
ago, “give me a definition of poetry.” 
“Tres-volontiers” ; and he proceeded to 
his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, 
and overwhelmed me with a definition. 
Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! 
I imagine to myself the scowl of your 


765 


spiritual eye upon the profanity of that 
scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, 
dear B , think of poetry, and then 
think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think 
of all that is airy and fairy-like, and 
then of all that is hideous and un- 
wieldy; think of his huge bulk, the 
Elephant! and then—and then think of 
the ‘“‘ Tempest’ —the ‘‘ Midsummer 
Night’s Dream’—Prospero—Oberon— 
and Titania! 

A poem, in my opinion, is opposed 
to a work of science by having, for its 
immediate object, pleasure, not truth; 
to romance, by having, for its object, 
an indefinite instead of a definite pleas- 
ure, being a poem only so far as this 
object is attained; romance presenting 
perceptible images with definite, poetry 
with zndefinite sensations, to which end 
smusic is an essential, since the com- 
prehension of sweet sound is our most 
indefinite conception. Music, when 
combined with a pleasurable idea, is 
poetry; music, without the idea, is 
simply music; the idea, without the 
music, is prose, from its very defini- 
tiveness. 

What was meant by the invective 
against him who had no music in his 
soul? 

To sum up this long rigmarole, I 
have, dear B , what you, no doubt, 
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as 
poets, the most sovereign contempt. 
That they have followers proves 
nothing— 








No Indian prince has to his palace 
More followers than a thief to the 
gallows. 


The Poetic Principle 


In speaking of the Poetic Principle, 
I have no design to be either thorough 
or profound. While discussing very 
much at random the essentiality of 
what we call Poetry, my principal pur- 
pose will be to cite for consideration 
some few of those minor English or 
American poems which best suit my 
own taste, or which, upon my own 
fancy, have left the most definite im- 
pression. By “minor poems” I mean, 
of course, poems of little length. And 
here, in the beginning, permit me to 
say a few words in regard to a some- 
what peculiar principle, which, whether 
rightfully or wrongfully, has always 
had its influence in my own critical 
estimate of the poem. I hold that a 
long poem does not exist. I maintain’ 
that the phrase, “a long poem,” is sim- 
ply a flat contradiction in terms. 

I need scarcely observe that a poem 
deserves its title only inasmuch as it 
excites, by elevating the soul. The 
value of the poem is in the ratio of 
this elevating excitement. But all ex- 
citements are, through a psychal neces- 
sity, transient. That degree of excite- 
ment which would entitle a poem to 
be so called at all, cannot be sustained 
throughout a composition of any great 
Jength. After the lapse of half an hour, 
at the very utmost, it flags—fails—a 
revulsion ensues—and then the poem 
is, in efiect, and in fact, no longer such. 

There are, no doubt, many who have 
found difficulty in reconciling the criti- 
cal dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is 
to be devoutly admired throughout, 
with the absolute impossibility of main- 
taining for it, during perusal, the 


766 


amount of enthusiasm which that criti- 
cal dictum would demand. This great 
work, in fact, is to be regarded as 
poetical only when, losing sight of that 
vital requisite in all works of Art, 
Unity, we view it merely as a series 
of minor poems. If, to preserve its 
Unity—its totality of effect or impres- 
sion—we read it (as would be neces- 
sary) at a single sitting, the result is 
but a constant alternation of excite- 
ment and depression. After a passage 
of what we feel to be true poetry, there 
follows, inevitably, a passage of plati- 
tude which no critical pre-judgment can 
force us to admire; but if, upon com- 
pleting the work, we read it again, 
omitting the first book—that is to say, 
commencing with the second—we shall 
be surprised at now finding that admir- 
able which we before condemned—that 
damnable which we had previously so 
much admired. It follows from all 
this that the ultimate, aggregate, or 
absolute effect of even the best epic 
under the sun, is a nullity—and this 
is precisely the fact. 

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if 
not positive proof, at least very good 
reason, for believing it intended as a 
series of lyrics; but, granting the epic 
intention, I can say only that the work 
is based in an imperfect sense of Art. 
The modern epic is, of the supposititious 
ancient model, but an inconsiderate and 
blindfold imitation. But the day of 
these artistic anomalies is over. If, at 
any time, any very long poem were 
popular in reality—which I doubt—it 
is at least clear that no very long poem 
will ever be popular again. 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 


That the extent of a poetical work 
is, ceteris paribus, the measure of its 
merit, seems undoubtedly, when we 
thus state it, a proposition sufficiently 
absurd—yet we are indebted for it to 
the Quarterly Reviews. Surely there 
can be nothing in mere size, abstractly 
considered—there can be nothing in 
mere bulk, so far as a volume is con- 
cerned, which has so_ continuously 
elicited admiration from these saturnine 
pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, 
by the mere sentiment of physical mag- 
nitude which it conveys, does impress 
us with a sense of the sublime—but 
no man is impressed after this fashion 
by the material grandeur of even “The 
Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies have 
not instructed us to be so impressed 
by it. As yet, they have not insisted 
on our estimating Lamartine by the 
cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound— 
but what else are we to infer from 
their continual prating about “sustamed 
effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any 
little gentleman has accomplished an 
epic, let us frankly commend him for 
the effort—if this indeed be a thing 
commendable—but let us forbear prais- 
ing the epic on the effort’s account. 
It is to be hoped that common sense, 
in the time to come, will prefer decid- 
ing upon a work of Art rather by the 
impression it makes—by the effect it 
produces—than by the time it took to 
impress the effect, or by the amount of 
“sustained effort” which had _ been 
found necessary in effecting the im- 
pression. The fact is, that persever- 
ance is one thing and genius quite an- 
other—nor can all the Quarterlies in 
Christendom confound them. By and 
by, this proposition, with many which 
I have been just urging, will be res 


767 


ceived as self-evident. In the mean- 
time, by being generally condemned as 
falsities, they will not be essentially 
damaged as truths. 

On the other hand, it is clear that a 
poem may be improperly brief. Undue 
brevity degenerates into mere epigram- 
matism. A very short poem, while 
now and then producing a brilliant or 
vivid, never produces a profound or 
enduring effect. There must be the 
steady pressing down of the stamp upon 
the wax. De Beranger has wrought 
innumerable things, pungent and spirit- 
stirring, but in general they have been 
too imponderous to stamp themselves 
deeply into the public attention, and 
thus, as so many feathers of fancy, 
have been blown aloft only to be whis- 
tled down the wind. 

A remarkable instance of the effect 
of undue brevity in depressing a poem, 
in keeping it out of the popular view, 
is afforded by the following exquisite 
little Serenade— 


I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me—who knows how?— 
To thy chamber-window, sweet! 


The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark the silent stream— 
The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 
The nightingale’s complaint, 

It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 

O, beloved as thou art! 


768 


O, lift me from the grass! 
I die, I faint, I fail! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
My heart beats loud and fast: 
O, press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 


Very few perhaps are familiar with 
these lines, yet no less a poet than 
Shelley is their author. Their warm, 
yet delicate and ethereal imagination 
will be appreciated by all, but by none 
so thoroughly as by him who has him- 
self arisen from sweet dreams of one 
beloved to bathe in the aromatic air 
of a southern midsummer night. 

One of the finest poems by Willis, 
the very best in my opinion which he 
has ever written, has no doubt, through 
this same defect of undue brevity, been 
kept back from its proper position, not 
less in the critical than in the popular 
view :— 


The shadows lay along Broadway, 
*Twas near the twilight-tide— 
And slowly there a lady fair 
Was walking in her pride. 
Alone walk’d she; but, viewlessly, 
Walk’d spirits at her side. 


Peace charm’d the street beneath her 
feet, 
And Honour charm’d the air; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 
And called her good as fair— 
For all God ever gave to her 
She kept with chary care. 


She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


For heart was cold to all but gold, 
And the rich came not to woo— 
But honour’d well her charms to sell, 

If priests the selling do. 


Now walking there was one more fair— 
A slight girl, lily-pale; 
And she had unseen company 
To make the spirit quail— 
’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d 
forlorn, 
And nothing could avail. 


No mercy now can clear her brow 
From this world’s peace to pray, 
For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in 

air, 
Her woman’s heart gave way!— 
But the sin forgiven by Christ in 
Heaven, 
By man is cursed alway! 


In this composition we find it diffi- 
cult to recognise the Willis who has 
written so many mere ‘verses of so- 
ciety.” The lines are not only richly 
ideal, but full of energy, while they 
breathe an earnestness, an evident sin- 
cerity of sentiment, for which we look 
in vain throughout all the other works 
of this author. 

While the epic mania, while the idea 
that to merit in poetry prolixity is 
indispensable, has for some years past 
been gradually dying out of the public 
mind, by mere dint of its own ab- 
surdity, we find it succeeded by a heresy 
too palpably false to be long tolerated, 
but one which, in the brief period it 
has already endured, may be said to 
have accomplished more in the corrup- 
tion of our Poetical Literature than all 
its other enemies combined. I allude 
to the heresy of The Didactic. It has 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 769 


been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, 
directly and indirectly, that the ulti- 
mate object of all Poetry is Truth. 
Every poem, it is said, should inculcate 
a moral, and by this moral is the 
poetical merit of the work to be ad- 
judged. We Americans especially have 
patronized this happy idea, and we 
Bostonians very especially have devel- 
oped it in full. We have taken it into 
our heads that to write a poem simply 
for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge 
such to have been our design, would 
be to confess ourselves radically want- 
ing in the true poetic dignity and force: 
—but the simple fact is that would we 
but permit ourselves to look into our 
own souls we should immediately there 
discover that under the sun _ there 
neither exists nor can exist any work 
more thoroughly dignified, more su- 
premely noble, than this very poem, 
this poem per se, this poem which is 
a poem and nothing more, this poem 
written solely for the poem’s sake. 
With as deep a reverence for the 
True as ever inspired the bosom of 
man, I would nevertheless limit, in 
some measure, its modes of inculca- 
tion. I would limit to enforce them. 
I would not enfeeble them by dissipa- 
tion. The demands of Truth are severe. 
She has no sympathy with the myrtles. 
All that which is so indispensable in 
Song is precisely all that with which 
she has nothing whatever to do. It is 
but making her a flaunting paradox to 
wreathe -her in gems and flowers. In 
enforcing a truth we need severity 
rather than efflorescence of language. 
We must be simple, precise, terse. We 
must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In 
a word, we must be in that mood which, 
as nearly as possible, is the exact con- 


verse of the poetical. He must be 
blind indeed who does not perceive the 
radical and chasmal difference between 
the truthful and the poetical modes of 
inculcation. He must be theory-mad 
beyond redemption who, in spite of 
these differences, shall still persist in 
attempting to reconcile the obstinate 
oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. 

Dividing the world of mind into its 
three most immediately obvious dis- 
tinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, 
Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place 
Taste in the middle, because it is just 
this position which in the mind it occu- 
pies. It holds intimate relations with 
either extreme; but from the Moral 
Sense is separated by so faint a differ- 
ence that Aristotle has not hesitated to 
place some of its operations among the 
virtues themselves. Nevertheless we 
find the offices of the trio marked with 
a sufficient distinction. Just as the 
Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so 
Taste informs us of the Beautiful, 
while the Moral Sense is regardful of 
Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience 
teaches the obligation, and Reason the 
expediency, Taste contents herself with 
displaying the charms, waging war upon 
Vice solely on the ground of her de- 
formity, her disproportion, her ani- 
mosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, 
to the harmonious, in a word, to 
Beauty. 

An immortal instinct deep within the 
spirit of man is thus plainly a sense 
of the beautiful. This it is which ad- 
ministers to his delight in the manifold 
forms, and sounds, and odors and senti- 
ments amid which he exists. And just 
as the lily is repeated in the lake, or 
the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, 
so is the mere oral or written repetition 


770 


of these forms, and sounds, and colors, 
and odors, and sentiments a duplicate 
source of delight. But this mere repe- 
tition is not poetry. He who shall sim- 
ply sing, with however glowing enthu- 
siasm, or with however vivid a truth 
of description, of the sights, and 
sounds, and odors, and colors, and sen- 
timents which greet him in common 
with all mankind—he, I say, has yet 
failed to prove his divine title. There 
is still a something in the distance 
which he has been unable to attain. 
We have still a thirst unquenchable, 
to allay which he has not shown us 
the crystal springs. This thirst belongs 
to the immortality of Man. It is at 
once a consequence and an indication 
of his perennial existence. It is the 
desire of the moth for the star. It is 
no mere appreciation of the Beauty 
before us, but a wild effort to reach 
the Beauty above. Inspired by an 
ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond 
the grave, we struggle by multiform 
combinations among the things and 
thoughts of Time to attain a portion 
of that Loveliness whose very elements 
perhaps appertain to eternity alone. 
And thus when by Poetry, or when by 
Music, the most entrancing of the 
poetic moods, we find ourselves melted 
into tears, we weep then, not as the 
Abbate Gravina supposes, through ex- 
cess of pleasure, but through a certain 
petulant, impatient sorrow at our in- 
ability to grasp now, wholly, here on 
earth, at once and for ever, those divine 
and rapturous joys of which through 
the poem, or through the music. we 
attain to but brief and indeterminate 
glimpses. 

The struggle to apprehend the super- 
nal Loveliness—this struggle, on the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


part of souls fittingly constituted—has 
given to the world all that which it 
(the world) has ever been enabled at 
once to understand and to feel as 
poetic. 

The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may 
develop itself in various modes—in 
Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, 
in the Dance—very especially in Music 
—and very peculiarly, and with a wide 
field, in the composition of the Land- 
scape Garden. Our present theme, 
however, has regard only to its mani- 
festation in words. And here let me 
speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. 
Contenting myself with the certainty 
that Music, in its various modes of 
metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so 
vast a moment in Poetry as never to 
be wisely rejected—is so vitally impor- 
tant an adjunct, that he is simply silly 
who: declines its assistance, I will not 
now pause to maintain its absolute 
essentiality. It is in Music perhaps 
that the soul most nearly attains the 
great end for which, when inspired by 
the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the 
creation of supernal Beauty. It may 
be, indeed, that here this sublime end 
is, now and then, attained in fact. We 
are often made to feel, with a shiver- 
ing delight, that from an earthly harp 
are stricken notes which cannot have 
been unfamiliar to the angels. And 
thus there can be little doubt that in 
the union of Poetry with Music in. its 
popular sense, we shall find the widest 
field for the Poetic development. The 
old Bards and Minnesingers had advan- 
tages which we do not possess—and 
Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, 
was, in the most legitimate manner, 
perfecting them as poems. 

To recapitulate then:—I would de- 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 


fine, in brief, the Poetry of words as 
The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. 
Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the 
Intellect or with the Conscience it has 
only collateral relations. Unless inci- 
dentally, it has no concern whatever 
either with Duty or with Truth. 

A few words, however, in explana- 
tion. That pleasure which is at once 
the most pure, the most elevating, and 
the most intense, is derived, I main- 
tain, from the contemplation of the 
Beautiful. In the contemplation of 
Beauty we alone find it possible to 
attain that pleasurable elevation, or 
excitement of the soul, which we recog- 
nise as the Poetic Sentiment, and which 
is so easily distinguished from Truth, 
which is the satisfaction of the Reason, 
or from Passion, which is the excite- 
ment of the heart. I make Beauty, 
therefore—using the word as inclusive 
of the sublime—I make Beauty the 
province of the poem, simply because 
it is an obvious rule of Art that effects 
should be made to spring as directly 
as possible from their causes:—no one 
as yet having been weak enough to 
deny that the peculiar elevation in 
question is at least most readily attain- 
able in the poem. It by no means 
follows, however, that the incitements 
of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, 
or even the lessons of Truth, may not 
be introduced into a poem, and with 
advantage; for they may subserve inci- 
dentally, in various ways, the. general 
purposes of the work: but. the true 
artist will always contrive to tone them 
down in proper subjection to that 
Beauty which is the atmosphere and 
the real essence of the poem. 

I cannot better introduce the few 
poems which I shall present for your 


771 


consideration, than by the citation of 
the Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif”:— 


The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an Eagle in its flight. 


I see the lights of the village 
Gleam through the rain and the mist; 
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, 
That my soul cannot resist; 


A feeling of sadness and longing, 
That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 


Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 


Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 


For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life’s endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 


Read from some humbler poet, 
Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 


Who through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 


772 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 


Then read from the treasured volume 
The poem of thy choice, 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 


And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares that infest the day 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 


With no great range of imagination, 
these lines have been justly admired 
for their delicacy of expression. Some 
of the images are very effective. Noth- 
ing can be better than— 


the bards sublime, 
Whose distant footsteps echo 
Down the corridors of Time. 


The idea of the last quatrain is also 
very effective. The poem on the whole, 
however, is chiefly to be admired for 
the graceful insouciance of its metre, 
so well in accordance with the charac- 
ter of the sentiments, and especially 
for the ease of the general manner. 
This “ease” or naturalness, in a literary 
style, it has long been the fashion to 
regard as ease in appearance alone—as 
a point of really difficult attainment. 
But not so:—a natural manner is diff- 
cult only to him who should never 
meddle with it—to the unnatural. It 
is but the result of writing with the 
understanding, or with the instinct, that 
the tone, in composition, should always 
be that which the mass of mankind 
would adopt—and must perpetually 


vary, of course, with the occasion. The 
author who, after the fashion of The 
North American Review, should be 
upon all occasions merely ‘‘quiet,’’ must 
necessarily upon many occasions be 
simply silly, or stupid; and has no 
more right to be considered “easy” or 
“natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or 
than the sleeping Beauty in the wax- 
works. 

Among the minor poems of Bryant, 
none has so much impressed me as 
the one which he entitles “June.” I 
quote only a portion of it:— 


There, through the long, long summer 
hours, 
The golden light should lie, 
And thick young herbs and groups of 
flowers 
Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale, close beside my cell; 
The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be 
heard 
The housewife-bee and humming bird. 


And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, 
Come, from the village sent, 

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, 
With fairy laughter blent? 

And what if, in the evening light, 

Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument? 

T would the lovely scene around 

Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 


T know, I know I should not see 
The season’s glorious show, 

Nor would its brightness shine for me; 
Nor its wild music flow; 

But if, around my place of sleep, 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 773 


The friends I love should come to 
weep, 
They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs and song, and the light and 
bloom, 
Should keep them lingering by my 
tomb. 


These to their soften’d hearts should 
bear 
The thoughts of what has been, 
And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene; 
Whose part in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills, 
Is—that his grave is green; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 


The rhythmical flow here is even 
voluptuous—nothing could be more 
melodious. The poem has always af- 
fected me in a remarkable manner. 
The intense melancholy which seems 
to well up, perforce, to the surface of 
all the poet’s cheerful sayings about 
his grave, we find thrilling us to the 
soul—while there is the truest poetic 
elevation in the thrill. The impression 
left is one of a pleasurable sadness. 
And if, in the remaining compositions 
which I shall introduce to you, there 
be more or less of a similar tone always 
apparent, let me remind you that (how 
or why we know not) this certain taint 
of sadness is inseparably connected 
with all the higher manifestations of 
true Beauty. It is, nevertheless, 


A feeling of sadness and longing 
That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 


The taint of which I speak is clearly 
perceptible even in a poem so full of 
brilliancy and spirit as ‘The Health” 
of Edward Coate Pinckney :— 


I fill this cup to one made up 
Of loveliness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex 
The seeming paragon; 

To whom the better elements 
And kindly stars have given 

A form so fair that, like the air, 
’Tis less of earth than heaven. 


Her every tone is music’s own, 
Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 
And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burden’d bee 
Forth issue from the rose. 


Affections are as thoughts to her, 
The measures of her hours; 

Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
The freshness of young flowers; 

And lovely passions, changing oft, 
So fill her, she appears 

The image of themselves by turns,— 
The idol of past years! 


Of her bright face one glance will 
trace 

A picture on the brain, 

And of her voice in echoing hearts 
A sound must long remain; 

But memory, such as mine of her, 
So very much endears, 

When death is nigh my latest sigh 
Will not be life’s, but hers. 


I fill’d this cup to one made up 
Of loveliness alone, 


774 


A woman, of her gentle sex 
The seeming paragon— 
Her health! and would on earth there 
stood, 
Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, 
And weariness a name. 


It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinck- 
ney to have been born too far south. 
Had he been a New Englander, it is 
probable that he would have been 
ranked as the first of American lyrists 
by that magnanimous cabal which has 
so long controlled the destinies of 
American Letters, in conducting the 
thing called The North American Re- 
view. The poem just cited is especially 
beautiful; but the poetic elevation 
which it induces we must’ refer chiefly 
to our sympathy in the poet’s enthu- 
siasm. We pardon his hyperboles for 
the evident earnestness with which they 
are uttered. 

It was by no means my design, how- 
ever, to expatiate upon the merits of 
what I should read you. These will 
aecessarily speak for themselves. Boc- 
calini, in his Advertisements from Par- 
nassus, tells us that Zoilus once pre- 
sented Apollo a very caustic criticism 
upon a very admirable book :—where- 
upon the god asked him for the beau- 
ties of the work. He replied that he 
only busied himself about the errors. 
On hearing this, Apollo, handing him 
a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him 
pick out all the chaff for his reward. 

Now this fable answers very well as 
a hit at the critics—but I am by no 
means sure that the god was in the 
right. I am by no means certain that 
the true limits of the critical duty are 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, 
in a poem especially, may be considered 
in the light of an axiom, which need 
only be properly put, to become self- 
evident. It is mot excellence if it re- 
quire to be demonstrated as such:— 
and thus to point out too particularly 
the merits of a work of Art, is to 
admit that they are not merits alto- 
gether. 

Among the “Melodies” of Thomas 
Moore is one whose distinguished char- 
acter aS a poem proper seems to have 
been singularly left out of view. I 
allude to his lines beginning—‘‘Come, 
rest in this bosom.” The intense en- 
ergy of their expression is not surpassed 
by anything in Byron. There are two 
of the lines in which a sentiment is 
conveyed that embodies the all in all 
of the divine passion of Love—a senti- 
ment which, perhaps, has found its echo 
in more, and in more passionate, human 
hearts than any other single sentiment 
ever embodied in words:— 


Come, rest in this bosom, my own 
stricken deer, 

Though the herd have fled from thee, 
thy home is still here; 

Here still is the smile, that no cloud 
can o’ercast, 

And a heart and a hand all thy own ~ 
to the last. 


Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not 
the same 

Through joy and through torment, 
through glory and shame? 

I know not, I ask not, if*guilt’s in that 
heart, 

I but know that I love thee, whatever 
thou art. 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 775 


Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in mo- 
ments of bliss, 

And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors 
of this — 

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy 
steps to pursue, 

And shield thee, and save thee,—or 
perish there too! 


It has been the fashion of late days 
to deny Moore Imagination, while 
granting him Fancy—a distinction orig- 
inating with Coleridge—than whom no 
man more fully comprehended the great 
powers of Moore. The fact is, that 
the fancy of this poet so far predomi- 
nates over all his other faculties, and 
over the fancy of all other men, as to 
have induced, very naturally, the idea 
that he is fanciful only. But never 
was there a greater mistake. Never 
was a grosser wrong done the fame of 
a true poet. In the compass of the 
English language I can call to mind 
no poem more profoundly — more 
weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, 
than the lines commencing—“I would 
I were by that dim lake”—which are 
the composition of Thomas Moore. I 
regret that I am unable to remember 
them. 

One of the noblest—and, speaking of 
Fancy—one of the most singularly fan- 
ciful of modern poets, was Thomas 
Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always for 
me an inexpressible charm:— 


O saw ye not fair Ines? 
She’s gone into the West, 

To dazzle when the sun is down, 
And rob the world of rest; 
She took our daylight with her, 

The smiles that we love best, 


With morning blushes on her cheek, 
And pearls upon her breast. 


O turn again, fair Ines, 
Before the fall of night, 


For fear the moon should shine alone, 


-And stars unrivall’d bright; 
And blessed will the lover be 
That walks beneath their light, 
And breathes the love against thy 
cheek 
I dare not even write! 


Would I had been, fair Ines, 
That gallant cavalier, 

Wno rode so gaily by thy side, 
And whisper’d thee so near! 

Were there no bonny dames at home, 
Or no true lovers here, 

That he should cross the seas to win 
The dearest of the dear? 


I saw thee, lovely Ines, 
Descend along the shore, 

With bands of noble gentlemen, 
And banners waved before; 

And gentle youth and maidens gay, 
And sn_-wy plumes they wore; 

It would have been a beauteous 

dream, 

If it had been no more! 


Alas, alas, fair Ines, 
She went away with song, 
With music waiting on her steps, 
And shoutings of the throng; 
But some were sad and felt no mirth, 
But only Music’s wrong, 
In sounds that sang Farewell, Fare- 
well, 
To her you’ve loved so long. 


Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, 
That vessel never bore 


776 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


So fair a lady on its deck, 
Nor danced so light before— 
Alas for pleasure on the sea, 
And sorrow on the shore! 
The smile that blest one lover’s heart 
Has broken many more! 


“The Haunted House,” by the same 
author, is one of the truest poems ever 
written,—one of the truest, one of the 
most unexceptionable, one of the most 
thoroughly artistic, both in its theme 
and in its execution. It is, moreover, 
powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret 
that its length renders it unsuitable for 
the purposes of this lecture. In place 
of it permit me to offer the universally 
appreciated “Bridge of Sighs” :— 


One more Unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate 
Gone to her death! 


Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care;— 
Fashion’d so slenderly, 
Young and so fair! 


Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements; 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 


Touch her not scornfully; 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly; 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 


Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and undutiful;: 


Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 


Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 
Houseless by night. 


The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river: 
Mad from life’s history, 
Glad to death’s mystery, 
Swift to be hurl’d— 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world! 


In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran,— 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it,—think of it, 
Dissolute Man! 

Lave in it, drink of it 
Then, if you can! 


Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve’s family— 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily, 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 


Who was her father? 
Who was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 777 


Had she a brother? 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 


Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun! 

Oh! it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 


Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly, 
Feelings had changed: 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God’s providence 
Seeming estranged. 


Take her up tenderly; 

Lift her with care; 
Fashion’d so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently —kindly — 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly! 


Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 


Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest,— 

Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 


Over her breast! 

Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behaviour, 

And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour! 


The vigor of this poem is no less 
remarkable than its pathos. The versi- 
fication, although carrying the fanciful 
to the very verge of the fantastic, is 
nevertheless admirably adapted to the 
wild insanity which is the thesis of the 
poem. 

Among the minor poems of Lord 
Byron is one which has never received 
from the critics the praise which it 
undoubtedly deserves :— 


Though the day of my destiny’s over, 
And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 
The faults which so many could find; 
Though thy soul with my grief was 
acquainted, 
It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath 
painted 
It never hath found but in thee. 


Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine; 
And when winds are at war with the 

ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 


Though the rock of my last hope is 
shivered, 
And its fragments are sunk in the 
wave, 


778 


Though I feel that my soul is delivered 
To pain—it shall not be its slave. 

There is many a pang to pursue me: 
They may crush, but they shall not 


contemn— 
They may torture, but shall not subdue 
me— 
Tis of thee that I think—not of 
them. 


Though human, thou didst not deceive 
me, 
Though woman, thou didst not for- 
sake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve 
me, 
Though slandered, thou never couldst 
shake,— 
Though trusted, thou didst not dis- 
claim me, 
Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, ’twas not to defame 
me, 
Nor mute, that the world might belie. 


Yet I blame not the world, nor de- 
spise it, 

«Nor the war of the many with one— 

If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
’Twas folly not sooner to shun: 

And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
And more than I once could foresee, 

I have found that whatever it lost me, 
It could not deprive me of thee. 


From the wreck of the past, which 
hath perished, 
Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that which I most 
cherished 
Deserved to be dearest of all: 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 
In the wide waste there stil is a 
tree., 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And a bird in the solitude singing, 
Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 


Although the rhythm here is one of 
the most difficult, the versification could 
scarcely’ be improved. No nobler 
theme ever engaged the pen of poet. 
It is the soul-elevating idea that no 
man can consider himself entitled to 
complain of Fate while in his adversity 
he still retains the unwavering love of 
woman. 

From Alfred Tennyson, although in 
perfect sincerity I regard him as the 
noblest poet that ever lived, I have 
left myself time to cite only a very 
brief specimen. I call him, and think 
him the noblest of poets, not because 
the impressions he produces are at all 
times the most profound—not because 
the poetical excitement which he in- 
duces is at all times the most intense— 
but because it is at all times the most 
ethereal—in other words, the most 
elevating and most pure. No poet is 
so little of the earth, earthy. What I. 
am about to read is from his last long 
poem, “The Princess” :— 


Tears, idle tears, I know not what 


they mean, 

Tears from the depth of some divine 
despair 

Rise in the heart, and gather to the 
eyes, 


In looking on the happy Autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no 
more. 


Fresh as the first beam glittering on 
a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the 
underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 


THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 


That sinks with all we love below the 
verge; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 
more. 


Ah, sad and strange as in dark sum- 
mer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmer- 
ing square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are 


no more. 
Dear as remember’d kisses after 

death, 

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 
feign’d 

On lips that are for others; deep as 
love, 

Deep as first love, and wild with all 
regret; 

0 Death in Life, the days that are no 
more. 


Thus, although in a very cursory and 
imperfect manner, I have endeavored 
lo convey to you my conception of the 
Poetic Principle. It has been my pur- 
pose to suggest that, while this Prin- 
ciple itself is strictly and simply the 
Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, 
the manifestation of the Principle is 
always found in an elevating excitement 
of the soul, quite independent of that 
passion which is the intoxication of the 
Heart, or of that truth which is the 
satisfaction of the Reason. For in 
regard to passion, alas! its tendency is 
to degrade rather than to elevate the 
Soul. Love, on the contrary—Love— 
the true, the divine Eros—the Uranian 
as distinguished from the Dionzan 
Venus—is unquestionably the purest 
and truest of all poetical themes. And 


779 


in regard to Truth, if, to Wwe sure, 
through the attainment of a truth we. 
are led to perceive a harmony where 
none was apparent before, we experi- 
ence at once the true poetical effect; 
but this effect is referable to the har- 
mony alone, and not in the least degree 
to the truth which merely served to 
render the harmony manifest. 

We shall reach, however, more imme- 
diately a distinct conception of what 
the true Poetry is, by mere reference 
to a few of the simple elements which 
induce in the Poet himself the true 
poetical effect. He recognises the am- 
brosia which nourishes his soul in the 
bright orbs that shine in Heaven, in 
the volutes of the flower, in the clus- 
tering of low shrubberies, in the waving 
of the grain-fields, in the slanting of 
tall eastern trees, in the blue distance 
of mountains, in the grouping of clouds, 
in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, 
in the gleaming of silver rivers, in the 
repose of sequestered lakes, in the star- 
mirroring depths of lonely wells. He 
perceives it in the songs of birds, in 
the harp of Aolus, in the sighing of 
the night-wind, in the repining voice 
of the forest, in the surf that com- 
plains to the shore, in the fresh breath 
of the woods, in the scent of the violet, 
in the voluptuous perfume of the 
hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that 
comes to him at eventide from far- 
distant undiscovered islands, over dim 
oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He 
owns it in all noble thoughts, in all 
unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, 
in all chivalrous, generous, and self- 
sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the 
beauty of woman, in the grace of her 
step, in the lustre of her eye, in the 
melody of her voice, in her soft laugh- 


780 


ter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the 
rustling of her robes. He deeply feels 
it in her winning endearments, in her 
burning enthusiasms, in her gentle 
charities, in her meek and devotional 
endurances, but above all, ah, far above 
all, he kneels to it, he worships it in 
the faith, in the purity, in the strength, 
in the altogether divine majesty of her 
love. 

Let me conclude by the recitation of 
yet another brief poem, one very dif- 
ferent in character from any that I 
have before quoted. It is by Mother- 
well, and is called “The Song of the 
Cavalier.” With our modern and alto- 
gether rational ideas of the absurdity 
and impiety of warfare, we are not 
precisely in that frame of mind best 
adapted to sympathize with the senti- 
ments, and thus to appreciate the real 
excellence of the poem. To do this 
fully we must identify ourselves in 
fancy with the soul of the old cav- 
alier:— 


A steed! a steed! of matchless speede! 
A sword of metal keene! 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Al else to noble heartes is drosse— 
Al else on earth is meane. 

The neighynge of the war-horse prowde, 
The rowleing of the drum, 

The clangour of the trumpet lowde— 
Be soundes from heaven that come. 
And oh! the thundering presse of 

knightes, 
When as their war-cryes welle, 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 
And rowse a fiend from hell. 


Then mounte! then mounte, brave gal- 
lants al, 
And don your helmes amaine: 
Deathe’s couriers, Fame and Honour, 
call 
Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish teares shall fill your eye 
When the sword-hilt’s in our hand— 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit 
sighe 
For the fayrest of the land; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 
Thus weepe and puling crye, 
Our business is like men to fight, 
And hero-like to die! 


The Rationale o if Verse 


(Published in Southern Literary Messenger, October, 1848.—Ed.) 


Tue word “Verse” is here used not 
in its strict or primitive sense, but as 
the term most convenient for expressing 
generally and without pedantry all that 
is involved in the consideration of 
rhythm, rhyme, metre, and versification. 

There is, perhaps, no topic in polite 
literature which has been more _ per- 
tinaciously discussed, and there is cer- 


tainly not one about which so much in- 
accuracy, confusion, misconception, mis- 
representation, mystification, and down- 
right ignorance on all sides, can be fair- 
ly said to exist. Were the topic really 
difficult, or did it lie, even, in the cloud- 
land of metaphysics, where the doubt- 
vapours may be made to assume any 
and every shape at the will or at the 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


fancy of the gazer, we should have 
less reason to wonder at all this con- 
tradiction and perplexity; but in fact 
the subject is exceedingly simple; one- 
tenth of it, possibly, may be called 
ethical; nine-tenths, however, appertain 
to mathematics; and the whole is in- 
cluded within the limits of the common- 
est common sense. 

“But, if this is the case, how,” it will 
be asked, ‘‘can so much misunderstand- 
ing have arisen? Is it conceivable that 
a thousand profound scholars, investi- 
gating so very simple a matter for cen- 
turies, have not been able to place it in 
the fullest light, at least, of which it is 
susceptible?” These queries, I confess, 
are not easily answered: at all events, a 
satisfactory reply to them might cost 
more trouble than would, if properly 
considered, the whole vexata questio 
to which they have reference. Never- 
theless, there is little difficulty or dan- 
ger in suggesting that the ‘thousand 
profound scholars” may have failed 
first, because they were scholars; sec- 
ondly, because they were profound; and 
thirdly, because they were a thousand— 
the impotency of the scholarship and 
profundity having been thus multiplied 
a thousand fold. I am serious in these 
suggestions; for, first again, there is 
something in “scholarship”? which se- 
duces us into blind worship of Bacon’s 
Idol of the Theatre—into irrational 
deference to antiquity; secondly, the 
proper “profundity” is rarely pro- 
found—it is the nature of Truth in 
general, as of some ores in particular, to 
be richest when most _ superficial; 
thirdly, the clearest subject may be 
over-clouded by mere superabundance 
of talk. In chemistry, the best way of 
separating two bodies is to add a third; 


781 


in speculation, fact often agrees with 
fact and argument with argument, un- 
til an additional well-meaning fact or 
argument sets everything by the ears. 
In one case out of a hundred a point 
is excessively discussed because it is 
obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining 
it is obscure because excessively dis- 
cussed. When a topic is thus circum- 
stanced, the readiest mode of investi- 
gating it is to forget that any previous 
investigation has been attempted. 

But, in fact, while much has been 
written on the Greek and Latin 
rhythms, and even on the Hebrew, little 
effort has been made at examining that 
of any of the modern tongues. As re- 
gards the English, comparatively nothing 
has been done. It may be said, indeed, 
that we are without a treatise on our 
own verse. In our ordinary grammars 
and in our works on rhetoric or prosody 
in general, may be found occasional 
chapters, it is true, which have the 
heading, ‘‘Versification,” but these are, 
in all instances, exceedingly meagre. 
They pretend to no analysis; they pro- 
pose nothing like system; they make no 
attempts at even rule; everything de- 
pends upon “authority.” They are con- 
fined, in fact, to mere exemplification 
of the supposed varieties cf English 
feet and English lines—although in no 
work with which I am acquainted are 
these feet correctly given or these lines 
detailed in anything like their full ex- 
tent. Yet what has been mentioned is 
all—if we except the occasional intro- 
duction of some pedagogue-ism, such as 
this borrowed from the Greek Prosodies: 
“When a syllable is wanting the verse 
is said to be catalectic; when the meas- 
ure is exact, the line is acatalectic; 
when there is a redundant syllable. it 


782 


forms hypermeter.” Now, whether a 
line be termed catalectic or acatalectic 
is, perhaps, a point of no vital im- 
portance—it is even possible that the 
student may’ be able to decide, prompt- 
ly, when the a should be employed and 
when omitted, yet be incognisant, at the 
same time, of all that is worth knowing 
in regard to the structure of verse. 

A leading defect in each of our 
treatises (if treatises they can be 
called) is the confining the subject to 
mere Versification, while Verse in gen- 
eral, with the understanding given to 
the term in the heading of this paper, 
is the real question at issue. Nor am 
I aware of even one of our Grammars 
which ‘so much as properly defines the 
word versification itself. ‘‘Versifica- 
tion,” says a work now before me, of 
which the accuracy is far more than 
usual—the ‘English Grammar” of 
Goold Brown—‘Versification is the art 
of arranging words into lines of cor- 
respondent length, so as to produce 
harmony by the regular alternation of 
syllables differing in quantity.” The 
commencement of this definition might 
apply, indeed, to the art of versification, 
but not to versification itself. Versifi- 
cation is not the art of arranging, etc., 
but the actual arranging—a distinction 
too obvious to need comment. The 
error here is identical with one which 
has been too long permitted to disgrace 
the initial page of every one of our 
school grammars. I allude to the defi- 
nitions of English Grammar itself. 
“English Grammar,” it is said, “is the 
art of speaking and writing the Eng- 
lish language correctly.” This phrase- 
ology, or something essentially similar, 
is employed, I believe, by Bacon, Mil- 
ler, Fisk, Greenleaf, Ingersoll. Kirkland, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Cooper, Flint, Pue, Comly, and many 
Others. These gentlemen, it is pre- 
sumed, adopted it without examination 
from Murray, who, derived it from Lily 
(whose work was “quam solam Regia 
Majestas in omnibus scholis docendam 
precipit”), and who appropriated it 
without acknowledgement, but with 
some unimportant modification, from 
the Latin Grammar of Leonicenus. It 
may be shown, however, that this defi- 
nition, so complacently received, is not, 
and cannot be, a proper definition of 
English Grammar. A definition is that 
which so describes its object as to dis- 
tinguish it from all others—it is no defi- 
nition of any one thing if its terms are 
applicable to any one other. But if it 
be asked—‘What is the design—the 
end—the -aim of English Grammar?” 
our obvious answer is, “The art of 
speaking and writing the English lan- 
guage correctly’—that is to say, we 
must use the precise words employed as 
the definition of English Grammar 
itself. But the object to be obtained 
by any means is, assuredly, not the 
means. English Grammar and the end 
contemplated by English Grammar are 
two matters sufficiently distinct: nor 
can the one be more reasonably re- 
garded as the other than a fishing-hook 
as a fish. The definition, therefore, 
which is applicable in the latter in- 
stance, cannot, in the former, be true. 
Grammar in general is the analysis of 
language; English Grammar of the Eng- 
lish. 

But to return to Versification as de- 
fined in our extract above. “It is the 
art.” says the extract, “of arranging 
words into lines of correspondent 
length.’ Not so:—a correspondence in 
the length of lines is by no means es- 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


sential. Pindaric odes are, surely, in- 
stances of versification, yet these com- 
positions are noted for extreme diversity 
in the length of their lines. 

The arrangement is moreover said to 
be for the purpose of producing ‘“‘har- 
mony by the regular alternation,” etc. 
But harmony is not the sole aim—not 
even the principal one. In the con- 
struction of verse, melody should never 
be left out of view; yet this is a point 
which all our Prosodies have most un- 
accountably forborne to touch. Rea- 
soned rules on this topic should form 
a portion of all systems of rhythm. 

“So as to produce harmony,” says 
the definition, “by the regular alterna- 
tion,’ etc. A regular alternation, as 
described, forms no part of any princi- 
ple of versification. The arrangement 
of spondees and dactyls, for example, 
in the Greek hexameter, is an arrange- 
ment which may be termed at random. 
At least it is arbitrary. Without inter- 
ference with the line as a whole, a 
dactyl may be substituted for a spon- 
dee, or the converse, at any point other 
than the ultimate and penultimate feet, 
of which the former is always a spon- 
dee, the latter nearly always a ‘dactyl. 
Here, it is clear, we have no “regular 
alternation of syllables differing in 
quantity.” 

“So as to produce harmony,” 
ceeds the definition, 
alternstion of syllables differing in 
guantity,’—in other words by the alter- 
nation of long and short syllables; for 
in rhythm all syllables are necessarily 
either short or long. But not only do I 
deny the necessity of any regularity in 
the succession of feet and, by conse- 
quence, of syllables, but dispute the 
essentiality of any alternation, regular 


pro- 
“by the regular 


783 


or irregular, of syllables long and short. 
Our author, observe, is now engaged in 
a definition of versification in general, 
not of English versification in particu- 
lar. But the Greek and Latin metres 
abound in the spondee and pyrrhic—the 
former consisting of two long syllables, 
the latter of two short; and there are 
innumerable instances of the immediate 
succession .of many spondees and many 
pyrrhics. 

Here is a passage from Silius Italicus: 


Fallis te mensas inter quod credis iner- 


mem 

Tot bellis quesita viro, tot cadibus 
armat 

Majestas aeterna ducem: si admoveris 
ora 


Cannas et Trebium ante oculos Trasy- 
menaque busta 

Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis um- 
bram. 


Making the elisions demanded by the 
classic Prosodies, we should scan these 
Hexameters thus: 

Fallis | té mén | sds in | tér quod | 
crédis in | érmém | 

Tot bél | lis que | sit& vi | ro tot | 
caédibus | armat | 

Majés | tas é | térnd di | cém s’ ad | 
movéris | dra | 

Cannas | ét Trébi’ | Ant’ dctt | los 
Trasy | méndqué | busta 

Et Pau | li st&é | x’ ingén | tém mi | 
rabéris | imbram | 


It will be seen that, in the first and 
last of these lines, we have only two 
short syllables in thirteen, with an un- 
interrupted succession of no less than 
nine long syllables. But how are we to 


784 


reconcile all this with a definition of 
versification which describes it as “the 
art of arranging words into lines of 
correspondent length so as to produce 
harmony by the regular alternation of 
syllables differing in quantity’? 

It may be urged, however, that our 
prosodist’s intention was to speak of the 
. English metres alone, and that, by 
omitting all mention of the spondee and 
pyrrhic, he has virtually avowed their 
exclusion from our rhythms. A gram- 
marian is never excusable on the ground 
of good intentions. We demand from 
him, if from any one, rigorous precision 
of style. But grant the design. Let 
us admit that our author, following the 
example of all authors on English Pro- 
sody, has, in defining versification at 
large, intended a definition merely of 
the English. All these prosodists, we 
will say, reject the spondee and pyrrhic. 
Still all admit the iambus, which con- 
sists of a short syllable followed by a 
long; the trochee, which is the con- 
verse of the iambus; the dactyl, 
formed of one long syllable followed by 
two short; and the anapest—two short 
succeeded by a long. The spondee is 
improperly rejected, as I shall presently 
show. The pyrrhic is rightfully dis- 
missed. Its existence in either ancient 
or modern rhythm is purely chimerical, 
and the insisting on so perplexing a 
nonentity as a foot of two short sylla- 
bles, affords, perhaps, the best evidence 
of the gross irrationality and sub- 
servience to authority which charac- 
terise our Prosody. In the meantime 
the acknowledged dactyl and anapzst 
are enough to sustain my proposition 
about the “alternation,” etc., without 
reference to feet which are assumed 
to exist in the Greek and Latin metres 


ful one. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


alone—for an anapest and a dactyl may 
meet in the same line, when, of course, 
we shall have an uninterrupted succes- 
sion of four short syllables. The meet- 
ing of these two feet, to be sure, is 
an accident not contemplated in the 
definition now discussed; for this defi- 
nition, in demanding a “regular alterna~ 
tion of syllables differing in quantity,” 
insists on a regular succession of similar 
feet. But here is an example: 


Sing to me | Isabelle. 


This is the opening line of a little 
ballad now before me which proceeds in 
the same rhythm—a peculiarly beauti- 
More than all this:—English 
lines are often well composed, entirely, 
of a regular succession of syllables all 
of the same quantity:—the first line, 
for instance, of the following quatrain 
by Arthur C. Coxe: 


March! march! march! 
Making sounds as they tread, 

Ho! ho! how they step, 
Going down to the dead! 


The line italicised is formed of three 
cesuras. The cesura, of which I have 
much to say hereafter, is rejected by 
the English Prosodies, and grossly mis- 
represented in the classic. It is a per- 
fect foot—the most important in all 
verse—and consists of a single Jong syl- 
lable; but the length of this syllable 
varies. 

It has thus been made evident that 
there is mot one point of the definition 
in question which does not involve an 
error; and for anything more satis- 
factory or more intelligible we shall 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


look in vain to any published treatise 
on the topic. 

So general and so total a failure can 
be referred only to radical misconcep- 
tion. In fact the English Prosodists 
have blindly followed the _ pedants. 
These latter, like les moutons de Pan- 
urge, have been occupied in incessant 
tumbling into ditches, for the excellent 
reason that their leaders have so tum- 
bled before. The Iliad, being taken 
as a starting point, was made to stand 
instead of Nature and common sense. 
Upon this poem, in place of facts and 
deduction from fact, or from natural 
law, were built systems of feet, metres, 
rhythms, rules——rules that contradict 
each other every five minutes, and for 
nearly all of which there may be found 
twice as many exceptions as examples. 
If any one has a fancy to be thoroughly 
confounded—to see how far the infatu- 
ation of what is termed “classical 
scholarship,” can lead a bookworm in 
the manufacture of darkness out of 
sunshine, let him turn over for a few 
moments any of the German Greek 
Prosodies. The only thing clearly made 
out in them is a very magnificent con- 
tempt for Leibnitz’s principle of “a 
sufficient reason.” 

To divert attention from the real 
matter in hand by any further refer- 
ence to these works is unnecessary, 
and would be weak. I cannot call to 
mind at this moment one essential par- 
ticular of information that is to be 
gleaned from them, and I will drop 
them here with merely this one obser- 
vation,—that, employing from among 
the numerous “ancient” feet the spon- 
dee, the trochee, the iambus, the ana- 
pest, the dactyl, and the czsura alone, 
I will engage to scan correctly any of 


785 


the Horatian rhythms, or any true 
rhythm that human ingenuity carn con- 
ceive. And this excess of chimerical 
feet is perhaps the very least of the 
scholastic supererogations. Ex uno 
disce omnia. ‘The fact is that quantity 
is a point in whose investigation the 
lumber of mere learning may be dis- 
pensed with, if ever in any. Its appre- 
ciation is universal. It appertains to 
no region, nor race, nor era in special. 
To melody and to harmony the Greeks 
hearkened with ears precisely similar to 
those which we employ for similar pur- 
poses at present, and I should not be 
condemned for heresy in asserting that 
a pendulum at Athens would have vi- 
brated much after the same fashion 
as does a pendulum in the city of 
Penn. 

Verse originates in the human enjoy- 
ment of equality, fitness. To this en- 
joyment, also, all the moods of verse, 
rhythm, metre, stanza, rhyme, allitera- 
tion, the refrain, and other analagous 
effects, are to be referred. As there are 


-some readers who habitually confound 


rhythm and metre, it may be as well 
here to say that the former concerns 
the character of feet (that is arrange- 
ments of syllables) while the latter has 
to do with the number of these feet. 
Thus by “a dactylic rhythm” we express 
a sequence of dactyls. By “a dactylic 
hexameter” we imply a line or measure 
consisting of six of these dactyls. 

To return to equality. Its idea em- 
braces those of similarity, proportion, 
identity, repetition, and adaptation or 
fitness. It might not be very difficult 
to go even behind the idea of equality, 
and show both how and why it is that 
the human nature takes pleasure in it, 
but such an investigation would. for 


786 


any purpose now in view, be superero- 
gatory. It is sufficient that the fact is 
undeniable—the fact that man derives 
enjoyment from his perception of equval- 
ity. Let us examine a crystal. We 
are at once interested by the equality 
between the sides and between the 
angles of one of its faces; the equality 
of the sides pleases us, that of the 
angles doubles the pleasure. On bring- 
ing to view a second face in all respects 
similar to the first, this pleasure seems 
to be squared; on bringing to view a 
third it appears to be cubed, and so on. 
{f have no doubt, indeed, that the de- 
light experienced, if measurable, would 
be found to have exact mathematical 
relation such as I suggest, that is to say, 
as far as a certain point, beyond which 
there would be a decrease in similar 
relations. 

The perception of pleasure in the 
equality of sounds is the principle of 
Music. Unpractised ears can appreciate 
only simple equalities, such as are found 
in ballad airs. While comparing one 


simple sound with another they are too . 


much occupied to be capable of com- 
paring the equality subsisting between 
these two simple sounds taken conjoint- 
ly, and two other similar simple sounds 
taken conjointly. Practised ears, on the 
other hand, appreciate both equalities 
at the same instant, although it is ab- 
surd to suppose that both are heard at 
the same instant. One is heard and 
appreciated from itself, the other is 
heard by the memory, and the instant 
glides into and is confounded with the 
secondary appreciation. Highly culti- 
vated musical taste in this manner en- 
joys not only these double equalities, 
all appreciated at once, but takes pleas- 
urable cognisance, through memory, of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


equalities the members of which occur 
at intervals so great that the unculti- 
vated taste loses them altogether. That 
this latter can properly estimate or de- 
cide on the merits of what is called 
scientific music is of course impossible. 
But scientific music has no claim to in- 
trinsic excellence; it is fit for scientific 
ears alone. In its excess it is the tri- 
umph of the physique over the morale 
of music. The sentiment is over- 
whelmed by the sense. On the whole, 
the advocates of the simpler melody 
and harmony have infinitely the best 
of the argument, although there has 
been very little of real argument on the 
subject. 

In verse, which cannot be better 
designated than as an inferior or less 
capable Music, there is, happily, little 
chance for complexity. Its rigidly sim- 
ple character not even Science—not 
even Pedantry can greatly pervert. 

The rudiment of verse may possibly 
be found in the spondee. ‘The very 
germ of a thought seeking satisfaction 
in equality of sound would result in 
the construction of words of two syl- 
lables, equally accented. In corrobora- 
tion of this idea we find that spondees 
most abound in the most ancient tongues. 
The second step we can easily suppose 
to be the comparison, that is to say, 
the collocation of two spondees—or two 
words composed each of a_ spondee. 
The third step would be the juxtaposi- 
tion of three of these words. By this 
time the perception of monotone would 
induce further consideration; and thus 
arises what Leigh Hunt so flounders 
in discussing under the title of ‘The 
Principle of Variety in Uniformity.” 
Of course there is no principle in the 
case—nor in maintaining it. The 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


“Uniformity” is the principle—the 
“Variety” is but the principle’s natural 
safeguard from self-destruction by ex- 
cess of self. “Uniformity,” besides, is 
the very worst word that could have 
been chosen for the expression of the 
general idea at which it aims. 

The perception of monotone having 
given rise to an attempt at its relief, 
the first thought in this new direction 
would be that of collating two or more 
words formed each of two syllables dif- 
ferently accented (that is to say, short 
and long) but having the same order 
in each word—in other terms, of collat- 
ing two or more iambuses, or two or 
more trochees. And here let me pause 
to assert that more pitiable nonsense 
has been written on the topic of long 
and short syllables than on any other 
subject under the sun. In general, a 
syllable is long or short, just as it is 
difficult or easy of enunciation. The 
natural long syllables are those encum- 
bered—the natural short syllables are 
those wnencumbered with consonants; 
all the rest is mere artificiality and 
jargon. The Latin Prosodies have a 
rule that a “vowel before two conso- 
nants is long.” This rule is deduced 
from ‘“authority”—that is, from the ob- 
servation that vowels so circumstanced, 
in the ancient poems, are always in 
syllables long by the laws of scansion. 
The philosophy of the rule is untouched, 
and lies simply in the physical difficulty 
of giving voice to such syllables—of 
performing the lingual evolutions neces- 
sary for their utterance. Of course, it 
is not the vowel that is long (although 
the rule says so), but the syllable of 
which the vowel is a part. It will be 
seen that the length of a syllable, de- 


787 


pending on the facility or difficulty of 
its enunciation, must have great varia- 
tion in various syllables; but for the 
purposes of verse we suppose a long 
syllable equal to two short ones, and the 
natural deviation from this relativeness 
we correct in perusal. The more closely 
our long syllables approach this rela- 
tion with our short ones, the better, 
ceteris paribus, will be our verse: but 
if the relation does not exist of itself 
we force it by emphasis, which can, of 
course, make any syllable as long as de- 
sired;—or, by an effort we can pro- 
hounce with unnatural brevity a syllable 
that is naturally too long. Accented 
syllables are, of course, always long, 
but where wnencumbered with conso- 
nants, must be classed among the un- 
naturally long. Mere custom has de- 
clared that we shall accent them—that 
is to say, dwell upon them; but no in- 
evitable lingual difficulty forces us to do 
so. In fine, every long syllable must 
of its own accord occupy in its utter- 
ance, or must be made to occupy, pre- 
cisely the: time demanded for two short 
ones. The only exception to this rule 
is found in the cesura—of which more 
anon, 

The success of the experiment with 
the trochees or iambuses (the one 
would have suggested the other) must 
have led to a trial of dactyls or ana- 
pests—natural dactyls or anapzests— 
dactylic or anapestic words. And now 
some degree of complexity has been at- 
tained. There is an appreciation, first, 
of the equality between the several 
dactyls or anapzsts, and secondly, of 
that between the long syllable and the 
two short conjointly. But here it may 
be said, that step after step would have 


788 


been taken, in continuation of this 
routine, until all the feet of the Greek 
Prosodies became exhausted. Not so; 
these remaining feet have no existence 
except in the brains of the scholiasts. 
It is needless to imagine men inventing 
these things, and folly to explain how 
and why they invented them, until it 
shall be first shown that they are ac- 
tually invented. All other “feet” than 
those which I have specified are, if not 
impossible at first view, merely combi- 
nations of the specified; and, although 
this assertion is rigidly true, I will, to 
avoid misunderstanding, put it in a 
somewhat different shape. I will say, 
then, that at present I am aware of no 
rhythm—nor do I believe that any one 
can be constructed—which, in its last 
analysis, will not be found to consist 
altogether of the feet I have mentioned, 
either existing in their individual and 
ebvious condition, or interwoven with 
each other in accordance with simple 
natural laws which I will endeavour to 
point out hereafter. 

We have now gone so far as to sup- 
pose men constructing indefinite se- 
quences of spondaic, iambic, trochaic, 
dactylic, or anapzstic words. In ex- 
tending these sequences, they would be 
again arrested by the sense of mono- 
tone. A succession of spondees would 
smmediately have displeased; one of 
iambuses or of trochees, on account of 
the variety included within the foot 
itself, would have taken longer to dis- 
please; one of dactyls or anapests, still 
longer; but even the last, if extended 
very far, must have become wearisome. 
The idea first of curtailing, and sec- 
ondly of defining, the length of a se- 
guence would thus at once have arisen. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Here then is the line of verse proper.* 
The principle of equality being con- 
stantly at the bottom of the whole proc- 
ess, lines would naturally be made, in 
the first instance, equal in the number 
of their feet; in the second instance, 
there would be variation in the mere 
number; one line would be twice as 
long as another; then one would be 
some less obvious multiple of another; 
then still less obvious proportions would 
be adopted—nevertheless there would 
be proportion, that is to say, a phase 
of equality, still. 

Lines being once introduced, the 
necessity of distinctly defining these 
lines to the ear (as yet written verse 
does not exist), would lead to a scrutiny 
of their capabilities at their termina- 
tions—and now would spring up the 
idea of equality in sound between the 
final syllables—in other words, of 
rhyme. First, it would be used only 
in the iambic, anapestic, and spondaic 
rhythms (granting that the latter had 
not been thrown aside long since, on 
account of its tameness), because in 
these rhythms the concluding syllable, 
being long, could best sustain the neces- 
sary protraction of the voice. No great 
while could elapse, however, before the 
effect, found pleasant as well as useful, 
would be applied to the two remaining 
rhythms. But as the chief force of 





* Verse, from the Latin vertere, to 
turn, is so called on account of the turn- 
ing or re-commencement of the series 
of feet. Thus a verse strictly speaking 
is a line. In this sense, however, I have 
preferred using the latter word alone; 
employing the former in the general 
acceptation given it in the heading of 
this paper.—E. A. P. 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


_ rhyme must lie in the accented syllable, 
the attempt to create rhyme at all in 
these two remaining rhythms, the tro- 
chaic and dactylic, would necessarily 
result in double and triple rhymes, such 
as beauty with duty (trochaic), and 
beautiful with dutiful (dactylic). 

It must be observed that in suggest- 
ing these processes I assign them no 
date; nor do I even insist upon their 
order. Rhyme is supposed to be of 
modern origin, and were this proved 
my positions remain untouched. I may 
say, however, in passing, that several 
instances of rhyme occur in the 
“Clouds” of Aristophanes, and that the 
Roman poets occasionally employed it. 
There is an effective species of ancient 
rhyming which has never descended to 
the moderns: that in which the ultimate 
and penultimate syllables rhyme with 
each other. For example: 


Parturiunt montes; nascetur ridiculus 
mus. 


And again: 
Litoreis ingens inventa sub ilicibus sus. 


The terminations of Hebrew verse 
(as far as understood) show no signs 
of rhyme; but what thinking person 
can doubt that it did actually exist? 
That men have so obstinately and 
blindly insisted, im general, even up to 
the present day, in confining rhyme to 
the ends of lines, when its effect is 
even better applicable elsewhere, inti- 
mates in my opinion the sense of some 
necessity in the connection of the ends 
with the rhyme—hints that the origin 
of rhyme lay in a necessity which con- 
nected it with the end—shows that 


789 


neither mere accident nor mere fancy 
gave rise to the connection—points, in 
a word, at the very necessity which I 
have suggested (that of some mode of 
defining lines to the ear), as the true 
origin of rhyme. Admit this and we 
throw the origin far back in the night 
of Time—beyond the origin of written 
verse. 

But to resume. The amount of com- 
plexity I have now supposed to be at- 
tained is very considerable. Various 
systems of equalization are appreciated 
at once (or nearly so) in their respec- 
tive values and in the value of each 
system with reference to all the others. 
As our present wltimatum of complex- 
ity, we have arrived at triple-rhymed, 
natural-dactylic lines, existing propor- 
tionally as well as equally with regard 
to other triple-rhymed, natural-dactylic 
lines. For example: 


Virginal Lilian, rigidly, humblily dutiful; 
Saintlily, lowlily, 
Thrillingly, holily 

Beautiful! 


Here we appreciate, first, the absolute 
equality between the long syllable of 
each dactyl and the two short con- 
jointly; secondly, the absolute equality 
between each dactyl and any other 
dactyl, in other words, among all the 
dactyls; thirdly, the absolute equality 
between the two middle lines; fourthly, 
the absolute equality between the first 
line and the three others taken con- 
jointly; fifthly, the absolute equality 
between the last two syllables of the 
respective words “dutiful” and “beau- 
tiful’; sixthly, the absolute equality be- 
tween the two last syllables of the re- 
spective words “lowlily” and “holily”; 


790 


seventhly, the proximate equality be- 
tween the first syllable of “dutiful” and 
the first syllable of “beautiful”; eighthly, 
the proximate equality between the first 
syllable of “lowlily”’ and that of 
“holily”; ninthly, the proportional 
equality (that of five to one) between 
the first line and each of its members, 
the dactyls; tenthly, the proportional 
equality (that of two to one) between 
each of the middle lines and its mem- 
bers, the dactyls; eleventhly, the pro- 
portional equality between the first 
line and each of the two middle, that 
of five to two; twelfthly, the propor- 
tional equality between the first line 
and the last, that of five to one; 
thirteenthly, the proportional equality 
between each of the middle lines and 
the last, that of two to one; lastly, the 
proportional equality, as concerns num- 
ber, between all the lines taken col- 
lectively and any individual line, that 
of four to one. 

The consideration of this last equality 
would give birth immediately to the 
idea of stanza,* that is to say, the in- 
sulation of lines into equal or obviously 
proportional masses. In its primitive 
(which was also its best) form the 
stanza would most probably have had 
absolute unity. In other words, the re- 
moval of any one of its lines would 
have rendered it imperfect, as in the 
case above, where if the last line, for 
example, be taken away there is left 
no rhyme to the “dutiful” of the first. 
Modern stanza is excessively loose, and 
where so, ineffective as a matter of 
course. 





*A stanza is often vulgarly, and with 


gross imp.opriety, called a verse— 
Esc AtoP: 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Now, although in the deliberate writ- 
ten statement which I have here given 
of these various systems of equalities, 
there seems to be an infinity of com- 
plexity so much that it is hard to con- 
ceive the mind taking cognisance of 
them all in the brief period occupied 
by the perusal or recital of the stanza, 
yet the difficulty is in fact apparent 
only when we will it to become so. 
Any one fond of mental experiment 
may satisfy himself, by trial, that in 
listening to the lines he does actually 
(although with a seeming unconscious- 
ness, on account of the rapid evolutions 
of sensation) recognise and instantane- 
ously appreciate (more or less intensely 
as his ear is cultivated) each and all of 
the equalisations detailed. The pleas- 
ure received or receivable has very 
much such progressive increase, and in 
very nearly such mathematical relations 
as those which I have suggested in the 
case of the crystal. 

It will be observed that I speak of 
merely a proximate equality between 
the first syllable of ‘“‘dutiful” and that 
of “beautiful,” and it may be asked 
why we cannot imagine the earliest — 
rhymes to have had absolute instead of 
proximate equality of sound. But ab- 
solute equality would have involved the 
use of identical words, and it is the 
duplicate sameness or monotony, that 
of sense as well as that of sound, which 
would have caused these rhymes to be 
rejected in the very first instance. 

The narrowness of the limits within 
which verse composed of natural feet 
alone must necessarily have been con- 
fined would have led, after a very brief 
interval, to the trial and immediate 
adoption of artificial feet, that is to say, 
of feet mot constituted each of a single 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


word but two, or even three words, or 
of parts of words. These feet would be 
intermingled with natural ones. For 
example: 


& bréath | cin make | thém 4s | 4 
breath | has made. 


This is an iambic line in which each 
iambus is formed of two words. Again: 


Thé tn | ima | gina | blé might | of Jove. 


This is an iambic line in which the first 
foot is formed of a word and a part 
of a word; the second and third of 
parts taken from the body or interior of 
a word; the fourth of a part and a 
whole; the fifth of two complete words. 
There are no natural feet in either line. 
Again: 


Can it bé | fanciéd that | Déity | évér 
vin | dictively 

Made in his | image 4 | mannikin | 
mérely t6 | maddén it? 


These are two dactylic lines in which 
we find natural feet (“Deity,” ‘‘man- 
nikin”); feet composed of two words 
(“fancied that,” “image a,’ “merely 
to,” “madden it”); feet composed of 
three words (“can it be,’ “made in 
his”); a foot composed of a part of a 
word (“dictively”); and a foot com- 
posed of a word and a part of a word 
(“ever vin”). 

And now, in our suppositional prog- 
ress, we have gone so far as to exhaust 
all the essentialities of verse. What 
follows may, strictly speaking, be re- 
garded as embellishment merely, but 
even in this embellishment the rudi- 


791 


mental sense of equality would have 
been the never-ceasing impulse. It 
would, for example, be simply in seek- 
ing further administration to this sense 
that men would come in time to think 
of the refrain or burden, where, at the 
closes of the several stanzas of a poem, 
one word or phrase is repeated; and of 
alliteration, in whose simplest form a 
consonant is repeated in the commence- 
ments of various words. This effect 
would be extended so as to embrace 
repetitions both of vowels and of con- 
sonants in the bodies as well as in the 
beginnings of words, and at a later 
period would be made to infringe on the 
province of rhyme by the introduction 
of general similarity of sound between 
whole feet occurring in the bodv of a 
line—all of which modifications I have 
exemplified in the line above. 


Made in his image a mannikin merely 
to madden it. 


Further cultivation would improve also 
the refrain by relieving its monotone in 
slightly varying the phrase at each 
repetition, or (as I have attempted to 
do in “The Raven’) in retaining the 
phrase and varying its application, al- 
though this latter point is not strictly 
a rhythmical effect alone. Finally, 
poets when fairly wearied with follow- 
ing precedent, following it the more 
closely the less they perceived it in 
company with Reason, would adventure 
so far as to indulge in positive rhyme 
at other points than the ends of lines. 
First, they would put it-in the middle 
of the line, then at some point where 
the multiple would be less obvious, then, 
alarmed at their own audacity, they 
would undo all their work by cutting 


792 


these lines in two. And here is the 
iruitful source of the infinity of “short 
metre” by which modern poetry, if 
not distinguished, is at least disgraced. 
It would require a high degree, indeed, 
both of cultivation and of courage on 
the part of any versifier to enable him 
to place his rhymes, and let them re- 
main at unquestionably their best posi- 
tion, that of unusual and unanticipated 
intervals. 

On account of the stupidity of some 
people, or (if talent be a more respec- 
table word), on account of their talent 
for misconception—I think it necessary 
to add here, first, that I believe the 
“processes” above detailed to be nearly, 
if not accurately, those which did oc- 
cur in the gradual creation of what we 
now call verse; secondly, that, although 
I so believe, I yet urge neither the as- 
sumed fact nor my belief in it as a part 
of the true propositions of this paper; 
thirdly, that in regard to the aim of this 
paper, it is of no consequence whether 
these processes did occur either in the 
order I have assigned them, or at all; 
my design being simply, in presenting 
a general type of what such processes 
might have been and must have re- 
sembled, to help them, the “some peo- 
ple,” to an easy understanding of what 
I have further to say on the topic of 
Verse. 

There is one point, which, in my sum- 
mary of the processes, I have purposely 
forborne to touch; because this point, 
being the most important of all, on 
account of the immensity of error 
usually involved in its consideration, 
would have led me into a series of de- 
tail inconsistent with the object of a 
summary. 

Everv reader of verse must have ob- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


served how seldom it happens that even 
any one line proceeds uniformly with a 
succession, such as I have supposed, of 
absolutely equal feet; that is to say, 
with a succession of iambuses only, or 
of trochees only, or of dactyls only, 
or of anapests only, or of spondees 
only. Even in the most musical lines 
we find the succession interrupted. The 
iambic pentameters of Pope, for ex- 
ample, will be found on examination, 
frequently varied by trochees in the be- 
ginning, or by (what seem to be) ana- 
pests in the body of the line. 


oh thou | whaté | vér ti | tlé please | 
thine ear | 

Déan Dra | piér Bick | érstaff | or 
Gall | ivér | 

Whéthér | théu chodse | Cérvan | tés’ | 
sé | riotis air | 

or laiigh | And shake | in Rab | élais’ ea | 
sy chair | 


Were any one weak enough to refer to 
the Prosodies for the solution of the 
difficulty here, he would find it solved 
as usual by a rule, stating the fact (or 
what it, the rule, supposes to be the 
fact), but without the slightest attempt 
at the rationale. “By a syneresis of the 
two short syllables,” say the books, “an 
anapest may sometimes be employed 
for an iambus, or dactyl for a trochee. 
2 In the beginning of a line a 
Erpahieesi is often used for an iambus.” 
Blending is the plain English for 
syneresis—but there should be xno 
blending; neither is an anapest ever 
employed for an iambus, or a dactyl for 
a trochee. These feet differ in time; 
and no feet so differing can ever be 
legitimately used in the same line. An 
anapest is equal to four short sylla- 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


bles—an iambus only to three. Dactyls 
and trochees hold the same relation. 
The principle of equality, in verse, ad- 


mits, it is true, of variation at certain 


points, for the relief of monotone, as 


I have already shown, but the point of 
time is that point which, being the rudi- 
mental one, must never be tampered 
with at all. 

To explain:—In further efforts for 
the relief of monotone than those to 
which I have alluded in the summary, 
men soon came to see that there was no 
absolute necessity for adhering to the 
precise number of syllables, provided 
the time required for the whole foot 
was preserved inviolate. They saw, for 
instance, that in such a line as 


6r laugh | 4nd shake | in Rab | élais’ 
éa | sy chair, | 


the equalisation of the three syllables 
elais ea with the two syllables compos- 
ing any of the other feet, could be 
readily effected by pronouncing the two 
syllables elais in double quick time. By 
pronouncing each of the syllables e 
and luis twice as rapidly as the syllable 
sy, or the syllable zz, or any other 
short syllable, they could bring the two 
of them, taken together, to the length, 
that is to say to the time, of any one 
short syllable. This consideration en- 
abled them to effect the agreeable varia- 
tion of three syllables in place of the 
uniform two. And variation was the 
object—variation to the ear. What 
sense is there, then, in supposing this 
object rendered null by the blending 
of the two syllables so as to render 
them, in absolute effect, one? Of 
course, there must be zo _ blending. 
Each syllable must be pronounced as 


793 


distinctly as possible (or the variation 
is lost), but with twice the rapidity in 
which the ordinary short syllable is 
enunciated. ‘That the syllables elais ea 
do not compose an anapest is evident, 
and the signs (“ “—) of their accentua- 
tion are erroneous. The foot might be 
written thus (~*~) the inverted cres- 
cents expressing double quick time; 
and might be called a bastard iambus. 
Here is a trochaic line: 


Sée thé | délicite—footéd | réin-deér. | 


The prosodies—that is to say the 
most considerate of them—would here 
decide that “delicate” is a dactyl used 
in place of a trochee, and would refer 
to what they call their “rule” for justifi- © 
cation. Others, varying the stupidity, 
would insist upon a Procrustean adjust- 
ment thus (del’cate) an adjustment 
recommended to all such words as 
silvery, murmuring, etc., which, it is 
said, should be not only pronounced 
but written silv’ry, murm’ring, and so 
on, whenever they find themselves in 
trochaic predicament. I have only to 
say that “delicate,” when circumstanced 
as above, is neither a dactyl nor a 
dactyl’s equivalent; that I would sug- 
gest for it this (~~) accentuation; 
that I think it as well to call it a 
bastard trochee; and that all words, at 
all events, should be written and pro- 
nounced zm full, and as nearly as pos- 
sible as nature intended them. 

About eleven years ago, there ap- 
peared in “The American Monthly Mag- 
azine” (then edited, I believe, by 
Messrs Hoffman and Benjamin,) a re- 
view of Mr. Willis’s Poems; the critic 
putting forth his strength, or his weak- 
ness, in an endeavor to show that the 


794 


poet was either absurdly affected, or 
grossly ignorant of the laws of verse; 
the accusation being based altogether 
on the fact that Mr. W. made occa- 
sional use of this very word “delicate,” 
and other similar words, in ‘‘the Heroic 
measure, which every one knew con- 
sisted of feet of two syllables.” Mr. 
W. has often, for example, such lines as 


That binds him to a woman’s delicate 
love— 

In the gay sunshine, reverent in the 
storm 

With its invisible fingers my loose hair. 


Here of course, the feet licate love, 
verent in and sible fin, are bastard 
iambuses; are not anapaests and are 
not improperly used. ‘Their employ- 
ment, on the contrary, by Mr. Willis, is 
but one of the innumerable instances 
he has given of keen sensibility in all 
those matters of taste which may be 
classed under the general head of fanci- 
ful embellishment. 

It is also about eleven years ago, if 
I am not mistaken, since Mr. Horne 
(of England,) the author of “Orion,” 
one of the noblest epics in any language, 
thought it necessary to preface his 
“Chaucer Modernised” by a very long 
and evidently a very elaborate essay, 
of which the greater portion was oc- 
cupied in a discussion of the seemingly 
anomalous foot of which we have been 
speaking. Mr. Horne upholds Chaucer 
in its frequent use; maintains his su- 
periority, on account of his so fre- 
quently using it, over all English versi- 
fiers; and indignantly repelling the 
common idea of those who make verse 
on their fingers—that the superfluous 
syllable is a roughness and an error— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


very chivalrously makes battle for it 
as a “grace.” That a grace it is, there 
can be no doubt; and what I complain 
of is, that the author of the most 
happily versified long poem in existence, 
should have been under the necessity 
of discussing this grace merely as a 
grace, through forty or fifty vague 
pages, solely because of his inability to 
show how and why it is a grace—by 
which showing the question would have 
been settled in an instant. 

About the trochee used for an iam- 
bus, as we see in the beginning of the 
line, 


Whéthér thou choose Cervantes’ serious 
alr, 


there is little that need be said. It 
brings me to the general proposition 
that, in all rhythms, the prevalent or 
distinctive feet may be varied at will, 
and nearly at random, by the occasional 
introduction of equivalent feet—that is 
to say, feet the sum of whose syllabic 
times is equal to the sum of the syllabic 
times of the distinctive feet. Thus, 
the trochee, whéthér is equal, in the 
sum of the times of its syllables, to the 
iambus, thou choose, in the sum of the 
times of its syllables; each foot being 
in time equal to three short syllables. 
Good versifiers who happen to be also 
good poets, contrive to relieve the 
monotony of a series of feet by the use 
of equivalent feet only at rare intervals, 
and at such points of their subject as 
seem. in accordance with the startling 
character of the variation. Nothing of 
this care is seen in the line quoted 
above—although Pope has some fine in- 
stances of the duplicate effect. Where 
vehemence is to be strongly expressed, 


! 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


Iam not sure that we should be wrong 


in venturing on two consecutive equiva- 
lent feet—although I cannot say that I 
have ever known the adventure made, 
except in the following passage, which 
occurs in “Al Aaraaf,’ a boyish poem 
written by myself when a boy. I am 
referring to the sudden and rapid ad- 
vent of a star: 


Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes 
Alone could see the phantom in the 


skies, 
When first thé phant6m’s céurse was 
found t6 be 


Héadlong hithérward o’er the starry sea. 


In the “general proposition” above, I 
speak of the occasional introduction of 
equivalent feet. It sometimes happens 
that unskilful versifiers, without know- 
ing what they do, or why they do it, in 
troduce so many “variations” as to ex- 
ceed in number the “distinctive” feet, 
when the ear becomes at once balked 
by the bouleversement of the rhythm. 
Too many trochees, for example, in- 
serted in an iambic rhythm would con- 
vert the latter to a trochaic. I may 
note here that in all cases the rhythm 
designed should be commenced and con- 
tinued, without variation, until the ear 
has tad full time to comprehend what 
is the rhythm. In violation of a rule so 
obviously founded in common sense, 
many even of our best poets do not 
scruple to begin an iambic rhythm 
with a trochee, or the converse; or a 
dactylic with an anapest, or the con- 
verse; and so on. 

A somewhat less objectionable error, 
although still a decided one, is that of 
commencing a rhythm. not with a dif- 
ferent equivalent foot, but with a 


795 


“bastard” foot of the rhythm intended. 
For example: 


Many 4 | thought will | come td | 
mémory. | 


Here many a is what I have explained 
to be a bastard trochee, and to be un- 
derstood should be accented with in- 
verted crescents. It is objectionable 
solely on account of its position as the 
opening foot of a trochaic rhythm. 
Memory, similarly accented is also a 
bastard trochee, but wnobjectionable, 
although by no means demanded. 

The further illustration of this point 
will enable me to take an important 
step. 

One of our finest poets, Mr. Christo- 
pher Pearse Cranch, begins a very beau- 
tiful poem thus: 


Many are the thoughts that come to me 
In my lonely musing; 

And they drift so strange and swift 
There’s no time for choosing 

Which to follow; for to leave 
Any, seems a losing. 


“A losing’ to Mr. Cranch, of course— 
but this ex passant. It will be seen 
here that the intention is trochaic;— 
although we do not see this intention 
by the opening foot as we should do, 
or even by the opening line. Reading 
the whole stanza, however, we perceive 
the trochaic rhythm as the general de- 
sign, and so after some reflection, we 
divide the first line thus: 


Many are the ! thoughts that | come 
td | mé. 


Thus scanned. the line will seem 


796 


musical. It is—highly so. And it is 
because there is no end to instances of 
just such lines of apparently incompre- 
hensible music, that Coleridge thought 
proper to invent his nonsensical system 
of what he calls “scanning by ac- 
cents’—as if “scanning by accents” 
were anything more than a_ phrase. 
Whenever ‘“Christabel’” is really not 
rough, it can be as readily scanned by 
the true Jaws (not the supposititious 
rules) of verse, as can the simplest pen- 
tameter of Pope; and where it zs rough 
(passim) these same laws will enable 
any one of common sense to show why 
it is rough and to point out, instantane- 
ously the remedy for the roughness. 

A reads and re-reads a certain line, 
and pronounces it false in rhythm—un- 
musical. B, however, reads it to A, and 
A is at once struck with the perfection 
of the rhythm, and wonders at his dul- 
ness in not “catching” it before. Hence- 
forward he admits the line to be mu- 
sical. SS, triumphant, asserts that, to be 
sure the line is musical—for it is the 
work of Coleridge—and that it is A 
who is zot; the fault being in A’s false 
reading. Now here A is right and B 
wrong. That rhythm is erroneous (at 
some point or other more or less ob- 
vious), which any ordinary reader can, 
without design, read improperly. It is 
the business of the poet so to construct 
his line that the intention must be 
caught at once. Even when these men 
have precisely the same understanding 
of a sentence, they differ, and often 
widely, in their modes of enunciating 
it. Any one who has taken the trouble 
to examine the topic of emphasis (by 
which I here mean not accent of partic- 
ular syllables, but the dwelling on entire 
words), must have seen that men em- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


phasise in the most singularly arbitrary 
manner. There are certain large classes 
of people, for example, who persist in 
emphasising their monosyllables. Little 
uniformity of emphasis prevails; be- 
cause the thing itself—the idea, em- 
phasis—is referable to no natural—at 
least to no well comprehended and 
therefore uniform—law. Beyond a very 
narrow and vague limit, the whole mat- 
ter is conventionality. And if we dif- 
fer in emphasis even when we agree in 
comprehension, how much more so in 
the former when in the latter too! 
Apart, however, from the considera- 
tion of natural disagreement, is it not 
clear that, by tripping here and mouth- 
ing there, any sequence of words may 
be twisted into any species of rhythm? 
But are we thence to deduce that all 
sequences of words are rhythmical in a 
rational understanding of the term?— 
for this is the deduction precisely to 
which the reductio ad absurdum will, 
in the end, bring all the propositions of 
Coleridge. Out of a hundred readers of 
“Christabel,” fifty will be able to make 
nothing of its rhythm, while forty-nine 
of the remaining fifty will, with some 
ado, fancy they comprehend it, after the 
fourth or fifth perusal. The one out of 
the whole hundred who shall both com- 
prehend and admire it at first sight— 
must be an unaccountably clever per- 
son—and I am by far too modest te 
assume, for a moment, that that very 
clever person is myself. 

In illustration of what is here ad- 
vanced I cannot do better than quote 
a poem: 


Pease porridge hot pease porridge 
cold 
Pease porridge in the pot—nine days old. 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


Now those of my readers who have 
never heard this peem pronounced ac- 
cording to the nursery conventionality, 
will find its rhythm as obscure as an 
explanatory note; while those who have 
heard it, will divide it thus, declare 
it musical, and wonder how there can 
be any doubt about it. 


Pease | porridge | hot | pease | porridge | 
cold | 

Pease | porridge | in the | pot | nine | 
days | old. | 


The chief thing in the way of this 
species of rhythm, is the necessity which 
it imposes upon the poet of travelling 
in constant company with his composi- 
tions, so as to be ready at a moment’s 
notice, to avail himself of a well-under- 
stood poetical license—that of reading 
aloud one’s own doggerel. 
In Mr. Cranch’s line, 


Many are the | thoughts that |come to | 
me, | 


the general error of which I speak is, 
of course, very partially exemplified, 
and the purpose for which, chiefly, I 
cite it, lies yet further on in our topic. 

The two divisions (thoughts that) 
and (come to) are ordinary trochees. 
The first division (many are the) would 
be thus accented by the Greek Pro- 
sodies (many dre thé), and would be 
called by them astrologos. ‘The Latin 
books would style the foot Peon 
Primus, and both Greek and Latin 
would swear that it was composed of a 
trochee and what they term a pyrrhic— 
that is to say, a foot of two short syl- 
lables—a thing that cannot be, as I 
shall presently show. 


797 


But now, there is an obvious diffi- 
culty. The astrolegos, according to the 
Prosodies’ own showing, is equal to five 
short syllables, and the trochee to 
three—yet, in the line quoted, these 
two feet are equal. They occupy, pre- 
cisely, the same time. In fact, the 
whole music of the line depends upon 
their being made to occupy the same 
time. The Prosodies then, have dem- 
onstrated what all mathematicians have 
stupidly failed in demonstrating—that 
three and five are one and the same 
thing. After what I have already said, 
however, about the bastard trochee and 
the bastard iambus, no one can have 
any trouble in understanding that many 
are the is of similar character. It is 


‘merely a bolder variation than usual 


from the routine of trochees, and intro- 
duces to the bastard trochee one addi- 
tional syllable. But this syllable is not 
short. That is, it is not short in the 
sense of “short” as pplied to the final 
syllable of the ordinary trochee, where 
the word means merely the half of long. 

In this case (that of the additional 
syllable) “short,” if used at all, must 
be used in the sense of the sixth of 
long. And all the three final syllables 
can be called short only with the same 
understanding of the term. The three 
together are equal only to the one short 
syllable (whose place they supply) of 
the ordinary trochee. It follows that 
there is no sense jn thus (~” ) accenting 
these syllables. We must devise for 
them some new character which shall 
denote the sixth of long. Let it be 
(« )—the crescent placed with the 
curve to the left. The whole foot 
(many are the) might be called a quick 
trochee. 

We now come ‘to the final division 


798 


(me) of Mr. Cranch’s line. It is clear 
that this foot, short as it appears, is 
fully equal in time to each of the pre- 
ceding. It is, in fact, the cesura—the 
foot which, in the beginning of this 
paper, I called the most important in 
all verse. Its chief office is that of 
pause or termination; and here—at the 
end of a line—its use is easy, because 
there is no danger of misapprehending 
its value. We pause on it, by a seem- 
ing necessity, just so long as it has 
taken us to pronounce the preceding 
feet, whether iambuses, trochees, . dac- 
tyls, or anapests. It is thus a vari- 
able foot, and, with some care, may 
be well introduced into the body of a 
line, as in a little poem of great beauty 
by Mrs. Welby: 


I have | a lit | tle step | son | of on | ly 
three | years old. | 


Here we dwell on the cesura, son, just 
as long as it requires us to pronounce 
either of the preceding or succeeding 
iambuses. Its value, therefore, in this 
line, is that of three short syllables. In 
the following dactylic line its value is 
that of four short syllables. 


Pale as a | lily was | Emily | Gray. 


I have accented the cesura with a 
(——) by way of expressing this vari- 
ability of value. 

I observed just now that there could 
be no such foot as one of two short 
syllables. What we start from in the 
very beginning of all idea on the topic 
of verse, is quantity, length. Thus 
when we enunciate an independent syl- 
lable it is long, as a matter of course. 
If we enunciate two, dwelling on both 
equally, we express equality in the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


enunciation, or length, and have a right 
to call them two long syllables. If we 
dwell on one more than the other, we 
have also a right to call one short, be- 
cause it is short in relation to the other. 
But if we dwell on both equally, and 
with a tripping voice, saying to our- 
selves here are two short syllables, the 
query might well be asked of us—“in 
relation to what are they shorter” 
Shortness is but the negation of 
length. To say, then, that two syl- 
lables, placed independently of any oth- 
er syllable, are short, is merely to say 
that they have no positive length, or 
enunciation—in other words, that they 
are no syllables—that they do not exist 
at all. And if, persisting, we add any- 
thing about their equality, we are mere- 
ly floundering in the idea of an identical 
equation, where, x being equal to x, 
nothing is shown to be equal to zero. 
In a word, we can form no conception 
of a pyrrhic as of an independent foot. 
It is a mere chimera bred in the mad 
fancy of a pedant. 

From what I have said about the 
equalisation of the several feet of a 
line, it must not be deduced that any 
necessity for equality in time exists be- 
tween the rhythm of several lines. A 
poem, or even a stanza, may begin with 
iambuses in the first line, and proceed 
with anapzsts in the second, or even 
with the less accordant dactyls, as in 
the opening of quite a pretty specimen 
of verse by Miss Mary A. S. Aldrich: 


The wa | ter li | ly sleeps | in pride | 
Down in thé | dépths of thé | aztre | 


lake. | 


Here azure is a spondee, equivalent 
to a dactyl; Jake a cesura. 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


I shall now best proceed in quoting 
the initial lines of Byron’s “Bride of 
Abydos”: 


Know ye the land where the cypress 

and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done 

in their clime, 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love 
of the turtle 

Now melt into softness, now madden 

to crime? 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the 
beams ever shine, 

And the light wings or Zephyr, op- 
pressed with perfume, 

Wax faint o’er the gardens of Gul in 
their bloom? 

Where the citron and olive are fairest 
of fruit 

And the voice of the nightingale never 
is mute— 

Where the virgins are soft as the roses 
they twine, 

And all save the spirit of man is divine? 

’Tis the land of the East—’tis the clime 
of the Sun— 

Can he smile on such deeds as his chil- 
dren have done? 

Oh, wild as the accents of lovers’ fare- 
well 

Are the hearts that they bear and the 
tales that they tell. 


Now the flow of these lines (as times 
go) is very sweet and musical. They 
have been often admired, and justly— 
as times go—that is to say, it is a rare 
thing to find better versification of its 
kind. And where verse is pleasant to 
the ear, ic is silly to find fault with it 
because it refuses to be scanned. Yet 
I have heard men, professing to be 


799 


scholars, who made no scruple of abus- 
ing these lines of. Byron’s on the 
ground that they were musical in spite 
of all law. Other gentlemen, not 
scholars, abused “all law” for the same 
reason—and it occurred neither to the 
one party nor to the other that the law 
about which they were disputing might 
possibly be no law at all—an ass of a 
law in the skin of a lion. 

The Grammars said nothing about 
dactylic lines, and it was easily seen that 
these lines were at least meant for dac- 
tylic. The first one was, therefore, thus 
divided: 


Know yé thé | land whére thé | cypréss 
and | myrtlé. | 


The concluding foot was a mystery; 
but the Prosodies said something about 
the dactylic “measure” calling now and 
then for a double rhyme; and the court 
of inquiry were content to rest in the 
double rhyme, without exactly perceiv- 
ing what a double rhyme had to do 
with the question of an irregular foot. 
Quitting the first line, the second was 
thus scanned: 


are émbléms | of deéds that | are done 
in | théir clime. | 


It was immediately seen, however, that 
this would not do—it was at war with 
the whole emphasis of the reading. It 
could not be supposed that Byron, or 
any one in his senses, intended to place 
stress upon such monosyllables as “are,” 
“of,’ and “their,” nor could “their 
clime,” collated with “to crime,” in the 
corresponding line below, be fairly 
twisted into anything like a ‘‘double 
rhyme,” so as to bring everything with- 


800 


in the category of the Grammars. But 
further these grammars spoke not. The 
inquirers, therefore, in spite of their 
sense of harmony in the lines, when 
considered without reference to scan- 
sion, fell upon the idea that the “Are” 
was a blunder—an excess for which the 
poet should be sent to Coventry—and, 
striking it out, they scanned the re- 
mainder of the line as follows: 


— émbléms of | deéds that dre | done 
in théir:clime. | 


This answered pretty well; but the 
Grammars admitted no such foot as a 
foot of one syllable; and besides the 
rhythm was dactylic. In despair, the 
books are well searched, however, and 
at last the investigators are gratified 
by a full solution of the riddle in the 
profound “Observation” quoted in the 
beginning of this article:—‘“When a 
syllable is wanting, the verse is said to 
be catalectic; when the measure is ex- 
act, the line is acatalectic; when there 
is a redundant syllable it forms byper- 
meter.” This is enough. The anoma- 
lous line is pronounced to be catalectic 
at the head and to form hypermeter at 
the tail—and so on, and so on; it being 
soon discovered that nearly all the re- 
maining lines are in a similar predica- 
ment, and that what flows so smoothly 
+o the ear, although so roughly to the 
eye, is, after all, a mere jumble of cat- 
alecticism, acatalecticism, and hyper- 
meter—not to say worse. 

Now, had this court of inquiry been 
in possession of even the shadow of the 
philosophy of Verse, they would have 
had no trouble in reconciling this oil 
and water of the eye and ear, by merely 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


scanning the passage without reference 
to lines, and, continuously, thus: 


Know ye the | land where the] cy- 
press and | myrtle Are | emblems of | 
deeds that are|done in their | clime 
Where the| rage of the | vulture the | 
love of the | turtle Now| melt into | 
softness now | madden to | crime | Know 
ye the|land of the| cedar and | vine 
Where the | flowers ever | blossom the | 
beams ever | shine And the | light wings 
of | Zephyr op| pressed by per | fume 
Wax | faint o’er the | gardens of | Gul 
in their | bloom Where th- | citron and | 
olive are | fairest of | fruit And the | 
voice of the | nightingale! never is | 
mute Where the| virgins are| soft as 
the | roses they | twine And|all save 
the | spirit of |man is di| vine. ’Tis 
the | land of the | East ’tis the | clime of 
the | Sun Can he | smile on such | deeds 
as his | children have | done Ch | wild as 
the | accents of | lovers’ fare | well Are 
the | hearts that they | bear and the | 
tales that they | ¢ell. 


Here “‘crime”’ and “tell” (italicised) are 
cesuras, each having th value of a 
dactyl, four short syllables, while “fume 
Wax,” “twine and,” and “done Oh,” are 
spondees which, of course, being com- 
posed of two long syllables are also 
equal to four short, and are the dactyl’s 
natural equivalent. The nicety of By- 
ron’s ear has led him into a succession 
of feet which, with two trivial excep- 
tions as regards melody, are absolutely 
accurate, a very rare occurrence this in 
dactylic or anapestié rhythms. The 
exceptions are found in the spondee 
“twine And,” and the dactyl “smile on 
such.” Both feet are false in point of 
melody. In “twine And” to make out 


| 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


801 


the rhyme we must force “And” into a or thus: 


length which it will not naturally bear. 
We are called on to sacrifice either the 
proper length of the syllable as de- 
manded by its position as a member of 
a spondee, or the customary accentua- 


tion of the word in conversation. There 


is no hesitation, and should be none. 
We at once give up the sound for the 
sense, and the rhythm is imperfect. In 


- this instance it is very slightly so, not 


one person in ten thousand could by 
ear detect the inaccuracy. But the per- 
fection of verse as regards melody, con- 
sists in its mever demanding any such 
sacrifice as is here demanded. ‘The 
rhythmical must agree thoroughly with 
the reading flow. This perfection has 
in no instance been attained, but is 
unquestionably attainable. “Smile on 
such,” the dactyl, is incorrect, because 
“such,” from the character of the two 
consonants ch ¢ nnot easily be enun- 
ciated in the ordinary time of a short 
syllable, which its position declares that 
it is. Almost every reader will be able 
to appreciate the slight difficulty here, 
and yet the error is by no means so im- 
portant as that of the “and” in the 
spondee. By dexterity we may pro- 
nounce “such’’ in the true time, but the 
attempt to remedy the rhythmical de- 
ficiency of the And by drawing it out, 
merely aggregates the offence against 
natural enunciation by directing atten- 
tion to the offence. 

My main object, however, in quoting 
these lines is to show that in spite of the 
Prosodies, the length of a line is en- 
tirely an arbitrary matter. We might 
divide the commencement of Byron’s 
poem thus:— 


Know ye the | land where the | 


Know ye the|land where the | cy- 
press and | 


or thus: 


Know ye the|land where the | cy- 
press and | myrtle are | 


or thus: 


Know ye the|land where the | cy- 
press and | myrtle are| emblems of | 


In short, we may give it any division 
we please, and the lines will be good, 
provided we have at least two feet in 
a line. As in mathematics two units are 
required to form number, so rhythm 
(from the Greek arithmos, number) de- 
mands for its formation at least two 
feet. Beyond doubt, we often see such 
lines as 


Know ye the— 
Land where the— 


lines of one foot, and our Prosodies ad- 
mit such, but with impropriety, for 
common sense would dictate that every 
so obvious division of a poem as is 
made by a line, should include within 
itself all that is necessary for its own 
comprehension, but in a line of one 
foot we can have no appreciation of 
rhythm, which depends upon the equal- 
ity between ¢wo or more pulsations. The 
false lines, consisting sometimes of a 
single cesura, which are seen in mock 
Pindaric odes, are, of course, “rhyth- 
mical” only in connection with some 
other line, and it is this want of inde- 
pendent rhythm which adapts them te 
the purposes of burlesque alone. Their 


802 


effect is that of incongruity (the prin- 
ciple of mirth), for they include the 
blankness of prose amid the barmony 
of verse. 

My second object in quoting Byron’s 
lines was that of showing how absurd 
it often is to cite a single line from 
amid the body of a poem for the pur- 
pose of instancing the perfection or im- 
perfection of the line’s rhythm. Were 
we to see by itself 


Know ye the land where the cypress 
and myrtle, 


we might justly condemn it as defec- 
tive in the final foot, which is equal to 
only three, instead of being equal to 
four short syllables. 

In the foot “flowers ever” we shall 
find a further exemplification of the 
principle of the bastard iambus, bastard 
trochee, and quick trochee, as I have 
been at some pains in describing these 
feet above. All the Prosodies on Eng- 
lish verse would insist upon making an 
elision in “flowers,” thus (flow’rs), but 
this is nonsense. 
(many are thé) occurring in Mr. 
Cranch’s trochaic line, we had to equal- 
ise the time of the three syllables (ny, 
are, the) to that of the one short syl- 
lable whose position they usurp. Ac- 
cordingly each of these syllables is 
equal to the third of a short syllable, 
that is to say, the sixth of along. But 
in Byron’s dactylic rhythm, we have 
to equalise the time of the three sylla- 
bles (ers, ev, er) to that of the one 
long syllable whose position they usurp, 
or (which is the same thing) of the two 
short. ‘Therefore the value of each of 
the syllables (ers, ev, and er) is the 
third of a long. We enunciate them 


In the quick trochee. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with only half the rapidity we employ 
in enunciating the three final syllables 
of the quick trochee—which latter is a 
rare foot. The “flowers ever,’ on the 
contrary, is as common in the dactylic 
rhythm as is the bastard trochee in the 
trochaic, or the bastard iambus in the 
iambic. We may as well accent it with 
the curve of the crescent to the right 
and call it a bastard dactyl. A bastard 
anapest, whose nature I now need be at 
no trouble in explaining, will of course 
occur now and then in an anapestic 
rhythm. 

In order to avoid any chance of that 
confusion which is apt to be introduced 
in an essay of this kind by too sudden 
and radical an alteration of the >nven- 
tionalities to which the reader has been 
accustomed, I have thought it right to 
suggest for the accent marks of the 
bastard trochee, bastard iambus, etc. 
etc., certain characters which, in merely 
varying the direction of the ordinary 
short accent ( “’) should imply, what is 
the fact, that the feet themselves are 
not new feet, in any proper sense, but 
simply modifications of the feet, re- 
spectively, from which they derive their 
names. Thus - bastard iambus is, in 
its essentiality, at is to say, in its 
time an iambus. The variation lies only 
in the distribution of this time. The 
time, for example, occupied by the one 
short (or half of long) syllable in the 
ordinary iambus is in the bastard spread 
equally over two syllables, which are 
accordingly the fourth of long. 

But this fact—the fact of the essen- 
tiality, or whole time, of the foot being 
unchanged, is now so fully before the 
reader, that I may venture to propose, 
finally, an accentuation which shall 
answer the real purpose—that is to say, 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


what should be the real purpose, of all 
accentuation—the purpose of express- 
ing to the eye the exact relative value of 
every syllable employed in Verse. 

I have already shown that enuncia- 
tion, or length, is the point from which 
we start. In other words, we begin with 
a long syllable. This then is our unit; 
and there will be no need of accenting 
it at all. An unaccented syllable, in a 
system of accentuation, is to be re- 
garded always as a long syllable. Thus 
a spondee would be without accent. In 
an iambus, the first syllable being 
“short,” or the half of long, should be 
accented with a small 2, placed beneath 


the syllable; the last syllable, being 


long, should be unaccented; the whole 
would be thus (control). In a trochee, 
2 


these accents would be merely con- 
versed, thus (manly). In a dactyl, each 
2 


of the two final syllables, being the half 

of long, should also be accented with a 

small 2 beneath the syllable; and the 

first syllable left unaccented, the whole 

_ would be thus (happiness). In an an- 
2 2 


apest we should converse the dactyl 
thus (in the land). In the bastard dac- 
2 2 


tyl, each of the three concluding syl- 
lables being the third of long, should 
be accented with a small 3 beneath the 
syllable, and the whole foot would stand 
thus (flowers ever). In the bastard an- 
3s 3 8 
apzst we should converse the bastard 
dactyl thus (in the rebound). In the 
3 3 3 


bastard iambus, each of the two initial 
syllables, being the fourth of long, 


803 


should be accented below with a small 
4; the whole foot would be thus, (in 


the rain). In the bastard trochee, we 
4 


should converse the bastard iambus thus 
(many a). In the quick trochee, each 
4 4 


of the three concluding syllables, being 

the sixth of long, should be accented 

below with a small 6; the whole foot 

would be thus (many are the). The 
6 6 6 


quick iambus is not yet created, and 
most probably never will be; for it will 
be excessively useless, awkward, and li- 
able to misconception—as I have al- 
ready shown that even the quick trochee 
is;—but, should it appear, we must ac- 
cent it by conversing the quick trochee. 
The cesura, being variable in length, 
but always longer than “long,” should 
be accented above, with a number ex- 
pressing the length or value of the dis- 
tinctive foot of the rhythm in which 
it occurs. Thus a cesura, occurring in 
a spondaic rhythm, would be accented 
with a small 2 above the syllable, or 
rather foot. Occurring in a dactylic or 
anapestic rhythm, we also accent it with 
the 2 above the foot. Occurring in an 
iambic rhythm, however, it must be ac- 
cented above with 1%; for this is the 
relative value of the iambus. Occurring 
in the trochaic rhythm, we give it of 
course the same accentuation. For the 
complex 144, however, it would be ad- 
visable to substitute the simpler expres- 
sion 3/2, which amounts to the same 
thing. 

In this system of accentuation Mr. 
Cranch’s lines quoted above, would thus 
be written: 


804 


Many are the | thoughts that | come to | 
6 6 6 2 2 


3 
2 
| me 


In my | lonely | musing | 
2 2 2 
3 
And they | drift so | strange and | swift 
2 2 2 


There’s no | time for | choosing | 
2 2 2 


3 


2 
Which to | follow | for to | leave 
Any, | seems a | losing. | 
2 2 2 


In the ordinary system the accentu- 
ation would be thus: 


Many aré thé | thoughts that | come 
t6 | mé 

in my | lonely | mising, | 

and théy | drift s6 | strange dnd | swift | 

Thére’s nd | time fdr | choésing | 

Which t6 | fdlléw, | for td | léave 

any, | seéms 4 | losing. | 


It must be observed here that I do 
not grant this to be the “ordinary” 
scansion. On the contrary, I never yet 
met the man who had the faintc3t com- 
prehension of the true scanning of these 
lines, or of such as these. But granting 
this to be the mode in which our Pros- 
odies would divide the feet they would 
accentuate the syllables as just above. 

Now let any reasonable person com- 
pare the two modes. The first advan- 
tage seen in my mode is that of sim- 
plicity, of time, labour, and ink saved. 
Counting the fractions as two accents 
even there will be found only twenty-six 
accents to the stanza. In the common 
accentuation there are forty-one. But 
admit that all this is a trifle, which it is 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


not, and let us proceed to points of im- 
portance. Does the common accentu- 
ation express the truth in particular, in 
general, or in any regard? Is it con- 
sistent with itself? Does it convey 
either to the ignorant or to the scholar 
a just conception of the rhythm of the 
lines? Each of these questions must 
be answered in the negative. The cres- 
cents being precisely similar must be 
understood as expressing, all of them, 
one and the same thing, and so all pros- 
odies have always understood them and 
wished them to be understood. They 
express indeed “short,” but this word 
has all kinds of meanings. It serves to 
represent (the reader is left to guess 
when) sometimes the half, sometimes 
the third, sometimes the fourth, some- 
times the sixth, of “long,” while “long” 
itself in the books is left undefined and 
undescribed. On the other hand, the 
horizontal accent, it may be said, ex- 
presses sufficiently well and unvary- 
ingly the syllables which are meant to 
be long. It does nothing of the kind. 
This horizontal accent is placed over the 
czesura (wherever, as in the Latin Proso- 
dies, the cesura is recognised) as well 
as over the ordinary long syllable, and 
implies anything and everything, just 
as the crescent. But grant that it does 
express the ordinary long syllables 
(leaving the cesura out of question) 
have I not given the identical expres- 
sion by not employing any expression 
at all? In a word, while the Prosodies, 
with a certain number of accents, ex- 
press precisely nothing whatever, I with 
scarcely half the number, have expressed 
everything which in a system of accen- 
tuation demands expression. In glanc- 
ing at my mode in the lines of Mr. 
Cranch, it will be seen that it conveys 





THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


not only the exact relation of the syl- 


lables and feet, among themselves, in 
those particular lines, but their precise 
value in relation to any other existing 
or conceivable feet or syllables in any 
existing or conceivable system cf 
rhythm. 

The object of what we call scansion 
is the distinct marking of the rhythmi- 
cal flow. Scansion with accents or per- 
pendicular lines between the feet, that 
is to say scansion by the voice only, is 
scansion to the ear only, and all very 
good in its way. The written scansion 
addresses the ear through the eye. In 
either case the object is the distinct 
marking of the rhythmical, musical, or 
reading flow. There can be no other ob- 
ject, and there is none. Of course, then, 
the scansion and the reading flow should 
go hand in hand. The former must 
agree with the latter. The former rep- 
resents and expresses the latter, and is 
good or bad as it truly or falsely repre- 
sents and expresses it. If by the writ- 
ten scansion of a line we are not en- 
abled to perceive any rhythm or music 
in the line, then either the line is un- 
rhythmical or the scansion false. Apply 
all this to the English lines which we 
have quoted at various points in the 
course of this article. It will be found 
that the scansion exactly conveys the 
rhythm, and thus thoroughly fulfils the 
only purpose for which scansion is re- 
quired. 

But let the scansion of the schools be 
applied to the Greek and Latin verse, 
and what result do we find?—that the 
verse is one thing and the scansion quite 
another. The ancient verse read aloud 
is in general musical, and occasionally 
very musical. Scanned by the Prosodial 
rules we can, for the most part, make 


805 


nothing of it whatever. In the case of 
the English verse the more emphatically 
we dwell on the divisions between the 
feet the more distinct is our perception 
of the kind of rhythm intended. In the 
case of the Greek and Latin the more 
we dwell the Jess distinct is this per- 
ception. To make this clear by an ex- 
ample: 


Mecenas, atavis edite regibus, 

O, et presidium et dulce decus meum, 

Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympi- 
cum 

Collegisse juvat, metaque fervidis 

Evitata rotis, palmaque nobilis 

Terrarum dominos evehit ad Deos. 


Now in reading these lines there is 
scarcely one person in a thousand who, 
if even ignorant of Latin, will not im- 
mediately feel and appreciate their flow, 
their music. A prosodist, however, in- 
forms the public that the scansion runs 
thus: 


Mece | nas ata | vis | edite | regibus | 
O, et | presidi’ | et | dulce de | cus me- 


um 
Sunt quos | curricu | lo | pulver’ O | lym- 
picum | 
Colle | gisse ju | vat | metaque | fer- 
vidis | 


Evi | tata ro | tis | palmaque | nobilis | 
Terra | rum domi | nos | evehit | ad 
Deos. | 


Now I do not deny that we get a cer- 
tain sort of music from the lines if we 
read them according to this scansion, 
but I wish to call attention to the fact 
that this scansion and the certain sort 
of music which grows out of it are en- 
tirely at war, not only with the reading 


806 


flow which any ordinary person would 
naturally give the lines, but with the 
reading flow universally given them, and 
never denied them by even the most 
obstinate and stolid of scholars. 

And now these questions are forced 
upon us—‘Why exists this discrepancy 
between the modern verse with its scan- 
sion and the ancient verse with its scan- 
sion?’—‘‘Why in the former case are 
there agreement and_ representation, 
while in the latter there is neither the 
one or the other?” or, to come to the 
point, “How are we to reconcile the 
ancient verse with the scholastic scan- 
sion of it?” This absolutely necessary 
conciliation—shall we bring it about by 
supposing the scholastic scansion wrong 
because the ancient verse is right, or by 
maintaining that the ancient verse is 
wrong because the scholastic scansion 
is not to be gainsaid? 

Were we to adopt the latter mode of 
arranging the difficulty, we might, in 
some measure at least, simplify the ex- 
pression of the arrangement by putting 
it thus—Because the pedants have no 
eyes therefore the old poets had no 
ears. 

“But,” say the gentlemen without the 
eyes, “the scholastic scansion, al- 
though certainly not handed down to us 
in form from the old poets themselves 
(the gentlemen without the ears), is 
nevertheless deduced from certain facts 
which are supplied us by careful ob- 
servation of the old poems.” 

And let us illustrate this strong po- 
sition by an example from an American 
poet, who must be a poet of some em- 
inence or he will not answer the pur- 
pose. Let us take Mr. Alfred B. Street. 
I remember these two lines of his: 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


His sinuous path, by blazes, wound 
Among trunks grouped in myriads 
round. 


With the sense of these lines I have 
nothing to do. When a poet is in a 
“fine frenzy,” he may as well imagine a 
large forest as a small one—and “‘by 
blazes!” is mot intended for an oath. 
My concern is with the rhythm, which 
is Jambic. 

Now let us suppose that, a thousand 
years hence, when the “American Jan- 
guage’ is dead, a learned prosodist 
should be deducing from “careful ob- 
servation” of our best poets, a system 
of scansion for our poetry. And let us 
suppose that this prosodist had so little 
dependence in the generality and im- 
mutability of the laws of Nature as to 
assume in the outset that, because we 
lived a thousand years before his time, 
and made use of steam engines instead 
of mesmeric balloons, we must there- 
fore have had a very singular fashion 
of mouthing our vowels, and altogether 
of Hudsonising our verse. And let us 
suppose that with these and other fun- 
damental. propositions carefully put 
away in his brain, he should arrive at 
the line— 


Among | trunks grouped | in my | riads 
round. 


Finding it an obviously iambic rhythm, 
he would divide it as above; and ob- 
serving that “trunks” made the first 
member of an iambus, he would call it 
short, as Mr. Street intended it to be. 
Now further:—if instead of admitting 
the possibility that Mr. Street (who by 
that time would be called Street simply, 
just as we say Homer)—that Mr. Street 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


might have been in the habit of writing 
carelessly, as the poets of the proso- 
dist’s own era did, and as all poets will 
do (on account of being geniuses )—in- 
stead of admitting this, suppose the 
learned scholar should make a “rule” 
and put it in a book, to the effect that, 
in the American verse, the vowel u, 
when found imbedded among nine con- 
sonants, was short: what, under such 
circumstances, would the sensible peo- 
ple of the scholar’s day have a right not 


only to think, but to say of that - 


scholar?—why, that he was a “fool—by 
blazes!” 

I have put an extreme case, but it 
strikes at the root of the error. The 
“rules” are grounded in “authority;” and 
this ‘“‘authority’—can any one tell us 
what it means? or can any one suggest 
anything that it may mot meanr Is it 
not clear that the “scholar” above re- 
ferred to, might as readily have de- 
duced from authority a totally false sys- 
tem as a partially true one? To deduce 
from authority a consistent prosody of 
the ancient metres would indeed have 
been within the limits of the barest pos- 
sibility; and the task has not been ac- 
complished, for the reason that it de- 
mands a species of ratiocination alto- 
gether out of keeping with the brain of 
a bookworm. A rigid scrutiny will show 
that the very few “rules” which have 
not .as many exceptions as examples, 
are those which have, by accident, their 
true bases not in authority, but in the 
omniprevalent laws of syllabification; 
such, for example, as the rule which de- 
clares a vowel before two consonants to 
be long. 

In a word, the gross confusion and 
antagonism of the scholastic prosody, 
as its marked inapplicability to the read- 


807 


ing flow of the rhythms it pretends to 
illustrate, are attributable, first, to the 
utter absence of natural principle as a 
guide in the investigations which have 
been undertaken by inadequate men; 
and secondly, to the neglect of the ob- 
vious consideration that the ancient 
poems, which have been the criteria 
throughout, were the work of men who 
must have written as loosely, and with 
as little definitive system as ourselves. 

Were Horace alive to-day, he would 
divide for us his first Ode thus, and 
“make great eyes” when assured. by the 
prosodists that he had no business to 
make any such division! 


Mecenas | atavis | edite | regibus | 
2 2 2 2 2 2 22 
O et pre|sidium et|dulce de| cus 
2 2 3.3 3 2 2 


meum | 
22 


Sunt quos cur|riculo|pulverem O | 
$ 2 2 22 3 3 3 

lympicum | 

2 2 

Collegisse | juvat | metaque | fervitis | 

3:38 2 2 2 2 
Evitata | rotis | palmaque | nobilis | 

33 3 2 2 22 


Terrarum | dominos | evehit | ad Deos. | 
2 2 a2 Ee) 22 


Read by this scansion, the flow is pre- 
served; and the more we dwell on the 
divisions, the more the intended rhythm 
becomes apparent. Moreover, the feet 
have all the same time; while in the 
scholastic scansions, trochees—admit- 
ted trochees—are absurdly employed as 
equivalents to spondees and dactyls. 
The books declare, for instance, that 
the first foot of this species of verse 


808 


_ may be a trochee, and seem to be glor- 
iously unconscious that to put a trochee 
in apposition with a longer foot, is to 
violate the inviolable principle of all 
music, time. 

It will be said, however, by some 
people, that I have no business to make 
a dactyl out of such obviously long syl- 
lables as sunt quos cur. Certainly I 
have no business to do so. I never do 
so. And Horace should not have done 
so. But he did. Mr. Bryant and Mr. 
Longfellow do the same thing every 
day. And merely because these gen- 
tlemen now and then forget themselves 
in this way, it would be hard if some 
future prosodist should insist upon 
twisting the “Thanatopsis,” or the 
“Spanish Student,’ into a jumble of 
trochees, spondees, and dactyls. 

It may be said also by some other 
people that, in the word decus, I have 
succeeded no better than the books, in 
making the scansional agree with the 
reading flow; and tnat decus was not 
pronounced decus. I reply, that there 
can be no doubt of the word having 
been pronounced, in this case, decus. 
It must be observed that the Latin in- 
flection, or variation of a word in its 
terminating syllables, caused the Ro- 
mans—must have caused them—to pay 
greater attention to the termination of 
a word than to its commencement, or 
than we do to the termination of our 
words. The end of the Latin word es- 
tablished that relation of the word with 
other words which we establish by prep- 
osition or auxiliary verbs. Therefore 
it would seem infinitely less odd to 
them, than it does to us, to dwell at 
any time, for any slight purpose, abnor- 
mally, on a terminating syllable. In 
_ verse, this license—scarcely a license— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


would be frequently admitted. These 
ideas unlock the secret of such lines 
as the 

Litoreis ingens inventa sub illicibus sus, 
and the 


Parturiunt montes; 
mus. 


nascetur ridiculus 


which I quoted some time ago while 
speaking of rhyme. 

As regards the prosodial elisions, such 
as that of rem before O, in pulverem 
Olympicum, it is really difficult to un- 
derstand how so dismally silly a notion 
could have entered the brain even of a 
pedant. Were it demanded of me why 
the books cut off one vowel before an- 
other, I might say—It is perhaps be- 
cause the books think that, since a bad 
reader is so apt to slide the one vowel 
into the other at any rate, it is Just as 
well to print them ready-slided. But in 
the case of the terminating m, whick 
is the most readily pronounced of alt 
consonants (as the infantile mamma will 
testify), and the most impossible to 
cheat the ear of by any system of slid- 
ing—in the case of the m, I should be 
driven to reply that, to the best of my 
belief, the prosodists did the thing, be- 
cause they had a fancy for doing it, and 
wished to see how funny it would look 
after it was done. The thinking reader, 
will perceive that, from the great fa- 
cility with which em may be enunci- 
ated, it is admirably suited to form one 
of the rapid short syllables in the bas- 
tard dactyl (pulverem O); but because 

3 63 3 


the books had no conception of a bas- 
tard dactyl, they knocked it on the head 
at once—by cutting off its tail! 

Let me now give a specimen of the 
true scansion of another Horatian meas- 





THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


_ ure—embodying an instance of proper 
 elision. 


Integer | vite |scelerisque | purus | 

2 2 33 8 
Non eget | Mauri | jaculis ne | que arcu | 

2 2 3 3 3 
Nec vene | natis | gravida sa | gittis, 

2 2 3 3 3 
Fusce, pha | retra. 
2 2 


Here the regular recurrence of the bas- 
tard dactyl gives great animation to 
the rhythm. The e before the a in que 
arcu, is, almost of sheer necessity, cut 
off—that is to say, run into the a so as 
to preserve the spondee. But even this 
license it would have been better not 
to take. 

Had I space, nothing would afford me 
greater pleasure than to proceed with 
the scanscion of a// the ancien: rhythms, 
and to show how easily, by the help of 
common sense, the intended music of 
each and all can be rendered instantane- 
ously apparent. But I have already 
overstepped my limits, and must bring 
this paper to an end. 

It will never do, however, to omit 
all mention of the heroic hexameter. 

I began the “processes” by a sug- 
gestion of the spondee as the first step 
towards verse. But the innate mon- 
otony of the spondee has caused its dis- 
appearance as the basis of rhythm from 
all modern poetry. We may say, in- 
deed, that the French heroic—the most 
wretchedly monotonous verse in ex- 
istence—is to all intents and purposes 
spondaic. But it is not designedly spon- 
daic, and if the French were ever to ex- 
amine it at all, they would no doubt 
pronounce it iambic. It must be ob- 
served that the French language is 


809 


strangely peculiar in this point—that tt 
is without accentuation and consequent- 
ly without verse. The genius of the 
people, rather than the structure of 
the tongue, declares that their words 
are for the most part enunciated with a 
uniform dwelling on each syllable. For 
example we say “‘syllabification.” <A 
Frenchman would say syl-la-bi-fi-ca-ti- 
on, dwelling on no one of the syllables 
with any noticeable particularity. Here 
again I put an extreme case in order to 
be well understood, but the general fact 
is as I give it—that, comparatively, the 
French have vo accentuation; and there 
can be nothing worth the name of verse 
without. Therefore, the French have 
no verse worth the name—which is the 
fact put in sufficiently plain terms. 
Their iambic rhythm so superabounds 
in absolute spondees as to warrant me 
in calling its basis spondaic; but French 
is the only modern tongue which has 
any rhythm with such basis, and even 
in the French it is, as I have said, unin- 
tentional. 

Admitting, however, the validity of 
my suggestion, that the spondee was the 
first approach to verse, we should ex- 
pect to find, first, natural spondees 
(words each forming just a spondee) 
most abundant in the most ancient Jan- 
guages; and, secondly, we should expect 
to find spondees forming the basis of the 
most ancient rhythms. These expecta- 
tions are in both cases confirmed. 

Of the Greek hexameter the inten- 
tional basis is spondaic. The dactyls 
are the variation of the theme. It will 
be observed that there is no absolute 
certainty about their points of inter- 
position. The penultimate foot, it is 
true, is usually a dactyl, but not uni- 
formly so, while the ultimate, on which 


810 


the ear lingers, is always a spondee. 
Even that the penultimate is usually a 
dactyl may be clearly referred to the 
necessity of winding up with the dis- 
tinctive spondee. In corroboration of 
this idea, again, we should look to find 
the penultimate spondee most usual in 
the most ancient verse, and, accordingly, 
we find it more frequent in the Greek 
than in the Latin hexameter. 

But besides all this, spondees are not 
only more prevalent in the heroic hex- 
ameter than dactyls, but occur to such 
an extent as is even unpleasant to mod- 
ern ears, on account of monotony. What 
the modern chiefly appreciates and ad- 
mires in the Greek hexameter is the 
melody of the abundant vowel sounds. 
The Latin hexameters really please very 
few moderns—although so many pre- 
tend to fall into ecstasies about them. 
In the hexameters quoted several pages 
ago, from Silius Italicus, the prepon- 
derance of the spondee is: strikingly 
manifest. Besides the natural spondees 
of the Greek and Latin, numerous ar- 
tificial ones arise in the verse of these 
tongues, on account of the tendency 
which inflection has to throw full accen- 
tuation on terminal syllables, and the 
preponderance of the spondee is further 
ensured by the comparative infrequency 
of the small prepositions which we have 
to serve us zmstead of case, and also the 
absence of the diminutive auxiliary 
verbs with which we have to eke out 
the expression of our primary ones. 
These are the monosyllables whose abun- 
dance serves to stamp the poetic genius 
of a language as tripping or dactylic. 

Now paying no attention to these 
facts, Sir Philip Sidney, Professor Long- 
fellow, and innumerable other persons, 
more or less modern, have busied them- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


selves in constructing what they sup- 
posed to be “English hexameters on the 
model of the Greek.” The only diffi- 
culty was that (even leaving out of 
question the melodious masses of 
vowel) these gentlemen never could get 
their English hexameters to sound 
Greek. Did they look Greek?—that 
should have been the query, and the 
reply might have led to a solution of the 
riddle. In placing a copy of ancient 
hexameters side by side with a copy (in 
similar type) of such hexameters as 
Professor Longfellow, or Professor Fel- 
ton, or the Frogpondian Professors col- 
lectively, are in the shameful practice of 
composing “on the model of the Greek,” 
it will be seen that the latter (hexame- 
ters, not professors) are about one- 
third longer to the eye, on an average, 
than the former. The more abundant 
dactyls make the difference. And it is 
the greater number of spondees in the 
Greek than in the English, in the an- 
cient than in the modern tongue, which 
has caused it to fall out that while these 
eminent scholars were groping about in 
the dark for a Greek hexameter, which 
is a spondaic rhythm varied now and 
then by dactyls, they merely stumbled, 
to the lasting scandal of scholarship, 
over something which, on account of 
its long-leggedness, we may as well term 
a Feltonian hexameter, and which is a 
dactylic rhythm interrupted rarely by 
artificial spondees which are no spon- 
dees at all, and which are curiously 
thrown in by the heels at all kinds of 
improper and impertinent points. 

Here is a specimen of the Longfel- 
lowine hexameter: 


Also the | church with | in was a | dorned 
for | this was the | season J 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


In which the | young their | parents’ | 

hope and the | loved ones of | Heaven | 

Should at the|foot of the| altar re | 
new the | vows of their | baptism | 

Therefore each | nook and | corner was | 
swept and | cleaned and the | dust 
was | 

Blown from _ the | walls 
and | from 
benches. | 


and | ceiling 
the | oil-painted | 


Mr. Longfellow is a man of imagination, 
but cam he imagine that any individual, 
with a proper understanding of the dan- 
ger of lockjaw, would make the attempt 
of twisting his mouth into the shape 
necessary for the emission of such 
spondees as “parents,” and “from the,” 
or such dactyls as “cleaned and the,” 
and “loved ones of’? “Baptism” is by 
no means a bad spondee—perhaps be- 
cause it happens to be a dactyl,—of all 
the rest, however, I am dreadfully 
_ ashamed. 

But these feet, dactyls and spondees, 
all together, should thus be put at once 
into their proper position: 


“Also, the church within was adorned; 
for this was the season in which the 
young, their parents’ hope, and the 
loved ones of Heaven, should, at the 
foot of the altar, renew the vows of 
their baptism. Therefore, each nook 
and corner was swept and cleaned; and 
the dust was blown from the walls 
and ceiling, and from the oil-painted 
benches.” 

There!—That is respectable prose, 
and it will incur no danger of ever 
getting its character ruined by any- 
- body’s mistaking it for verse. 

But even when we let these modern 
hexameters go as Greek, and merely 


811 


hold them fast in their proper character 
of Longfellowine, or Feltonian, or Frog- 
pondian, we must still condemn them 
as having been committed in a radical 
misconception of the philosophy of 
verse. The spondee, as I observed, is 
the theme of the Greek line. Most of 
the ancient hexameters begin with spon- 
dees, for the reason that the spondee is 
the theme, and the ear is filled with it 
as with a burden. Now the Feltonian 
dactylics have, in the same way, dactyls 
for the theme, and most of them begin 
with dactyls—which is all very proper 
if not very Greek—but unhappily, the 
one point at which they are very Greek 
is that point, precisely, at which they 
should be nothing but Feltonian. They 
always close with what is meant for a 
spondee. To be consistently silly they 
should die off in a dactyl. 

That a truly Greek hexameter cannot, 


however, be readily composed in Eng- 
. lish, is a proposition which I am by no 


means inclined to admit. I think I 
could manage the point myself. For 
example: 


Do tell! | when may we | hope to 
make | men of sense | out of the | 
Pundits 

Born and brought | up with their | 
snouts deep | down in the | mud of 
the | Frog-ponds? 

Why ask? | who ever | yet saw | money 
made | out of a | fat old 

Jew, or | downright | upright | nut- 
megs | out of a | pine-knot? 


The proper spondee predominance is 
here ‘preserved. Some of the dactyls 
are not so good as I could wish, but, 
upon the whole the rhythm is very 
decent—to say nothing of its excellent 
sense. 


Lhe Philosophy of Composition 


(Published in Graham’s Magazine, April, 1846.—Ed.) 


CHARLES DICKENS, in a note now 
lying before me, alluding to an exam- 
ination I once made of the mechanism 
of “Barnaby Rudge,” says—“By the 
way, are you aware that Godwin wrote 
his Caleb Williams backwards? He 
first involved his hero in a web of 
difficulties, forming the second volume, 
and then, for the first, cast about him 
for some mode of accounting for what 
had been done.” 

I cannot think this the precise mode 
of procedure on the part of Godwin— 
and indeed what he himself acknowl- 
edges is not altogether in accordance 
with Mr. Dickens’s idea—but the author 
of “Caleb Williams” was too good an 
artist not to perceive the advantage 


derivable from at least a somewhat. 


similar process. Nothing is more clear 
than that every plot, worth the name, 
must be elaborated to its denouement 
before anything be attempted with the 
pen. It is only with the denouement 
constantly in view that we can give a 
plot its indispensable air of conse- 
quence, or causation, by making the 
incidents, and especially the tone, at all 
points, tend to the development of the 
intention. 

There is a radical error, I think, in 
the usual mode of constructing a story. 
Either history affords a thesis—or one 
is suggested by an incident of the day 
—or, at best, the author sets himself 
to work in the combination of striking 
events to form merely the basis of his 
narrative—designing, generally, to fill 
in with description, dialogue, or au- 


812 


thorial comment, whatever crevices of 
fact or action may, from page to page, 
render themselves apparent. 

I prefer commencing with the con- 
sideration of an effect. Keeping origi- 
nality always in view—for he is false 
to himself who ventures to dispense 
with so obvious and so easily attainable 
a source of interest—I say to myself, 
in the first place, ‘““Of the innumerable 
effects or impressions of which the 
heart, the intellect, or (more generally) 
the soul is susceptible, what one shall 
I, on the present occasion, select?” 
Having chosen a novel first, and sec- 
ondly, a vivid effect, I consider whether 
it can be best wrought by incident or - 
tone—whether by ordinary incidents 
and peculiar tone, or the converse, or 
by peculiarity both of incident and 
tone—afterwards looking about me (or 
rather within) for such combinations 
of event or tone as shall best aid me 
in the construction of the effect. 

I have often thought how interesting 
a magazine paper might be written by 
any author who would—that is to say, 
who could—detail, step by step, the 
processes by which any one of his com- 
positions attained its ultimate point of 
completion. Why such a paper has 
never been given to the world, I am 
much at a loss to say—but perhaps the 
authorial vanity has had more to do 
with the omission than any one other 
cause. Most writers—poets in especial 
—prefer having it understood that they 
compose by a species of fine frenzy— 
an ecstatic intuition—and would posi- 











THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION 


tively shudder at letting the public take 
a peep behind the scenes, at the elabo- 
rate and vacillating crudities of thought 
—at the true purposes seized only at 
the last moment—at the innumerable 
glimpses of idea that arrived not at 
the maturity of full view—at the fully- 
matured fancies discarded in despair as 
unmanageable—at the cautious selec- 
tions and rejections—at the painful 
erasures and interpolations—in a word, 
at the wheels and pinions—the tackle 
for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and 
demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the 
red paint and the black patches, which, 
in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, 
constitute the properties of the literary 
histrio. 

I am aware, on the other hand, that 
the case is by no means common, in 
which an author is at all in condition 
to retrace the steps by which his con- 
clusions have been attained. In gen- 
eral, suggestions, having arisen pell- 
mell, are pursued and forgotten in a 
similar manner. 

For my own part, I have neither 
sympathy with the repugnance alluded 
to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty 
in recalling to mind the progressive 
steps of any of my compositions, and, 
since the interest of an analysis, or 
reconstruction, such as I have consid- 
ered a desideratum, is quite independent 
of any real or fancied interest in the 
thing analysed, it will not be regarded 
as a breach of decorum on my part to 
show the modus operandi by which 
some one of my own works was put 
together. I select “The Raven” as most 
generally known. It is my design to 
render it manifest that no one point 
in its composition is referable either to 
accident or intuition—that the work 


813 


proceeded step by step, to its comple- 
tion, with the precision and rigid conse- 
quence of a mathematical problem. 

Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the 
poem, per se, the circumstance—or say 
the necessity—which, in the first place, 
gave rise to the intention of composing 
a poem that should suit at once the 
popular and the critical taste. 

We commence, then, with this inten- 
tion. 

The initial consideration was. that of 
extent. If any literary work is too long 
to be read at one sitting, we must be 
content to dispense with the immensely 
important effect derivable from unity 
of impression—for, if two sittings be 
required, the affairs of the world inter- 
fere, and everything like totality is at 
once destroyed. But since, ceteris 
paribus, no poet can afford to dispense 
with anything that may advance his 
design, it but remains to be seen 
whether there is, in extent, any advan- 
tage to counterbalance the loss of unity 
which attends it. Here I say no, at 
once. What we term a long poem is, 
in fact, merely a succession of brief 
ones—that is to say, of brief poetical 
effects. It is needless to demonstrate 
that a poem is such only inasmuch as 
it intensely excites, by elevating the 
soul; and all intense excitements are, 
through a psychal necessity, brief. For 
this reason, at least, one-half of the 
“Paradise Lost” is essentially prose—a 
succession of poetical excitements inter- 
spersed, inevitably, with corresponding 
depressions—the whole being deprived, 
through the extremeness of its length, 
of the vastly important artistic element, 
totality, or unity of effect. 

It appears evident, then, that there 
is a distinct limit, as regards length, to 


814 


all works of literary art—the limit of 
a single sitting—and that, although in 
certain classes of prose composition, 
such as “Robinson Crusoe” (demanding 
no unity), this limit may be advanta- 
geously overpressed, it can never proper- 
ly be overpassed ina poem. Within this 
limit, the extent of a poem may be 
made to bear mathematical relation to 
its merit—in other words, to the excite- 
ment or elevation—again, in other 
words, to the degree of the true poetical 
effect which it is capable of inducing; 
for it is clear that the brevity must be 
in direct ratio of the intensity of the 
intended effect—this, with one proviso 
—that a certain degree of duration is 
absolutely requisite for the production 
of any effect at all. 

Holding in view these considerations, 
as well as that degree of excitement 
which I deemed not above the popular, 
while not below the critical taste, I 
reached at once what I conceived the 
proper length for my intended poem— 
a length of about one hundred lines. 
It is, in fact, a hundred and eight. 

My next thought concerned the 
choice of an impression, or effect, to be 
conveyed: and here I may as well ob- 
serve that, throughout the construc- 
tion, I kept steadily in view the design 
of rendering the work universally ap- 
preciable. I should be carried too far 
out of my immediate topic were I to 
demonstrate a point upon which I have 
repeatedly insisted, and which, with the 
poetical, stands not in the slightest need 
of demonstration—the point, I mean, 
that Beauty is the sole legitimate prov- 
ince of the poem. A few words, how- 
ever, in elucidation of my real mean- 
ing, which some.of my friends have 
evinced a disposition to misrepresent. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


That pleasure which is at once the most 
intense, the most elevating, and the 
most pure is, I believe, found in the 
contemplation of the beautiful. When, 
indeed, men speak of Beauty, they 
mean, precisely, not a quality, as is 
supposed, but an effect—they refer, in 
short, just to that intense and pure 
elevation of soul—not of intellect, or 
of heart—upon which I have com- 
mented, and which is experienced in 
consequence of contemplating the 
“beautiful.” Now I designate Beauty 
as the province of the poem, merely 
because it is an obvious rule of Art 
that effects should be made to spring 
from direct causes—that objects should 
be attained through means best adapted 
for their attainment—no one as yet 
having been weak enough to deny that 
the peculiar elevation alluded to is 
most readily attained in the poem. Now 
the object Truth, or the satisfaction 
of the intellect, and the object Passion, 
or the excitement of the heart, are, 
although attainable to a certain extent 
in poetry, far more readily attainable 
in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a 
precision, and Passion, a homeliness 
(the truly passionate will comprehend 
me), which are absolutely antagonistic 
to that Beauty which, I maintain, is 
the excitement, or pleasurable elevation 
of the soul. It by no means follows, 
from anything here said, that passion, 
or even truth, may not be introduced, 
and even profitably introduced, into a 
poem for they may serve in elucida- 
tion, or aid the general effect, as do 
discords in music, by contrast—but the 
true artist will always contrive, first, 
to tone them into proper subservience 
to the predominant aim, and; secondly, 
to enveil them, as far as possible, in 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION 


that Beauty which is the atmosphere 
and the essence of the poem. 
Regarding, then, Beauty as my prov- 
ince, my next question referred to the 
tone of its highest manifestation—and 
all experience has shown that this tone 
is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever 
kind, in its supreme development, in- 
variably excites the sensitive soul to 
tears. Melancholy is thus the most 
legitimate of all the poetical tones. 
The length, the province, and the 
tone, being thus determined, I betook 
myself to ordinary induction, with the 
view of obtaining some artistic piquancy 
which might serve me as a key-note in 
the construction of the poem—some 
pivot upon which the whole structure 
might turn. In carefully thinking over 
all the usual artistic effects—or more 
properly points, in the theatrical sense— 
I did not fail to perceive immediately 
that no one had been so universally em- 
ployed as that of the refrain. The uni- 
versality of its employment sufficed to 
assure me of its intrinsic value, and 
spared me the necessity of submitting 
it to analysis. I considered it, how- 
ever, with regard to its susceptibility of 
improvement, and soon saw it to be in 
a primitive condition. As commonly 
used, the refrain, or burden, not only is 
limited to lyric verse, but depends for 
its impression upon the force of mono- 
tone—both in sound and thought. The 
pleasure is deduced solely from the 
sense of identity—of repetition. I re- 
solved to diversify, and so heighten the 
effect, by adhering in general to the 
monotone of sound, while I continually 
varied that of thought: that is to say, 
I determined to produce continuously 
novel effects, by the variation of the 
application of the refrain—the refrain 


815 


itself remaining, for the most part, un- 
varied. 

These points being settled, I next be- 
thought me of the nature of my refrain. 
Since its application was to be repeat- 
edly varied it was clear that the refrain 
itself must be brief, for there would 
have been an insurmountable difficulty 
in frequent variations of application in 
any sentence of length. In proportion 
to the brevity of the sentence would, 
of course, be the facility of the varia- 
tion. This led me at once to a single 
word as the best refrain. 

The question now arose as to the 
character of the word. Having made 
up my mind to a refrain, the division 
of the poem into stanzas was of course 
a corollary, the refrain forming the 
close to each stanza. That such a close, 
to have force, must be sonorous and 
susceptible of protracted emphasis, ad- 
mitted no doubt, and these considera- 
tions inevitably led me to the long o 
as the most sonorous vowel in con- 
nection with r as the most producible 
consonant. 

The sound of the refrain being thus 
determined, it became necessary to 
select a word embodying this sound, 
and at the same time in the fullest 
possible keeping with that melancholy 
which I had pre-determined as the tone 
of the poem. In such a search it would 
have been absolutely impossible to’ 
overlook the word “Nevermore.” In 
fact it was the very first which pre 
sented itself. 

The next desideratum was a pretexc 
for the continuous use of the one word 
“nevermore.” In observing the diffi- 
culty which I had at once found in in- 
venting a sufficiently plausible reason 
for its continuous repetition, I did not 


816 
fail to perceive that this difficulty arose 
solely from the preassumption that the 
word was to be so continuously or mo- 
notonously spoken by a human being— 
I did not fail to perceive, in short, that 
the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of 
this monotony with the exercise of 
reason on the part of the creature re- 
peating the word. Here, then, imme- 
diately arose the idea of a mon-reason- 
ing creature capable of speech, and very 
naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, 
suggested itself, but was superseded 
forthwith by a Raven as equally ca- 
pable of speech, and infiniteiy more in 
keeping with the intended fone. 

I had now gone so far as the concep- 
tion of a Raven, the bird of ill-omen, 
monotonously repeating the one word 
“Nevermore” at the conclusion of each 
stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, 
and in length about one hundred lines. 
Now, never losing sight of the object— 
supremeness or perfection at all points, 
I asked myself—‘Of all melancholy 
topics what, according to the universal 
understanding of mankind, is the most 
melancholy?” Death, was the obvious 
reply. “And when,” I said, ‘is this 
most melancholy of topics most poet- 
ical?” From what I have already ex- 
plained at some length the answer here 
also is obvious—‘When it most closely 
allies itself to Beauty: the death then 
‘of a beautiful woman is unquestionably 
the most poetical topic in the world, 
and equally is it beyond doubt that 
the lips best suited for such topic are 
those of a bereaved lover.” 

I had now to combine the two ideas 
of a lover lamenting his deceased mis- 
tress and a Raven continuously repeat- 
ing the word “Nevermore.” I had to 
combine these, bearing in mind my de- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sign of varying at every turn the zppli- 
cation of the word repeated, but the 
only intelligible mode of such combina- 
tion is that of imagining the Raven em- 
ploying the word in answer to the quer- 
ies of the lover. And here it was that 
I saw at once the opportunity afforded 
for the effect on which I had been de- 
pending, that is to say, the effect of the 
variation of application. I saw that I 
could make the first query propounded 
by the lover—the first query to which 
the Raven should reply ““Nevermore’— 
that I could make this first query a 
commonplace one, the second less so, 
the third still less, and so on, until at 
length the lover, startled from his orig- 
inal nonchalance by the melancholy 
character of the word itself, by its fre- 
quent repetition, and by a consideration 
of the ominous reputation of the fowl 
that uttered it, is at length excited to 
superstition, and wildly propounds 
queries of a far different character— 
queries whose solution he has passion- 
ately at heart—propounds them half in 
superstition and half in that species of 
despair which delights in self-torture— 
propounds them not altogether because 
he believes in the prophetic or de- 
moniac character of the bird (which 
reason assures him is merely repeating 
a lesson learned by rote), but because 
he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so 
modelling his questions as to receive 
from the expected “Nevermore” the 
most delicious because the most intoler- 
able of sorrows. Perceiving the oppor- 
tunity thus afforded me, or, more 
strictly, thus forced upon me in the 
progress of the construction, I first es- 
tablished in my mind the climax or 
concluding query—that query to which 
“Nevermore” should be in the last 





THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION 


place an answer—that query in reply 

to which this word “Nevermore” should 
involve the utmost conceivable amount 
of sorrow and despair. 

Here then the poem may be said to 
have had its beginning, at the end 
where all works of art should begin, 
for it was here at this point of my pre- 
considerations that I first put pen to 
paper in the composition of the stanza: 


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! 
prophet still if bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us— 
by that God we both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, 
within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore— 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore.” 
Quoth the Raven—‘Nevermore.” 


I composed this stanza, at this 
point, first, that, by establishing- the 
climax, I might the better vary and 
graduate, as regards seriousness and im- 
portance, the preceding queries of the 
lover, and secondly, that I might defi- 
nitely settle the rhythm, the metre, 
and the length and general arrangement 
of the stanza, as well as graduate the 
stanzas which were to precede, so that 
none of. them might surpass this in 
rhythmical effect. Had I been able in 
the subsequent composition to construct 
more vigorous stanzas I should without 
scruple have purposely enfeebled them 
so as not to interfere with the climac- 
teric effect. 

And here I may as well say a few 
words of the versification. My first 
object (as usual) was originality. The 
extent to which this has been neglected 


817 


in versification is one of the most unac- 
countable things in the world. Admit- 
ting that there is little possibility of 
variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear 
that the possible varieties of metre and 
stanza are absolutely infinite, and yet, 
for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever 
done, or ever seemed to think of doing, 
an original thing. The fact is that 
originality (unless in minds of very 
unusual force) is by no means a matter, 
as some suppose, of impulse or intui- 
tion. In general, to be found, it must 
be elaborately sought, and although a 
positive merit of the highest class, de- 
mands in its attainment less of inven- 
tion than negation. 

Of course I pretend to no originality 
in either the rhythm or metre of the 
“Raven.” The former is trochaic—the 
latter is octametre acatalectic, alter- 
nating with heptametre catalectic re- 
peated in the refrain of the fifth verse, 
and terminating with tetrametre cata- 
lectic. Less pedantically—the feet em- 
ployed throughout (trochees) consist of 
a long syllable followed by a short; 
the first line of the stanza consists of 
eight of these feet, the second of seven 
and a half (in effect two-thirds), the 
third of eight, the fourth of seven and 
a half, the fifth the same, the sixth 
three and a half. Now, each of these 
lines taken individually has been em- 
ployed before, and what originality the 
“Raven” has, is in their combination 
into stanza—nothing even remotely ap- 
proaching this combination has ever 
been attempted. The effect of this 
originality of combination is aided by 
other unusual and some altogether 
novel effects, arising from an extension 
of the application of the principles of 
rhyme and alliteration. 


818 


The next point to be considered was 
the mode of bringing together the lover 
and the Raven—and the first branch of 
this consideration was the locale. For 
this the most natural suggestion might 
seem to be a forest, or the fields—but 
it has always appeared to me that a 
close circumscription of space is abso- 
lutely necessary to the effect of insu- 
lated incident—it has the force of a 
frame to a picture. It has an indispu- 
table moral power in keeping concen- 
trated the attention, and, of course, 
must not be confounded with mere 
unity of place. 

I determined, then, to place the 
lover in his chamber—in a chamber 
rendered sacred to him by memories of 
her who had frequented it. The room 
is represented as richly furnished—this 
in mere pursuance of the ideas I have 
already explained on the subject of 
Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. 

The Jocale being thus determined, I 
had now to introduce the bird—and the 
thought of introducing him through the 
window was inevitable. The idea of 
making the lover suppose, in the first 
instance, that the flapping of the wings 
of the bird against the shutter, is a 
“tapping” at the door, originated in a 
wish to increase, by prolonging, the 
reader’s curiosity, and in a desire to 
admit the incidental effect arising from 
the lover’s throwing open the door, 
finding all dark, and thence adopting 
the half-fancy that it was the spirit of 
his mistress that knocked. 

I made the night tempestuous, first 
to account for the Raven’s seeking ad- 
mission, and secondly, for the effect of 
contrast with the (physical) serenity 
within the chamber. 

I made the bird alight on the bust 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast 
between the marble and the plumage— 
it being understood that the bust was 
absolutely suggested by the bird—the 
bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as 
most in keeping with the scholarship of 
the lover, and secondly, for the sonor- 
ousness of the word, Pallas, itself. 

About the middle of the poem, also, 
I have availed myself of the force of 
contrast, with a view of deepening the 
ultimate impression. For example, an 
air of the fantastic—approaching as 
nearly to the ludicrous as was admissi- 
ble—is given to the Raven’s entrance. 
He comes in “with many a flirt and 
flutter.” 


Not the least obeisance made he—not 
a moment stopped or stayed he, 

But with mien of lord or lady, perched 
above my chamber door. . 


In the two stanzas which follow, the 
design is more obviously carried out:— 


Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad 
fancy into smiling 

By the grave and stern decorum of the 
countenance it wore, 

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wan- 
dering from the Nightly shore— 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on 
the Night’s Plutonian shore?” 

Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore.” 


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl 
to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning—little 
relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no 
living human being 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION 


Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird. 
above his chamber door— 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 
above his chamber door, 
With such name as “Nevermore.” 


The effect of the denouement being 
thus provided for, I immediately drop 
the fantastic for a tone of the most 
profound seriousness—this tone com- 
mencing in the stanza directly following 
the one last quoted, with the line, 


But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 
placid bust, spoke only, etc. 


From this epoch the lover no longer 
jests—no longer sees anything even of 
the fantastic in the Raven’s demeanour. 
‘He speaks of him as a “grim, ungainly, 
ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 
yore,’ and feels the ‘“‘fiery eyes’? burn- 
ing into his ‘bosom’s core.” Thijs 
revolution of thought, or fancy, on the 
lover’s part, is intended to induce a 
similar one on the part of the reader— 
to bring the mind into a proper frame 
for the denouement—which is now 
brought about as rapidly and as directly 
as possible. 

With the denouement proper—with 
the Raven’s reply, “Nevermore,” to the 
lover’s final demand if he shall meet his 
mistress in another world—the poem, 
in its obvious phase, that of a simple 
narrative, may be said to have its com- 
pletion. So far, everything is within 
the limits of the accountable—of the 
real. A raven, having learned by rote 
the single word “Nevermore,” and hav- 
ing escaped from the custody of its 
owner, is driven at midnight, through 
the violence of a storm, to seek admis- 
sion at a window from which a light 


819 


still gleams—the chamber-window of a 
student, occupied half in poring over 
a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved 
mistress deceased. The casement being 
thrown open at the fluttering of. the 
bird’s wings, the bird itself perches on 
the most convenient seat out of the 
immediate reach of the student, who 
amused by the incident and the oddity 
of the visitor’s demeanour, demands of 
it, in jest and without looking for a 
reply, its name. The raven addressed. 
answers with its customary word, 
“‘Nevermore’—a word which finds im- 
mediate echo in the melancholy heart 
of the student, who, giving utterance 
aloud to certain thoughts suggested by 
the occasion, is again startled by the 
fowl’s repetition of ‘‘Nevermore.” The 
student now guesses the state of the 
case, but is impelled, as I have before 
explained, by the human thirst for self- 
torture, and in part by superstition, to 
propound such queries to the bird as 
will bring him, the lover, the most of 
the luxury of sorrow, through the an- 
ticipated answer, “Nevermore.” With 
the indulgence, to the extreme, of this 
self-torture, the narration, in what I 
have termed its first or obvious phase, 
has a natural termination, and so far 
there has been no overstepping of the 
limits of the real. 

But in subjects. so handled, however 
skillfully, or with however vivid an 
array of incident, there is always a cer- 
tain hardness or nakedness which repels 
the artistical eye. Two things are in- 
variably required—first, some amount 
of complexity, or more properly, adap- 
tation; and, secondly, some amount of 
suggestiveness — some under-current, 
however indefinite, of meaning. It is 
this latter, in especial, which imparts 


820 


to a work of art so much of that rich- 
ness (to borrow from colloquy a for- 
cible term), which we are too fond of 
confounding with the ideal. It is the 
excess of the suggested meaning—it is 
the rendering this the upper instead of 
the under-current of the theme—which 
turns into prose (and that of the very 
flattest kind), the so-called poetry of 
the so-called transcendentalists. 

Holding these opinions, I added the 
two concluding stanzas of the poem— 
their suggestiveness being thus made to 
pervade all the narrative which has pre- 
ceded them. The under-current of 
meaning is rendered first apparent in 
the line— 


“Take thy beak from out my heart, 
and take thy form from off my 
door!” 

Quoth the Raven ‘“Nevermore!”’ 


It will be observed that the words, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“from out my heart,” involve the first 
metaphorical expression in the poem. 
They, with the answer, “Nevermore,” 
dispose the mind to seek a moral in all 
that has been previously narrated. The 
reader begins now to regard the Raven 
as emblematical—but it is not until 
the very last line of the very last 
stanza that the intention of making 
him emblematical of Mournful and 
never ending Remembrance is permit- 
ted distinctly to be seen: 


And the Raven, never flitting, still is 
sitting, still is sitting, 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above 
my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a 
demon that is dreaming, 

And the lamplight o’er him streaming» 

throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that 
lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted—nevermore. 


Eureka 


An Essay on the Material and Spiritual Universe. 


(About the same period of the publication of this essay (1848) appeared a tale, 
Ourika.—Ed.) 


(To the few who love me and whom I 
love—to those who feel rather than 
to those who think—to the dreamers 
and those who put faith in dreams as 
in the only realities—I offer this Book 
of Truths, not in its character of Truth- 
Teller, but for the Beauty that abounds 
in its Truth—constituting it true. To 
these I present the composition as an 
Art-Product alone—let us say as a Ro- 
mance; or, if I be not urging too lofty 
a claim, as a Poem. 


What I here propound is true—there- 
fore it cannot die:—or if by any means 
it be now trodden down so that it die, 
it will “rise again to the Life Everlast- 
ing.” 

Nevertheless, it is as a Poem only 
that I wish this work to be judged after 
I am dead.—E. A. P.) 


It is with humility really unassumed— 
it is with a sentiment even of awe—that 
I pen the opening sentence of this work: 


EUREKA 


for of all conceivable subjects I ap- 
proach the reader with the most solemn 
—the most comprehensive—the most 


 difficult—the most august. 


What terms shall I find sufficiently 
simple in their sublimity—sufficiently 


sublime in their simplicity—for the 


mere enunciation of my theme? 

I design to speak of the Physical, 
Metaphysical, and Mathematical—of 
the Material and Spiritual Universe: 
of its Essence, its Origin, its Creation, 
its present Condition and its Destiny. 
I shall be so rash, moreover, as to chal- 
lenge the conclusions, and thus, in ef- 
fect, to question the sagacity of many 
of the greatest and most justly rever- 
enced of men. 

In the beginning, let me as distinctly 
as possible announce—not the theorem 
which I hope to demonstrate—for, 
whatever the mathematicians may as- 
sert, there is, in this world at least, no 
such thing as demonstration; but the 
ruling idea which, throughout this vol- 
ume, I shall be continually endeavoring 
to suggest. 

My general proposition, then, is this: 
—in the Original Unity of the First 
Thing lies the Secondary Cause of All 
Things, with the germ of their Inevi- 
table Annihilation. 

In illustration of this idea, I propose 
to take such a survey of the Universe 
that the mind may be able really to 
receive and to perceive an individual 
impression. 

He who from the top of A‘tna casts 
his eyes leisurely around, is affected 
chiefly by the extent and diversity of 
the scene. Only by a rapid whirling 
on his heel could he hope to compre- 
hend the panorama in the sublimity of 
its oneness. But as on the summit of 


821 


Etna, no man has thought of whirling 
on his heel, so no man has ever taken 
into his brain the full uniqueness of the 
prospect; and so, again, whatever con- 
siderations lie involved in this unique- 
ness, have as yet no practical existence 
for mankind. 

I do not know a treatise in which a 
survey of the Universe—using the word 
in its most comprehensive and only 
legitimate acceptation—is taken at all; 
and it may be as well here to mention 
that by the term “Universe,’’ wherever 
employed without qualification in this 
essay, I mean to designate the utmost 
conceivable expanse of space with all 
things, spiritual and material, that can 
be imagined to exist within the compass 
of that expanse. In speaking of what 
is ordinarily implied by the expression 
“Universe,” I shall take a phrase of 
limitation, “the Universe of stars.” 
Why this distinction is considered 
necessary will be seen in the sequel. 

But even of treatises on the really 
limited, although always assumed as 
the wnlimited, Universe of stars, I know 
none in which a survey, even of this 
limited Universe, is so taken as to war- 
rant deductions from its individuality. 
The nearest approach to such a work is 
made in the “Cosmos” of Alexander 
Von Humboldt. He presents the sub- 
ject, however, not in its individuality 
but in its generality. His theme, in its 
last result, is the law of each portion 
of the merely physical Universe, as this. 
law is related to the laws of every other 
portion of this merely physical Uni- 
verse. His design, is simply synereti- 
cal. In a word, he discusses the 
universality of material relation, and 
discloses to the eye of Philosophy 
whatever inferences have hitherto lain 


822 


hidden behind this universality. But 
however admirable be the succinctness 
with which he has treated each par- 
ticular point of his topic, the mere 
multiplicity of these points occasions, 
necessarily, an amount of detail, and 
thus an involution of idea, which pre- 
clude all individuality of impression. 

It seems to me that in aiming at this 
latter effect, and through it at the con- 
sequences, the conclusions, the sugges- 
tions, the speculations, or, if nothing 
better offer itself, the mere guesses 
which may result from it, we require 
something like a mental gyration on 
the heel. We need so rapid a revolu- 
tion of all things about the central 
point of sight that, while the minutize 
vanish altogether, even the more con- 
spicuous objects become blended into 
one. Among the vanishing minutie, in 
a survey of this kind, would be all 
exclusively terrestrial matters. The 
Earth would be considered in its plane- 
tary relations alone. A man in this 
view becomes mankind, mankind a 
member of the cosmical family of 
Intelligences. 

And now, before proceeding to our 
subject proper, let me beg the reader’s 
attention to an extract or two from a 
somewhat remarkable letter which ap- 
pears to have been found corked in a 
bottle and floating on the Mare tene- 
brarum—an ocean well described by the 
Nubian geographer, Ptolemy Hephes- 
tion, but little frequented in modern 
days unless by the Transcendentalists 
and some other divers for crotchets. 
The date of this letter, I confess, sur- 
prises me even more particularly than 
its contents; for it seems to have been 
written in the year fwo thousand eight 
hundred and forty-eight. As for the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


passages I am about to transcribe, they, 
I fancy, will speak for themselves. 
“Do you know, my dear friend,” 
says the writer, addressing,.no doubt, 
a contemporary, ‘Do you know that it 
is scarcely more than eight or nine 
hundred years ago since the metaphysi- 
cians first consented to relieve the peo- 
ple of the singular fancy that there 
exist but two practicable roads to 
Truth! Believe it if you can! It ap- 
pears, however, that long, long ago, in 
the night of Time, there lived a Turk- 
ish philosopher called Aries and sur- 
named Tottle.” [Here, possibly, the 
letter-writer means Aristotle; the best 
names are wretchedly corrupted in two 
or three thousand years.] ‘The fame 
of this great man depended mainly 
upon his demonstration that sneezing 
is a natural provision, by means of 
which over-profound thinkers are en- 
abled to expel superfluous ideas through 
the nose; but he obtained a scarcely 
less valuable celebrity as the founder, 
or at all events as the principal propa- 
gator, of what was termed the de- 
ductive or a priori philosophy. He 
started with what he maintained to be 
axioms, or self-evident truths: and the 
now well-understood fact that xo truths 
are self-evident, really does not make 
in the slightest degree against his spec- 
ulations: it was sufficient for his pur- 
pose that the truths in question were 
evident at all. From axioms he pro- 
ceeded, logically, to results. His most 
illustrious disciples were one Tuclid, a 
geometrician” [meaning Euclid], “and 
one Kant, a Dutchman, the originator 
of that species of Transcendentalism 
which, with the change merely of a C 
for a K, now bears his peculiar name. 
“Well, Aries Tottle flourished su- 


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preme, until the advent of one Hogg, 


surnamed ‘the Ettrick Shepherd,’ who 


preached an entirely different system, 
which he called the a posteriori or in- 
ductive. His plan referred altogether 
to sensation. He proceeded by observ- 
ing, analysing, and classifying facts— 


Instantie Nature, as they were some- 


what affectedly called—and arranging 
them into general laws. In a word, 
while the mode of Aries rested on 
noumena that of Hogg depended on 
phenomena; and so great was the admi- 
ration excited by this latter system 
that, at its first introduction, Aries fell 
into general disrepute. Finally, how- 
ever, he recovered ground, and was 
permitted to divide the empire of 
Philosophy with his more modern 
rival; the savants contenting themselves 
with proscribing all other competitors, 
past, present, and to come; putting an 
end to all controversy on the topic by 
the promulgation of a Median law, to 
the effect that the Aristotelian and 
Baconian roads are, and of right ought 
to be, the sole possible avenues to 
knowledge: “Baconian, you must know, 
my dear friend,” adds the letter-writer 
at this point, “was an adjective in- 
vented as equivalent to Hogg-ian, and 
at the same time more dignified and 
euphonious. 

“Now. I do assure you most posi- 
tively,” proceeds the epistle, “that I 
represent these matters fairly; and you 
can easily understand how restrictions 
so absurd on their very face must have 
operated in those days to retard the 
progress of true Science, which makes 
its most important advances—as all 
History will show—by seemingly intui- 
‘ive leaps. These ancient ideas confined 
investigation to crawling; and I need 


823 


not suggest to you that crawling, among 
varieties of locomotion, is a very capi- 
tal thing of its kind; but because the 
tortoise is sure of foot, for this reason 
must we clip the wings of the eagles? 
For many centuries, so great was the 
infatuation about Hogg especially, that 
a virtual stop was put to all thinking, 
properly so called. No man dared 
utter a truth for which he felt himself 
indebted to his soul alone. It mattered 
not whether the truth was even demon- 
strably such; for the dogmatising 
philosophers of that epoch regarded 
only the road by which it professed to 
have been attained. The end, with 
them, was a point of no moment what- 
ever: ‘the means!’ they vociferated— 
“let us look at the means!’”—and if on 
scrutiny of the means it was found to 
come neither under the category Hogg, 
nor under the category Aries (which 
means ram), why, then, the savants 
went no further, but calling the thinker 
a fool and branding him a ‘theorist,’ 
would never, thenceforward, have any- 
thing to do either with fim or with 
his truths. 

“Now, my dear friend,’ continues 
the letter-writer, “it cannot be main- 
tained that by the crawling system, 
exclusively adopted, men would arrive 
at the maximum amount of truth, even 
in any long series of ages, for the 
repression of imagination was an evil 
not to be counterbalanced even by 
absolute certainty in the snail processes. 
But their certainty was very far from 
absolute. The error of our progenitors 
was quite analogous with that of the 
wiseacre who fancies he must neces- 
sarily see an object the more distinctly 
the more closely he holds it to his eyes. 
They blinded themselves, too, with the 


824 


impalpable titillating Scotch snuff of 
detail; and thus the boasted facts of 
the Hogg-ites were by no means always 
facts—a point of little importance but 
for the assumption that they always 
were. The vital taint, however, in Ba- 
conianism—its most lamentable fount 
of error—lay in its tendency to throw 
power and consideration into the hands 
of merely perceptive men, of those 
inter-Tritonic minnows, the microscopi- 
cal savants, the diggers and pedlers of 
minute facts, for the most part in phys- 
ical science—facts, all of which they 
retailed at the same price upon the 
highway; their value depending, it was 
supposed, simply upon the fact of their 
fact, without reference to their applica- 
bility or inapplicability in the develop- 
ment of those ultimate and only legiti- 
mate facts called Law. 

“Than the persons,’ the letter goes 
on to say, “than the persons thus sud- 
denly elevated by the Hogg-ian philoso- 
phy into a station for which they were 
unfitted, thus transferred from the 
sculleries into the parlours of Science, 
from its pantries into its pulpits; than 
these individuals a more intolerant, a 
more intolerable set of bigots and ty- 
rants never existed on the face of the 
earth. Their creed, their text, and their 
sermon were alike the one word ‘fact’— 
but for the most part, even of this 
one word, they knew not even the 
meaning. On those who ventured to 
disturb their facts with the view of put- 
ting them in order and to use, the dis- 
ciples of Hogg had no mercy whatever. 
All attempts at generalisation were met 
at once by the words ‘theoretical,’ 
‘theory,’ ‘theorist’—all thought, to be 
brief, was very properly resented as a 
personal affront to themselves. Culti- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


vating the natural sciences to the exclu- 
sion of Metaphysics, the Mathematics, 
and Logic, many of these Bacon- 
engendered philosophers — one-idead, 
one-sided, and lame of a leg—were 
more wretchedly helpless—more miser- 
ably ignorant, in view of all the compre- 
hensible objects of knowledge, than the 
veriest unlettered hind who proves that 
he knows something, at least, in admit- 
ting that he knows absolutely nothing. 
“Nor had our forefathers any better 
right to talk about certainty, when pur- 
suing, in blind confidence, the a priori 
path of axioms, or of the Ram. At 
innumerable points this path was 
scarcely as straight as a ram/’s-horn. 
The simple truth is, that the Aristo- 
telians erected their castles upon a basis 
far less reliable than air; for no such 
things as axioms ever existed or can 
possibly exist at all, This they must 
have been very blind indeed not to see, 
or at least to suspect; for even in their 
own day many of their long-admitted 
‘axioms’ had been abandoned: ‘ex nihilo 
nihil fit, for example, and a ‘thing can- 
not act where it is not,’ and ‘there 
cannot be antipodes,’ and ‘darkness can- 
not proceed from light.’ These and 
numerous similar propositions formerly 
accepted, without hesitation, as axioms, 
or undeniable truths, were, even at the 
period of which I speak, seen to be alto- 
gether untenable: how absurd in these 
people, then, to persist in relying upon 
a basis, as immutable, whose mutability 
had become so repeatedly manifest! 
“But, even through evidence afforded 
by themselves against themselves, it is 
easy to convict these a priori reasoners 
of the grossest unreason—it is easy to 
show the futility—the impalpability of 
their axioms in general. I have now 


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lying before me’—it will be observed 
that we still proceed with the letter— 
“T have now lying before me a book 
printed about a thousand years ago. 
Pundit assures me that it is decidedly 
the cleverest ancient work on its topic, 
which is ‘Logic.’ The author, who was 
much esteemed in his day, was one 
Miller, or Mill; and we find it recorded 
of him, as a point of some importance, 
that he rode a mill-horse whom he 
called Jeremy Bentham:—but let us 
glance at the volume itself. 
““Ah!—Ability or inability to con- 
ceive,’ says Mr. Mill, very properly, ‘is 
in no case to be received as a criterion 
of axiomatic truth.’ Now that this is 
a palpable truism, no one in his senses 
will deny. Not to admit the proposi- 
tion, is to insinuate a charge of varia- 
bility in Truth itself, whose very title 
is a synonym of the Steadfast. If 
ability to conceive be taken as a cri- 
terion of Truth, then a truth to David 
Hume would very seldom be a truth to 
Foe; and ninety-nine hundredths of 
what is undeniable in Heaven, would 
be demonstrable falsity upon Earth. The 
proposition of Mr. Mill, then, is sus- 
tained. I will not grant it to be an 
axiom; and this merely because I am 
showing that no axioms exist; but with 
a distinction which could not have been 
cavilled at even by Mr. Mill himself, I 
am ready to grant that, if an axiom 
there be, then the proposition of which 
we speak has the fullest right to be 
considered an axiom—that no more ab- 
solute axiom zs—and consequently, that 
any subsequent proposition which shall 
conflict with this one primarily ad- 
vanced must be either a falsity in 
itselfi—that is to say, no axiom—or, if 


825 


admitted axiomatic, must at once neu- 
tralise both itself and its predecessor. 
“And now, by the logic of their own 
propounder, let us proceed to test any 
one of the axioms propounded. Let us 
give Mr. Mill the fairest of play. We 
will bring the point to no ordinary issue. 
We will select for investigation no com- 
monplace axiom—no axiom of what, not 
the less preposterously because only im- 
pliedly, he terms his secondary class— 
as if a positive truth by definition could 
be either more or less positively a 
truth: we will select, I say, no axiom 
of an unquestionability so questionable 
as is to be found in Euclid. We will 
not talk, for example, about such propo- 
sitions as that two straight lines cannot 
enclose a space, or that the whole is 
greater than any one of its parts. We 
will afford the logician every advantage. 
We will come at once to a proposition 
which he regards as the acme of the 
unquestionable—as the quintessence of 
axiomatic undeniability. Here it is:— 
‘Contradictions cannot both be true— 
that is, cannot coexist in nature.’ Here 
Mr. Mill means, for instance—and I 
give the most forcible instance conceiv- 
abie—that a tree must be either a tree 
or not a tree—that it cannot be at the 
same time a tree and not a tree: all 
which is quite reasonable of itself, and 
will answer remarkably well as an 
axiom, until we bring it into collation 
with an axiom insisted upon a few 
pages before; in other words—words 
which I have previously employed— 
until we test it by the logic of its own 
propounder. ‘A tree,’ Mr. Mill asserts, 
‘must be either a tree or not a tree.’ 
Very well: and now let me ask him 
why? To this little query there is but 
one response—I defy any man living to 


826 


invent a second. The sole answer is 
this: —‘Because we find it impossible to 
conceive that a tree can be anything 
else than a tree or not a tree.’ This, I 
repeat, is Mr. Mill’s sole answer—he 
will not pretend to suggest another; and 
yet, by his own showing, his answer is 
clearly no answer at all—for has he not 
already required us to admit, as an 
axiom, that ability or inability to con- 
ceive is im no case to be taken as a 
criterion of axiomatic truth? Thus all 
—absolutely all his argumentation is at 
sea without a rudder. Let it not be 
urged that an exception from the gen- 
eral rule is to be made in cases where 
the ‘impossibility to conceive,’ is so pe- 
culiarly great as when we are called 
upon to conceive a tree both a tree and 
not a tree. Let no attempt, I say, be 
made at urging this sotticism; for, in 
the first place, there are no degrees of 
‘impossibility,’ and thus no one impos- 
sible conception can be more peculiarly 
impossible than another impossible con- 
ception: in the second place, Mr. Mill 
himself—no doubt after thorough de- 
liberation—has most distinctly and most 
rationally excluded all opportunity for 
exception by the emphasis of his prop- 
osition, that im no case is ability or 
inability to conceive to be taken as a 
criterion of axiomatic truth: in the 
third place, even were exceptions admis- 
sible at all, it remains to be shown how 
any exception is admissible here. ‘That 
a tree can be both a tree and not a tree 
is an idea which the angels, or the 
devils, may entertain, and which no 
doubt many an earthly Bedlamite or 
Transcendentalist does. 

“Now, I do not quarrel with these 
ancients,’ continues the letter-writer, 
“so much on account of the transparent 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


frivolity of their logic—which, to be 
plain, was baseless, worthless, and fan~ 
tastic altogether—as on account of their 
pompous and infatuate proscription of 
all other roads to Truth than the two 
narrow and crooked paths—the one of 
creeping and the other of crawling—to 
which, in their ignorant perversity, they 
have dared to confine the Soul—the Soul 
which loves nothing so well as to soar 
in those regions of illimitable intuition 
which are utterly incognisant of ‘path.’ 

“By-the-bye, my dear friend, is it not 
an evidence of the mental slavery en- 
tailed upon those bigoted people by 
their Hogs and Rams, that in spite of 
the eternal prating of their savants 
about roads to Truth, none of them 
fell, even by accident, into what we 
now so distinctly perceive to be the 
broadest, the straightest, and most 
available of all mere roads—the great 
thoroughfare—the majestic highway of 
the Consistent? Is it not wonderful 
that they should have failed to deduce 
from the works of God the vitally mo- 
mentous consideration that a perfect 
consistency can be nothing but an abso- 
lute truth? How plain—how rapid our 
progress since the late announcement of 
this proposition! By its means investi- 
gation has been taken out of the hands 
of the ground-moles and given as a duty 
rather than as a task to the true—to 
the only true thinkers—to the generally 
educated men of ardent imagination. 
These latter—our Keplers—our Laplaces 
—‘speculate’—‘theorise’-—these are the 
terms—can you not fancy the shout of 
scorn with which they would be re- 
ceived by our progenitors, were it pos- 
sible for them to be looking over my 
shoulders as I writer The Keplers, I 
repeat, speculate—theorise—and_ their 


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theories are merely corrected—reduced 
—sifted—cleared, little by little, of 
their chaff of inconsistency—until at 
length there stands apparent an unen- 
-cumbered Consistency—a _ consistency 
which the most stolid admit—because 
it is a consistency—to be an absolute 
and unquestionable Truth. 

“T have often thought, my friend, 
that it must have puzzled these dogma- 
ticians of a thousand years ago, to de- 
termine even by which of their two 
boasted roads it is that the cryptog- 
raphist attains the solution of the more 
complicated cyphers—or by which of 
them Champollion guided mankind to 
those important and innumerable truths 
which, for so many centuries, have lain 
entombed amid the phonetical hiero- 
glyphics of Egypt. In especial, would 
it not have given these bigots some 
trouble to determine by which of their 
two roads was reached the most mo- 
mentous and sublime of all their truths 
—the truth—the fact of gravitation? 
Newton deduced it from the laws of 
Kepler. Kepler admitted that these 
laws he gwessed—these laws whose in- 
vestigation disclosed to the greatest of 
British astronomers that principle, the 
basis of all (existing) physical principle, 
in going behind which we enter at once 
the nebulous kingdom of Metaphysics. 
Yes! these vital laws Kepler guessed— 
that is to say, he imagined them. Had 
he been asked to point out either the 
deductive or inductive route by which 
he attained them, his reply might have 
been—TI know nothing about routes— 
but I do know the machinery of the 
Universe. Here it is. I grasped it with 
my soul—I reached it through mere 
dint of intuition.’ Alas, poor ignorant 
old man! Could not any metaphysician 


827 


have told him that what he called ‘in- 
tuition’ was but the conviction resulting 
from deductions or inductions of which 
the processes were so shadowy as to 
have escaped his consciousness, eluded 
his reason, or bidden defiance to his 
capacity of expression? How great a 
pity it is that some ‘moral philosopher’ 
had not enlightened him about all this? 
How it would have comforted him on 
his death-bed to know that instead of 
having gone intuitively and thus unbe- 
comingly, he had, in fact, proceeded 
decorously and legitimately—that is to 
say, Hogg-ishly, or at least Ram-ishly— 
into the vast halls where lay gleaming, 
untended, and hitherto untouched by 
mortal hand—unseen by mortal eye— 
the imperishable and priceless secrets of 
the Universe! 

“Yes, Kepler was essentially a theo- 
rist; but this title, mow of so much 
sanctity, was in those ancient days a 
designation of supreme contempt. It is 
only now that men begin to appreciate 
that divine old man—to sympathise 
with the prophetical and poetical rhap- 
sody of his ever memorable words. For 
my part,’ continues the unknown corre- 
spondent, “I glow with a sacred fire 
when I even think of them, and feel 
that I shall never grow weary of their 
repetition:—In concluding this letter, 
let me have the real pleasure of tran- 
scribing them once again:—‘J care not 
whether my work be read now or by 
posterity. I can afford to wait a cen- 
tury for readers when God himself has 
waited six thousand years for an ob- 
server. I triumph. I have stolen the 
golden secret of the Egyptians. I will 
indulge my sacred fury.’” 

Here end my quotations from this 
very unaccountable and, perhaps, some- 


$28 


what impertinent epistle; and perhaps it 
would be folly to comment, in any re- 
spect, upon the chimerical, not to say 
revolutionary, fancies of the writer— 
whoever he is—fancies so radically at 
war with the well-considered and well- 
settled opinions of this age. Let us pro- 
ceed, then, to our legitimate thesis, The 
Universe. 

This thesis admits a choice between 
two modes of discussion:—We may 
ascend or descend. Beginning at our 
own point of view, at the Earth on 
which we stand, we may pass to the 
other planets of our system, thence to 
the Sun, thence to our system consid- 
ered collectively, and thence, through 
other systems, indefinitely outwards; or, 
commencing on high at some point as 
definite as we can make it, or conceive 
it, we may come down to the habitation 
of Man. Usually, that is to say, in 
ordinary essays on Astronomy, the first 
of these two modes is, with certain 
reservation, adopted: this for the ob- 
vious reason that astronomical facés, 
merely, and principles, being the object, 
that object is best fulfilled in stepping 
from the known because proximate, 
gradually onward to the point where all 
certitude becomes lost in the remote. 
For my present purpose, however, that 
of enabling the mind to take in, as if 
from afar and at one glance, a distant 
conception of the individual Universe— 
it is clear that a descent to small from 
great—to the outskirts from the centre 
(if we could establish a centre)—to 
_ the end from the beginning (if we could 
fancy a beginning) would be the prefer- 
able course, but for the difficulty, if not 
impossibility, of presenting, in this 
course, to the unastronomical, a picture 
at all comprehensible in regard to such 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


considerations as are involved in quan 
tity—that is to say, in number, magni- 
tude, and distance. 

Now, distinctness—intelligibility, at 
all points, is a primary feature in my 
general design. On important topics it 
is better to be a good deal prolix than 
even a very little obscure. But ab- 
struseness is a quality appertaining to 
no subject per se. All are alike, in 
facility of comprehension, to him who 
approaches them by properly graduated 
steps. It is merely because a stepping- 
stone, here and there, is heedlessly left 
unsupplied in our road to Differential 
Calculus, that this latter is not alto- 
gether as simple a thing as a sonnet by 
Mr. Solomon Seesaw. 

By way of admitting, then, no chance 
for misapprehension, I think it advisa- 
ble to proceed as if even the more 
obvious facts of Astronomy were un- 
known to the reader. In combining the 
two modes of discussion to which I 
have referred, I propose to avail myself 
of the advantages peculiar to each— 
and very especially of the zteration in 
detail which will be unavoidable as a 
consequence of the plan. Commencing 
with a descent, I shall reserve for the 
return upwards those indispensable con- 
siderations of quantity to which allusion 
has already been made. 

Let us begin, then, at once, with that 
merest of words, “Infinity.” This, like 
“God,” “spirit,” and some other expres- 
sions of which the equivalents exist in 
all languages, is by no means the ex- 
pression of an idea, but of an effort at 
one. It stands for the possible attempt 
at an impossible conception. Man 
needed a term by which to point out 
the direction of this effort—the cloud 
behind which lay, for ever invisible, the 





EUREKA 


object of this attempt. A word, in fine, 
was demanded, by means of which one 


human being might put himself in rela- 
tion at once with another human being 


and with a certain tendency of the hu- 
- man intellect. Out of this demand arose 


the word “Infinity”; which is thus the 
representative but of the thought of a 
thought. 

As regards that infinity now consid- 
ered—the infinity of space—we often 
hear it said that “its idea is admitted 
by the mind—is acquiesced in—is en- 
tertained—on account of the greater 
difficulty which attends the conception 
of a limit.” But this is merely one of 
those phrases by which even profound 
thinkers, time out of mind, have occa- 
sionally taken pleasure in deceiving 
themselves. ‘The quibble lies concealed 
in the word “difficulty.” “The mind,” 
we are told, “entertains the idea of 
limitless, through the greater difficulty 
in the case. The assertion intended, if 
presented according to its intention, and 
without sophistry, would run thus:— 
“The mind admits the idea of limitless, 
through the greater impossibility of en- 
tertaining that of limited, space.” 

It must be immediately seen that this 
is not a question of two statements 
between whose respective credibilities— 
or of two arguments between whose re- 
spective validities—the reason is called 
upon to decide—it is a matter of two 
conceptions, directly conflicting, and 
each avowedly impossible, one of which 
the intellect is supposed to be capable 
of entertaining, on account of the 
greater zmpossibility of entertaining the 
other. The choice is not made between 
two difficulties; it is merely fancied to 
be made between two impossibilities. 
Now of the former, there are degrees, 


829 


but of the latter, none—just as our 
impertinent letter-writer has already 
suggested. A task may be more or less 
difficult; but it is either possible or not 
possible—there are no gradations. It 
might be more difficult to overthrow 
the Andes than an ant-hill; but it can 
be no more impossible to annihilate the 
matter of the one than the matter of 
the other. A man may jump ten feet 
with less difficulty than he can jump 
twenty, but the impossibility of his 
leaping to the moon is not a whit less 
than that of his leaping to the dog-star. 

Since all this is undeniable; since the 
choice of the mind is to be made be- 
tween impossibilities of conception; 
since one impossibility cannot be greater 
than another; and since thus, one can-. 
not be preferred to another; the philos- » 
ophers who not only maintain, on the 
grounds mentioned, man’s idea of in- 
finity, but on account of such suppo- 
sititious idea, infinity itself—are plainly 
engaged in demonstrating one impossi- 
ble thing to be possible by showing 
how it is that some one other thing 
is impossible too. This, it will be said 
is nonsense, and perhaps it is; indeed 
I think it very capital nonsense, but 
forego all claim to it as nonsense of 
mine. 

The readiest mode, however, of dis- 
playing the fallacy of the philosophical 
argument on this question is by simply 
adverting to a fact respecting it which 
has been hitherto quite overlooked—the 
fact that the argument alluded to both 
proves and disproves its own proposi- 
tion. “The mind is impelled,” say the 
theologians and others, “to admit a 
First Cause, by the superior difficulty it 
experiences in conceiving cause beyond 
cause without end.” The quibble, as 


830 


before, lies in the word “difficulty,” but 
here what is it employed to sustain? A 
First Cause. And what is a First Cause? 
An ultimate termination of causes? 
And what is an ultimate termination of 
causes? Finity—the Finite. Thus the 
one quibble in two processes, by God 
knows how many philosophers, is made 
to support now Finity and now Infinity; 
could it not be brought to support 
something besides? As for the quib- 
bles, they, at least, are insupportable. 
But, to dismiss them; what they prove 
in the one case is the identical nothing 
which they demonstrate in the other. 

Of course, no one will suppose that 
I here contend for the absolute impos- 
sibility of that which we attempt to 
convey in the word “Infinity.” My pur- 
pose is but to show the folly of en- 
deavouring to prove Infinity itself, or 
even our conception of it, by any such 
blundering ratiocination as that which 
is ordinarily employed. 

Nevertheless, as an individual, I may 
be permitted to say that I cannot con- 
ceive Infinity, and am convinced that 
no human being can. A mind not 
thoroughly self-conscious, not accus- 
tomed to the introspective analysis of 
its own operations, will, it is true, often 
deceive itself by.supposing that it has 
entertained the conception of which we 
speak. In the effort to entertain it, we 
proceed step beyond step, we fancy 
point still beyond point; and so long as 
we continue the effort it may be said, in 
fact, that we are tending to the forma- 
tion of the idea designed; while the 
strength of the impression that we actu- 
ally form or have formed is in the ratio 
of the period during which we keep up 
the mental endeavour. But it is in the 
act of discontinuing the endeavour—of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fulfilling (as we think) the idea—of 
putting the finishing stroke (as we sup- 
pose) to the conception—that we over- 
throw at once the whole fabric of our 
fancy by resting upon some one ulti- 
mate, and therefore, definite point. 
This fact, however, we fail to perceive, 
on account of the absolute coincidence 
in time between the settling down upon 
the ultimate point and the act of cessa- 
tion in thinking. In attempting, on the 
other hand, to frame the idea of a 
limited space, we merely converse the 
processes which involve the impossi- 
bility. 

We believe in a God. We may or 
may not believe in finite or in infinite 
space: but our belief in such cases is 
more properly designated as faith, and 
is a matter quite distinct from that 
belief proper—from that intellectual 
beliefi—which presupposes the mental 
conception. 

The fact is, that, upon the enuncia- 
tion of any one of that class of terms 
to which “Infinity” belongs—the class 
representing thoughts of thought—he 
who has a right to say that he thinks 
at all, feels himself called upon not to 
entertain a conception, but simply to 
direct his mental vision toward some 
given point in the intellectual firma- 
ment, where lies a nebula never to be 
resolved. To solve it, indeed, he makes 
no effort; for with a rapid instinct he 
comprehends not only the impossibility, 
but as regards all human purposes, the 
inessentiality of its solution. He per- 
ceives that the Deity has not designed 
it to be solved. He sees at once that it 
lies out of the brain of man, and even 
how, if not exactly why, it lies out of 
it. There are people, I am aware, who, 
busying themselves in attempts at the 


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unattainable, acquire very easily, by dint 
of the jargon they emit, among those 
thinkers - that - they - think with whom 
darkness and depth are synonymous, a 
kind of cuttle-fish reputation for pro- 
fundity; but the finest quality of 
Thought is its self-cognisance; and with 
some little equivocation, it may be said 
that no fog of the mind can well be 
greater than that which, extending to 
the very boundaries of the mental do- 
main, shuts out even these boundaries 
themselves from comprehension. 

It will now be understood that in 
using the phrase “Infinity of Space,” I 
make no call upon the reader to enter- 
tain the impossible conception of an 
absolute infinity. I refer simply to the 
“utmost conceivable expanse” of space 
—a shadowy and fluctuating domain, 
now shrinking, now swelling, in accord- 
ance with the vacillating energies of the 
imagination. 

Hitherto, the Universe of stars has 
always been considered as coincident 
with the Universe proper, as I have 
defined it, in the commencement of this 
Discourse. It has been always either 
directly or indirectly assumed—at least 
since the dawn of intelligible Astronomy 
—that, were it possible for us to attain 
any given point in space, we should still 
find on all sides of us an interminable 
succession of stars. This was the un- 
tenable idea of Pascal when making per- 
haps the most successful attempt ever 
made at periphrasing the conception for 
which we struggle in the word ‘“Uni- 
verse.” “It is a sphere,” he says, “of 
which the centre is everywhere, the cir- 
cumference nowhere.” But although 
this intended definition is, in fact, no 
definition of the Universe of stars, we 
may accept it, with some mental reser- 


831 


vation, as a definition (rigorous enough 
for all practical purposes) of the Uni- 
verse proper—that is to say, of the 
Universe of space. This latter, then, let 
us regard as “a sphere of which the 
centre is everywhere, the circumference 
nowhere.” In fact, while we find it 
impossible to fancy an end to space, 
we have no difficulty in picturing to 
ourselves any one of an infinity of 
beginnings. 

As our starting point, then, let us 
adopt the Godhead. Of this Godhead, 
in itself, he alone is not imbecile—he 
alone is not impious who propounds— 
nothing. “Nous ne connaissons rein,” 
says the Baron de Bielfeld—“Nous ne 
connaissons rein de la nature ou de 
Vessence de Dieu:—pour savoir ce qu’il 
est, il faut etre Dieu meme.’—‘We 
know absolutely nothing of the nature 
or essence of God—in order to compre- 
hend what He is, we should have to be 
God ourselves.” 

“We should have to be God our- 
selves !”—With a phrase so startling as 
this yet ringing in my ears, I neverthe- 
less venture to demand if this our 
present ignorance of the Deity is an 
ignorance to which the soul is ever- 
lastingly condemned. 

By Him, however—now, at least, the 
Incomprehensible—by Him — assuming 
Him as Spirit—that is to say, as not 
Matter—a distinction which for all in- 
telligible purposes will stand well in- 
stead of a definition—by Him, then, 
existing as Spirit, let us content our- 
selves to-night with supposing to have 
been created, or made out of Nothing 
by dint of his Volition—at some point 
of Space which we will take as a centre 
—at some period into which we do not 
pretend to inquire, but at all events im- 


832 


mensely remote—by Him, then again, 
let us suppose to have been created— 
What? This is a vitally momentous 
epoch in our considerations. What is it 
that we are justified—that alone we are 
justified in supposing to have been pri- 
marily and solely created? 

We have attained a point where only 
Intuition can aid us—but now let me 
recur to the idea which I have already 
suggested as that alone which we can 
properly entertain of intuition. It is 
but the conviction arising from those 
inductions or deductions of which the 
processes are so shadowy as to escape 
our consciousness, elude our reason or 
defy our capacity of expression. With 
this understanding, I now assert—that 
an intuition altogether irresistible, al- 
though inexpressible, forces me to the 
conclusion that what God originally cre- 
ated—that that Matter which, by dint 
of his Volition, He first made from His 
spirit, or from Nihility, could have been 
nothing but Matter in its utmost con- 
ceivabie state of—what?r—of Simplic- 
liv? 

This will be found the sole absolute 
assumption of my Discourse. I use the 
word “assumption” in its ordinary 
sense; yet I maintain that even this my 
primary proposition is very, very far 
indeed from being really a mere as- 
sumption. Nothing was ever more cer- 
tainly—no human conclusion was ever, 
in fact, more regularly—more rigorously 
deduced:—but, alas! the processes lie 
out of the human analysis—at all events 
are beyond the utterance of human 
tongue. 

Let us now endeavour to conceive 
what Matter must be when, or if, in 
its absolute extreme of Simplicity. Here 
the Reason flies at once to Imparticu- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


larity—to a particle—to one particle— 
a particle of one kind—of one character 
—of one nature—of one size—of one 
form—-a particle, therefore, “wthout 
form and void’”—a particle, positively a 
particle at all points—a particle abso- 
lutely unique, individual, undivided, and 
not indivisible only because He who 
created it, by dint of His Will, can by 
an infinitely less energetic exercise of 
the same Will, as a matter of course, 
divide it. 

Oneness, then, is all that I predicate 
of the originally created Matter; but I 
propose to show that this Oneness is a 
principle abundantly sufficient to ac- 
count for the constitution, the existing 
phenomena, and the plainly inevitable 
annihilation of at least the material 
Universe. | 

The willing into being the primordial 
particle has completed the act, or more 
properly the conception of Creation. 
We now proceed to the ultimate pur- 
pose for which we are to suppose the 
Particle created—that is to say, the 
ultimate purpose so far as .our con- 
siderations yet enable us to see it—the 
constitution of the Universe from it, the 
Particle. 

This constitution has been effected by 
forcing the originally and _ therefore 
normally One into the abnormal condi- 
tion of Many. An action of this char- 
acter implies reaction. A diffusion from 
Unity, under the conditions, involves a 
tendency to return into Unity—a ten- 
dency ineradicable until satisfied. But 
on these points I will speak more fully 
hereafter. 

The assumption of absolute Unity in 
the primordial Particle includes that of 
infinite divisibility. Let us conceive 
the Particle then to be only not totally 


. 


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exhausted by diffusion inte Space. From 
the one particle as.a centre, let us sup- 
pose to be irradiated spherically—in all 
directions—to immeasurable but still 
definite distances in the previously va- 
cant space—a certain inexpressibly 
great yet limited number of unimagin- 
ably yet not infinitely minute atoms. 
Now, of these atoms thus diffused, or 
upon diffusion, what conditions are we 
permitted—not to assume but to infer, 
from consideration as well of their 
source as of the character of the design 
apparent in their diffusion? Unity be- 
ing their source, the difference from 
Unity the character of the design mani- 
fested in their diffusion, we are war- 
ranted in supposing this character to be 
at least generally preserved throughout 
the design and to form a portion of 
the design itself—that is to say, we 
shall be warranted in conceiving con- 
tinual differences at all points from the 
uniquity and simplicity of the origin. 
But for these reasons shall we be jus- 
tified in imagining the atoms hetero- 
geneous, dissimilar, unequal, and in- 
equidistant? More explicitly, are we 
to consider no two atoms as, at their 
diffusion, of the same nature, or of the 
same form, or of the same size?—and 
after fulfilment of their diffusion into 
Space, is absolute inequidistance, each 
from each, to be understood of all of 
them? In such arrangements, under 
such conditions, we most easily and 
immediately comprehend the subsequent 
most feasible carrying out to completion 
of any such design as that which I have 
suggested—the design of variety out of 
unity—diversity out of sameness— 
heterogeneity out of homogeneity— 
complexity out of simplicity—in a word, 


the utmost possible multiplicity of re- 


833 


lation out of the emphatically irrelative, 
One. Undoubtedly, therefore, we should 
be warranted in assuming all that has 
been mentioned but for the reflection, 
first, that supererogation is not pre- 
sumable of any Divine Act; and, 
secondly, that the object supposed in 
view appears as feasible when some of 
the conditions in question are dispensed 
with in the beginning as when all are 
understood immediately to exist. I 
mean to say that some are involved in 
the rest, or so instantaneous a conse- 
quence of them as to make the dis- 
tinction inappreciable. Difference of 
size, for example, will at once be 
brought about through the tendency of 
one atom to a second, in preference to 
a third, on account of particular in- 
equidistance; which is to be compre- 
hended as particular inequidistances be- 
tween centres of quantity in neighbour- 
ing atoms of different form—a matter 
not at all interfering with the generally 
equable distribution of the atoms. Dif- 
ference of kind, too, is easily conceived 
to be merely a result of differences in 
size and form, taken more or less con- 
jointly ;—in fact, since the Unity of the 
Particle Proper implies absolute homo- 
geneity, we cannot imagine the atoms, 
at their diffusion, differing in kind 
without imagining at the same time a 
special exercise of the Divine Will at 
the emission of each atom, for the pur- 
pose of effecting in each a change of 
its essential nature:—so fantastic an 
idea “is the less to be indulged as the 
object proposed is seen to be thor- 
oughly attainable without such minute 
and elaborate interposition. We per- 
ceive, therefore, upon the whole, that 
it would be supererogatory, and con- 
sequently unphilosophical, to pred- 


834 


icate of the atoms, in view of their 
purposes, anything more than difference 
of form at their dispersion, with par- 
ticular inequidistance after it—all other 
differences arising at once out of these 
in the very first processes of mass- 
constitution:—We thus establish the 
Universe on a purely geometrical basis. 
Of course, it is by no means necessary 
to assume absolute difference even of 
form among all the atoms irradiated— 
any more than absolute particular in- 
equidistance of each from each. We 
are required to conceive merely that no 
neighbouring atoms are of similar form 
—no atoms which can ever approxi- 
mate, until their inevitable reunition at 
the end. 

Although the immediate and per- 
petual tendency of the disunited atoms 
to return into their normal Unity is 
implied, as I have said, in their abnor- 
nal diffusion, still it is clear that this 
tendency will be without consequence— 
a tendency and no more—until the 
diffusive energy, in ceasing to be ex- 
erted, shall leave zt, the tendency, free 
to seek its satisfaction. ‘The Divine 
Act, however, being considered as de- 
terminate, and discontinued on fulfil- 
ment of the diffusion, we understand, 
at once, a reaction—in other words, a 
satisfiable tendency of the disunited 
atoms to return into One. 

But the diffusive energy being with- 
drawn, and the reaction having com- 
menced in furtherance of the ultimate 
design—that of the utmost possible Re- 
lation—this design is now in danger of 
being frustrated, in detail, by reason 
of that very tendency to return which 
is to effect its accomplishment in gen- 
eral. Multiplicity is the object; but 
there is nothing to prevent proximate 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


atoms from lapsing at once, through 
the now satisfiable tendency—before 
the fulfilment of any ends proposed in 
multiplicity —into absolute oneness 
among themselves; there is nothing to 
impede the aggregation of various 
unique masses, at various points of 
space—in other words, nothing to inter- 
fere with the accumulation of various 
masses, each absolutely One. 

For the effectual and thorough com- 
pletion of the general design, we thus 
see the necessity for a repulsion of 
limited capacity—a separative some- 
thing which, on withdrawal of the dif- 
fusive Volition, shall at the same time 
allow the approach, and forbid the 
junction, of the atoms: suffering them 
infinitely to approximate, while deny- 
ing them positive contact; in a word, 
having the power—up to a certain 
epoch—of preventing their coalition, 
but no ability to interfere with their 
coalescence in any respect or degree. 
The repulsion, already considered as so 
peculiarly limited in other regards, must 
be understood, let me repeat, as having 
power to prevent absolute coalition, 
only up to a certain epoch. Unless we 
are to conceive that the appetite for 
Unity among the atoms is doomed to 
be satisfied never:—unless we are to 
conceive that what had a beginning is 
to have no end—a conception which 
cannot really be entertained, however 
much we may talk or dream of enter- 
taining it—we are forced to conclude 
that the repulsive influence imagined, 
will, finally—under pressure of the 
Uni-tendency collectively applied, but 
never and in no degree wntil, on fulfil- 
ment of the Divine purposes, such col- 
lective application shall be naturally 


made—yield to a force which, at that 


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ultimate epoch, shall be the superior 
force precisely to the extent required, 
and thus permit the universal subsid- 
ence into the inevitable, because orig- 
‘inal and therefore normal, One. The 
conditions here to be reconciled are 
difficult indeed; we cannot even com- 
-prehend the possibility of their con- 
ciliation; nevertheless, the apparent im- 
possibility is brilliantly suggestive. 

That the repulsive something actu- 
ally exists, we see. Man neither em- 
ploys, nor knows, a force sufficient to 
bring two atoms into contact. This is 
but the well-established proposition of 
the impenetrability of matter. All Ex- 
periment proves—all Philosophy admits 
it. The design of the repulsion—the 
necessity for its existence—I have en- 
deavoured to show; but from all at- 
tempt at investigating its nature have 
religiously abstained; this on account 
of an intuitive conviction that the prin- 
ciple at issue is strictly spiritual—ties 
in a recess impervious to our present 
understanding—lies involved in a con- 
sideration of what now—in our human 
state—is not to be considered—in a 
consideration of Spirit in itself. I feel, 
in a word, that here the God has inter- 
posed, and here only, because here and 
here only the knot demanded the inter- 
position of the God. 

In fact, while the tendency of the 
diffused atoms to return into Unity, 
will be recognised at once as the prin- 
ciple of the Newtonian Gravity, what 
I have spoken of as a repulsive in- 
fluence prescribing limits to the (im- 
mediate) satisfaction of ‘the tendency, 
will be understood as that which we 
have been in the practice of designating 
now as heat, now as magnetism, now as 
electricity; displaying our ignorance of 


835 


its awful character in the vacillation 
of the phraseology with which we en- 
deavour to circumscribe it. 

Calling it, merely for the moment, 
electricity, we know that all experimen- 
tal analysis of electricity has given, as 
an ultimate result, the principle, or 
seeming principle, heterogeneity. Only 
where things differ is electricity ap- 
parent; and it is presumable that they 
never differ where it is not developed 
at least, if not apparent. Now, this 
result is in the fullest keeping with 
that which I have reached unempir- 
ically. The design of the repulsive in- 
fluence I have maintained to be that 
of preventing immediate Unity among 
the diffused atoms; and these atoms are 
represented as different each from each. 
Difference in their character—their 
essentiality—just as no-difference was 
the essentiality of their course. When 
we say, then, that an attempt to bring 
any two of these atoms together would 
induce an effort, on the part of the re- 
pulsive influence, to prevent the con- 
tact, we may as well use the strictly 
convertible sentence that an attempt to 
bring together any two differences will 
result in a development of electricity. 
All existing bodies, of course, are com- 
posed of these atoms in proximate con- 
tact, and are therefore to be considered 
as mere assemblages of more or fewer 
differences; and the resistance made 
by the repulsive spirit, on bringing to- 
gether any two such assemblages, would 
be in the ratio of the two sums of the 
differences in each—an _ expression 
which, when reduced, is equivalent to 
this:—The amount of electricity de- 
veloped on the approximation of two 
bodies is proportional to the difference 
between the respective sums of the 


836 


atoms of which the bodies are com- 
posed. That no two bodies are abso- 
lutly alike, is a simple corollary from 
all that has been here said. Electricity, 
therefore, existing always, is developed 
whenever any bodies, but manifested 
only when bodies of appreciable differ- 
ence, are brought into approximation. 

To electricity—so, for the present, 
continuing -to call it—we may not be 
wrong in referring the various physical 
appearances of light, heat, and mag- 
netism but far less shall we be liable 
to err in attributing to this strictly 
spiritual principle the more important 
phenomena of vitality, consciousness, 
and Thought. On this topic, however, 
I need‘ pause here merely to suggest 
that these phenomena, whether ob- 
served generally or in detail, seem to 
proceed at least in the ratio of the 
heterogeneous. 

Discarding now the two equivocal 
terms “gravitation” and. “electricity,” 
let us adopt the more definite expres- 
sions, “attraction” and “repulsion.” 
The former is the body; the latter the 
soul: the one is the material, the other 
the spiritual, principle of the Universe. 
No other principles exist. All phe- 
nomena are referable to one or to the 
other, or to both combined. So rigor- 
ously is this the case—so thoroughly 
demonstrable is it that attraction and 
repulsion are the _ sole _ properties 
through which we perceive the Uni- 
verse—in other words, by which Mat- 
ter is manifested to Mind—that, for 
all merely argumentative purposes, we 
are fully justified in assuming that 
matter exists only as attraction and re- 
pulsion—that attraction and repulsion 
are matter—there being no conceivable 
case in which we may not employ the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


term “matter” and the terms “attrac- 
tion” and “repulsion,” taken together, 
as equivalent, and therefore converti- 
ble, expressions in Logic. 

I said just now that what I have de- 
scribed as the tendency of the diffused 
atoms to return into their original 
unity would be understood as the ,prin- 
ciple of the Newtonian law of gravity; — 
and, in fact, there can be but little 
difficulty in such an understanding if 
we look at the Newtonian gravity in a 
merely general view, as a force impel- 
ling matter to seek matter; that is to 
say, when we pay no attention to the 
known modus operandi of the Newton- 
ian force. The general ccincidence 
satisfies us; but, upon looking closely, 
we see in detail much that appears i- 
coincident, and much in regard to 
which no coincidence, at least, is es- 
tablished. For example: the Newton- 
ian gravity, when we think of it in cer- 
tain moods, does mot seem to be a ten- 
dency to oneness at all, but rather a 
tendency of all bodies in all directions 
—a phrase apparently expressive of a 
tendency to diffusion. Here, then, is an 
mmcoincidence. Again; when we reflect 
on the mathematical Jaw governing the 
Newtonian tendency, we see clearly 
that no coincidence has been made good 
in respect of the modus operandi, at 
least between gravitation as known to 
exist and that seemingly simple and 
direct tendency which I have assumed. 

In fact, I have attained a point at 
which it will be advisable to strengthen 
my position by reversing my processes. 
So far, we have gone on a priori, from 
an abstract consideration of Simplicity, 
as that quality most likely to have 
characterised the original action of 
God. Let us now see whether the es- 


EUREKA 


tablished facts of the Newtonian Gravi- 
tation may not afford us, a posteriori, 
some legitimate inductions. 

What does the Newtonian law de- 
clare? That all bodies attract each 
other with forces proportional to the 
squares of their distances. Purposely, 
I have given, in the first place, the 
vulgar version of the Jaw; and I con- 
fess that in this, as in most other vulgar 
versions of great truths, we find little 
of 2 suggestive character. Let us now 
adopt a more philosophical phrase- 
ology:—Every atom, of every body, 
attracts every other atom, both of its 
own and of every other body, with a 
force which varies inversely as the 
squares of the distances between the 
attracting and attracted atom. Here, 
indeed, a flood of suggestion bursts 
upon the mind. 

But let us see distinctly what it was 
that Newton proved—according to the 
grossly irrational definitions of proof 
prescribed by the metaphysical schools. 
He was forced to content himself with 
showing how thoroughly the motions of 
an imaginary Universe, composed of 
attracting and attracted atoms obedient 
to the law he announced, coincide with 
those of the actually existing Uni- 
verse so far as it comes under our 
observation. This was the amount 
of his demonstration—that is to say, 
this was the amount of it accord- 
ing to the conventional cant of the 
“philosophies.” His successes added 
proof multiplied by proof—such proof 
as a sound intellect admits—but the 
demonstration of the law itself, persist 
the metaphysicians, had not been 
strengthened in any degree. “Ocular, 
physical proof,” however, of attraction 
here upon Earth, in accordance with 


837 


the Newtonian theory, was at length, 
much to the satisfaction of some intel- 
lectual grovellers, afforded. This proof 
arose collaterally and incidentally (as 
nearly all important truths have arisen) 
out of an attempt to ascertain the mean 
density of, the Earth. In the famous 
Maskelyne, Cavendish, and Bailly ex- 
periments for this purpose, the attrac- 
tion of the mass of a mountain was 
seen, felt, measured, and found to be 
mathematically consistent with the im- 
mortal theory of the British astron- 
omer. 

But in spite of this confirmation of 
that which needed none—in spite of the 
so-called corroboration of the ‘‘theory” 
by the so-called “ocular and physical 
proof”’—in spite of the character of 
this corroboration—the ideas which 
even really philosophical men cannot 
help imbibing of gravity—and, espe- 
cially the ideas of it which ordinary 
men get and contentedly maintain, are 
seen to have been derived, for the most 
part, from a consideration of the prin- 
ciple as they find it developed—merely 
in the planet upon which they stand. 

Now, to what does so partial a con- 
sideration tend—to what species of 
error does it give rise? On the Earth 
we see and feel only that gravity im- 
pels all bodies towards the centre of the 
Earth. No man in the common walks 
of life could be made to see or feel 
anything else—could be made to per- 
ceive that anything, anywhere, has a 
perpetual gravitating tendency in any 
other direction than to the centre of 
the Earth; yet (with an exception here- 
after to be specified) it is a fact that 
every earthly thing (not to speak now 
of every heavenly thing) has a ten- 
dency not only to the Earth’s centre, 


838 


but in every conceivable direction be- 
sides. 

Now, although the philosophic can- 
not be said to err with the vulgar in 
this matter, they nevertheless permit 
themselves to be influenced, without 
knowing it, by the sentiment of the 
vulgar idea. ‘Although the Pagan 
fables are not believed,” says Bryant, 
in his very erudite “Mythology,” “yet 
we forget ourselves continually and 
make inferences from them as from 
existing realities.” I mean to assert 
that the merely sensitive perception of 
gravity as we experience it on Earth 
beguiles mankind into the fancy of con- 
centralisation or especiality respecting 
it—has been continually biasing to- 
wards this fancy even the mightiest in- 
tellects—perpetually, although imper- 
ceptibly, leading them away from the 
real characteristics of the principle; 
thus preventing them, up to this date, 
from ever getting a glimpse of that 
vital truth which lies in a diametrically 
opposite direction—behind the princi- 
ple’s essential characteristics—those, 
not of concentralisation or especiality 
—but of universality and diffusion. 
This “vital truth’ is Unity as the 
source of the phenomenon. 

Let me now repeat the definition of 
gravity:—Every atom of every body 
attracts every other atom, both of its 
own and of every other body, with a 
force which varies inversely as the 
squares of the distances of the attract- 
ing and attracted atom. 

Here let the reader pause with me 
for a moment in contemplation of the 
miraculous—of the ineffable—of the 
altogether unimaginable complexity of 
relaticn involved in the fact that each 
atom attracts every other atom—in- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


volved merely in this fact of the at- 
traction, without reference to the law 
or mode in which the attraction is man- 
ifested—involved merely in the fact 
that each atom attracts every other 
atom at all, in a wilderness of atoms 
so numerous that those which go to 
the composition of a cannon-ball exceed 
probably, in mere point of number, all 
the stars which go to the constitution 
of the Universe. 

Had we discovered, simply, that each 
atom tended to some one favourite 
point—to some especially attractive 
atom—we should still have fallen upon 
a discovery which, in itself, would have 
sufficed to overwhelm the mind:—but 
what is it that we are actually called 
upon to comprehend? ‘That each atom 
attracts—sympathises with the most 
delicate movements of every other 
atom, and with each and with all at the 
same time, and for ever, and according 
to a determinate law of which the com- 
plexity, even considered by itself solely, 
is utterly beyond the grasp of the imag- 
ination of man. If I propose to ascer- 
tain the influence of one mote in a 
sunbeam upon its neighbouring mote, 
T cannot accomplish my. purpose with- 
out first counting and weighing all the 
atoms in the Universe, and defining the 
precise positions of all at one particular 
moment. If I venture to displace, by 
even the billionth part of an inch, the 
microscopical speck of dust which lies 
now upon the point of my finger, what 
is the character of that act upon which 
I have ventured? I have done a deed 
which shakes the Moon in her path, 
which causes the Sun to be no longer 
the sun, and which alters for ever the 
destiny of the multitudinous myriads 


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of stars that roll and glow in the ma- 
jestic presence of their Creator. 

These ideas—conceptions stch as 
these unthought-like thoughts—soul- 
_reveries rather than conclusions or even 
considerations of the intellect:—ideas, 
I repeat, such as these, are such as we 
can alone hope profitably to entertain 
in any effort at grasping the great prin- 
ciple, Attraction. 

But now, with such ideas—with such 
a vision of the marvelous complexity 
of Attraction fairly in his mind—let 
any person competent of thought on 
such topics as these, set himself to the 
task of imagining a principle for the 
phenomena observed—a condition from 
which they sprang. 

Does not so evident a brotherhood 
among the atoms point to a common 
parentager Does not a sympathy so 
omniprevalent, so ineradicable, and so 
thoroughly irrespective, suggest a 
common paternity as its source? Does 
not one extreme impel the reason to 
the other? Does not the infinitude of 
division refer to the utterness of indi- 
viduality? Does not the entireness of 
the complex hint at the perfection of 
the simple? It is not that the atoms, 
as we see them, are divided or that 
they are inconceivably divided and un- 
utterably complex: it is the extreme- 
ness of the conditions to which I now 
allude, rather than to the conditions 
themselves. In a word, is it not be- 
cause the atoms were, at some remote 
epoch of time, even more than together 
—is it not because originally, and 
therefore normally, they were One— 
that now in all circumstances—at all 
points—in all directions—by all modes 
of approach—in all relations and 
through all conditions—they struggle 


839 


back to this absolutely, this irrelatively, 
this unconditionally one? 

Some person may here demand:— 
‘“‘Why—since it is to the One that the 
atoms struggle back—do we not find 
and define Attraction ‘a merely gen- 
eral tendency to a centre’? why, in 
especial, do not your atoms—the atoms 
which you describe as having been ir- 
radiated from a centre—proceed at 
once, rectilinearly, back to the central 
point of their origin?” 

I reply that they do; as will be dis- 
tinctly shown; but that the cause of 
their so doing is quite irrespective of 
the centre as such. They all tend rec- 
tilinearly towards a centre, because of 
the sphericity with which they have 
been irradiated into space. Each atom, 
forming one of a generally uniform 
globe of atoms, finds more atoms in 
the direction of the centre, of course, 
than in any other, and in that direc- 
tion, therefore, is impelled—but is noé 
thus impelled because the centre is the 
point of its origin. It is not to any 
point that the atoms are allied. It is 
not any locality, either in the concrete 
or in the abstract, to which I suppose 
them bound. Nothing like location was 
conceived as their origin. Their source 
lies in the principle Unity. This is their 
lost parent. This they seek always— 
immediately—in all directions—wher- 
ever it is even partially to be found; 
thus appeasing in some measure the 
ineradicable tendency while on the way 
to its absolute satisfaction in the end. 
It follows from all this, that any prin- 
ciple which shall be adequate to ac- 
count for the Jaw or modus operandi 
of the attractive force in general, will 
account for this law in particular— 
that is to say, any principle which will 


840 


show why the atoms should tend to 
their general centre of irradiation with 
forces inversely proportional to the 
squares of the distances will be admit- 
ted as satisfactorily accounting at the 
same time for the tendency, according 
to the same law, of these atoms each 
to each;—for -he tendency to the cen- 
tre is merely the tendency each to 
each, and not any tendency to a centre 
as such.—Thus it will be seen, also, 
that the establishment of my proposi- 
tions would involve no necessity of 
modification in the terms of the New- 
tonian definition of Gravity, which de- 
clares that each atom attracts each 
other atom and so forth, and declares 
this merely; but (always under the sup- 
position that what I propose be, in the 
end, admitted) it seems clear that some 
error might occasionally be avoided in 
the future processes of Science were a 
more ample phraseology adopted—for 
instance:—‘‘Each atom tends to every 
other atom, etc., with a force, etc.: the 
general result being a tendency of all, 
with a similar force, to a_ general 
centre.” 

The reversal of our processes has 
thus brought us to an identical result; 
but while in the one process intuition 
was the starting point, in the other it 
was the goal. In commencing the for- 
mer journey I could only say that, with 
an irresistible intuition, I felt Simplic- 
ity to have been made the character- 
istic of the original action of God—in 
ending the latter I can only declare 
that with an irresistible intuition, I 
perceive Unity to have been the source 
of the observed phenomena of the New- 
tonian gravitation. Thus, according to 
the schools, I prove nothing. So be 
it:—I design but to suggest—and to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


convince through the suggestion. I am 
proudly aware that there exist many 
of the most profound and cautiously 
discriminative human intellects which 
cannot help being abundantly content 
with my suggestions. To these intel- 
lects—as to my own—there is no mathe- 
matical demonstration which could bring 
the least additional true proof of the 
great Truth which I have advanced— 
the truth of Original Unity as _ the 
source—as the principle of the Univer- 
sal Phenomena. For my part I am 
hot so sure that I speak and see—I am 
not so sure that my heart beats and 
that my soul lives—of the rising of to- 
morrow’s sun—a probability that as yet 
lies in the Future—I do not pretend ‘to 
be one thousandth part as sure—as I 
am of the irretrievably bygone Fact, 
that All Things and all Thoughts of 
Things, with all their ineffable Multi- 
plicity of Relation, sprang at once into 
being from the primordial and irrelative 
One. 

Referring to the Newtonian Gravity, 
Dr. Nichol, the eloquent author of 
“The Architecture of the Heavens,” 
says:—‘In truth we have no reason to 
suppose this great Law as now revealed 
to be the ultimate or simplest, and 
therefore the universal and all-compre- 
hensive form of a great Ordinance. 
The mode in which its intensity dimin- 
ishes with the element of distance, has 
not the aspect of an ultimate principle; 
which always assumes the simplicity 
and self-evidence of those axioms which 
constitute the basis of Geometry.” 

Now, it is quite true that “ultimate 
principles,” in the common understand- 
ing of the words, always assume the 
simplicity of geometrical axioms—(as 
for ‘“‘self-evidence,’ there is no such 


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thing)—but these principles are clearly 


? 


not “ultimate;” in other terms, what 
Wwe are in the habit of calling princi- 
ples are no principles, properly speak- 
ing—since there can be but one princi- 
ple, the Volition of God. We have no 
right to assume, then, from what we 
observe in rules that we choose fool- 
ishly to name ‘principles,’ anything at 
all in respect to the characteristics of 
a principle proper. The “ultimate prin- 
ciples” of which Dr. Nichol speaks as 
having geometrical simplicity, may and 
do have this geometrical turn, as being 
part and parcel of a vast geometrical 
system, and thus a system of simplicity 
itself{—in which, nevertheless, the truly 
ultimate principle is, as we know, the 
consummation of the complex—that is 
to say, of the unintelligible—for is it 
not the Spiritual Capacity of God? 

I quoted Dr. Nichol’s remark, how- 
ever, not so much to question its phi- 
losophy, as by way of calling attention 
to the fact that while all men have 
admitted some principle as_ existing 
behind the law of Gravity no attempt 
has been yet made to point out what 
this principle in particular 7s:—if we 
except perhaps. occasional fantastic 
efforts at referring it to Magnetism, or 
Mesmerism, or Swedenborgianism, or 
Transcendentalism, or some _ other 
equally delicious ism of the same spe- 
cies, and invariably patronised by one 
and the same species of people. The 
great mind of Newton, while boldly 
grasping the Law itself, shrank from 
the principle of the Law. The more 
fluent and comprehensive at least, if 
not the more patient and profound, 
sagacity of Laplace had not the cour- 
age to attack it. But hesitation on the 
part of these two astronomers it is 


841 


perhaps not so very difficult to under- 
stand. They, as well as all the first 
class of mathematicians, were mathe- 
maticians solely—their intellect at least 
had a firmly-pronounced mathematico- 
physical tone. What lay not distinctly 
within the domain of Physics or of 
Mathematics seemed to them either 
Non-Entity or Shadow. Nevertheless, 
we may well wonder that Leibnitz, who 
was a marked exception to the general 
rule in these respects and whose mental 
temperament was a singular admixture 
of the mathematical with the physico- 
metaphysical, did not at once investi- 
gate and establish the point at issue. 
Either Newton or Laplace, seeking a 
principle and discovering none physical 
would have rested contentedly in the 
conclusion that there was absolutely 
none; but it is almost impossible to 
fancy of Leibnitz that, having exhausted 
in his search the physical dominions, 
he would not have stepped at once, 
boldly and hopefully, amid his old 
familiar haunts in the kingdom of 
Metaphysics. Here, indeed, it is clear 
that he must have adventured in search 
of the treasure—that he did not find 
it after all was perhaps because his 
fairy guide, Imagination, was not suf- | 
ficiently well-grown or well-educated to 
direct him aright. 

I observed just now that, in fact, 
there had been certain vague attempts 
at referring Gravity to some very un- 
certain zsms. These attempts, however, 
although considered bold, and justly so 
considered, looked no further than to 
the generality—the merest generality— 
of the Newtonian Law. Its modus 
operandi has never, to my knowledge, 
been approached in the way of an effort 
at explanation. It is therefore with no 


$42 


unwarranted fear of being taken for a 
madman at the outset, and before I 
can bring my propositions fairly to the 
eye of those who alone are competent 
to decide upon them, that I here declare 
the modus operandi of the Law of 
Gravity to be an exceedingly simple 
and perfectly explicable thing—that is 
to say, when we make our advances 
towards it in just gradations and in 
the true direction—when we regard it 
from the proper point of view. 

Whether we reach the idea of abso- 
lutely Unity as the source of All Things 
from a consideration of Simplicity as 
the most probable characteristic of the 
original action of God;—whether we 
arrive at it from an inspection of the 
universality of relation in the gravitat- 
ing phenomena;—or whether we attain 
it as a result of the mutual corrobora- 
tion afforded by both processes;—still, 
the idea itself, if entertained at all, is 
entertained in inseparable connection 
with another idea—that of the condi- 
tion of the Universe of stars as we 
now perceive it—that is to say, a condi- 
tion of immeasurable diffusion through 
space. Now a connection between these 
two ideas—unity and diffusion—cannot 
be established unless through the enter- 
tainment of a third idea—that of irradi- 
ation. Absolute Unity being taken as 
a centre, then the existing Universe of 
stars is the result of zrradiation from 
that centre. 


Now, the laws of irradiation are 
known. They are part and parcel of 
the sphere. They belong to the class 


of indisputable geometrical properties. 
We say of them, “they are true—they 
are evident.” To demand why they 
are true would be to demand why the 
axioms are true upon which their 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


demonstration is based. Nothing is 
demonstrable, strictly speaking; but if 
anything be, then the properties—the 
laws in question are demonstrated. 

But these laws—what do they de- 
clare? Irradiation —how—by what 
steps does it proceed outwardly from 
a centre? 

From a luminous centre Light issues 
by irradiation, and the quantities of 
light received upon any given plane, 
supposed to be shifting its position so 
as to be now nearer the centre and 
now farther from it, will be diminished 
in the same proportion as the squares 
of the distances of the plane from the 
luminous body are increased; and will 
be increased in the same proportion as 
these squares are diminished. 

The expression of the law may be 
thus generalised:—the number of light- 
particles (or, if the phrase be preferred, 
the number of light-impressions) re- 
ceived upon the shifting plane, will be 
inversely proportional to the squares of 
the distances of the plane. General- 
ising yet again, we may say that the 
diffusion—the scattering—the irradia- 
tion, in a word—is directly proportional 
to the squares of the distances. 

For example: at the distance B, from 
the luminous centre A, a certain num- 





ber of particles are so diffused as to 
occupy the surface B. Then at double 
the distance—that is to say, at C—they 





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will be so much farther diffused as to 
occupy four such surfaces:—at treble 
the distance, or at D, they will be so 
much farther separated as to occupy 
nine such surfaces;—while, at quad- 
ruple the distance, or at E, they will 
have become so scattered as to spread 
themselves over sixteen such surfaces 
—and so on for ever. 

In saying generally that the irradia- 
tion proceeds in direct proportion with 
the squares of the distances, we use 
the term irradiation to express the 
degree of the diffusion as we proceed 
outwardly from the centre. Convers- 
ing the idea, and employing the word 
“concentralisation,” to express the de- 
gree of the drawing together as we 
come back towards the centre from an 
outward position, we may say that con- 
centralisation proceeds inversely as the 
squares of the distances. In other 
words, we have reached the conclusion 
that, on the hypothesis that matter was 
originally irradiated from a centre, and 
is now returning to it, the concentrali- 
sation, in the return, proceeds exactly 
as we know the force of gravitation to 
proceed. 

Now here, if we could be permitted 
to assume that concentralisation exactly 
represented the force of the tendency 
to the centre—that the one was exactly 
proportional to the other, and that the 
two proceeded together—we _ should 
have shown all that is required. The 
sole difficulty existing, then, is to estab- 
lish a direct proportion between ‘‘con- 
centralisation” and the force of concen- 
tralisation; and this is done, of course, 
if we establish such proportion between 
“frradiation” and the force of irradia- 
tion. 

A very slight inspection of the Heav- 


843 


ens assures us that the stars have a 
certain general uniformity, equability, 
or equidistance, of distribution through 
that region of space in which, collec- 
tively, and in a roughly globular form, 
they are situated:—this species of very 
general, rather than absolute equability, 
being in full keeping with my deduction 
of inequidistance, within certain limits, 
among the originally diffused atoms, as 
a corollary from the evident design of 
infinite complexity of relation out of 
irrelation. I started, it will be remem- 
bered, with the idea of a _ generally 
uniform but particularly wnuniform 
distribution of the atoms;—an idea, I 
repeat, which an inspection of the stars, 
as they exist, confirms. 

But even in the merely general equa- 
bility of distribution, as regards the 
atoms, there appears a difficulty which, 
no doubt, has already suggested itself 
to those among my readers who have 
borne in mind that I suppose this equa- 
bility of distribution effected through 
irradiation from a centre. The very 
first glance at the idea, irradiation, 
forces us to the entertainment of the 
hitherto unseparated and _ seemingly 
inseparable idea of agglomeration about 
a centre, with dispersion as we recede 
from it—the idea, in a word, of zmequa- 
bility of distribution in respect to the 
matter irradiated. 

Now, I have elsewhere observed, 
that it is by just such difficulties as 
the one now in question—such rough- 
nesses—such peculiarities—such protu- 
berances above the plane of the ordi- 
nary—that Reason feels her way, if at 
all, in her search for the True. By the 
difficulty—the “peculiarity”’—now pre- 
sented, I leap at once to the secret—a 
secret which I might never have at- 


844 


tained but for the peculiarity and the 
inferences which in its mere character 
of peculiarity, it affords me. 

The process of thought, at this point, 
may be thus roughly sketched:—I say 
to myself—‘‘Unity, as I have explained 
it, is a truth—I feel it. Diffusion is a 
truth—I see it. Irradiation, by which 
alone these two truths are reconciled, 
is a consequent truth—I perceive it. 
Equability of diffusion, first deduced 
a priori and then corroborated by the 
inspection of phenomena, is also a 
truth—I fully admit it. So far all is 
clear around me:—there are no clouds 
behind which the secret—the great 
secret of the gravitating modus oper- 
andi—can possibly lie hidden; but this 
secret lies hereabouts, most assuredly; 
and were there but a cloud in view, I 
should be driven to suspicion of that 
cloud.” And now, just as I say this, 
there actually comes a cloud into view. 
This cloud is the seeming impossibility 
of reconciling my truth, zrradiation, 
with my truth equability of diffusion. 
I say now:—‘Behind this seeming im- 
possibility is to be found what I desire.” 
I do not say “real impossibility”; for 
invincible faith in my truths assures me 
that it is a mere difficulty after all; 
but I go on to say, with unflinching 
confidence, that, when this difficulty 
shall be solved, we shall find, wrapped 
up in the process of solution, the key 
to the secret at which we aim. More- 
over—I feel that we shall discover but 
one possible solution of the difficulty; 
this for the reason that, were there 
two, one would be supererogatory— 
would be fruitless—would be empty— 
would contain no key—since no dupli- 
cate key can be needed to any secret 
of Nature. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


And now, let us see—our usual no- 
tions of irradiation—in fact, all our 
distinct notions of it—are caught merely 
from the process aS we see it exem- 
plified in Light. Here there is a con- 
tinuous outpouring of ray-streams, and 
with a force which we have at least 
no right to suppose varies at all. Now, 
in any such irradiation as this—con- 
tinuous and of unvarying force—the 
regions nearer the centre must inevi- 
tably be always more crowded with the 
irradiated matter than the regions more 
remote. But I have assumed zo such 
irradiation as this. I assumed no con- 
tinuous irradiation; and for the simple 
reason that such an assumption would 
have involved, first, the necessity of 
entertaining a conception which I have 
shown no man can entertain, and which 
(as I will more fully explain hereafter) 
all observation of the firmament refutes 
—the conception of the absolute infinity 
of the Universe of stars—and would 
have involved, secondly, the impossi- 
bility of understanding a reaction—that 
is, gravitation—as existing now—-since, 
while an act is continued, no reaction, 
of course, can take place. My assump- 
tion, then, or rather my inevitable de- 
duction from just premises—was that 
of a determinate irradiation—one finally 
discontinued. 

Let me now describe the sole possible 
mode in which it is conceivable that 
matter could have been diffused through 
space, so as to fulfil the conditions at 
once of irradiation and of generally 
equable distribution. 

For convenience of illustration, let 
us imagine, in the first place, a hollow 
sphere of glass, or of anything else, 
occupying the space throughout which 
the universal matter is to be thus 


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equally diffused, by means of irradia- 
tion, from the absolute, irrelative, un- 
conditional particle, placed in the centre 
of the sphere. 

Now, a certain exertion of the dif- 
fusive power (presumed to be the 
Divine Volition)—in other words, a 
certain force—whose measure is the 
quantity of matter, that is to say, the 
number of atoms, emitted—emits, by 
irradiation, this certain number of 
atoms; forcing them in all directions 
outwardly from the centre—their prox- 
imity to each other diminishing as they 
‘proceed—until, finally, they are dis- 
tributed, loosely, over the interior 
surface of the sphere. 

When these atoms have attained this 
position, or while proceeding to attain 
it, a second and inferior exercise of 
the same force—or a second and infe- 
rior force of the same character—emits, 
in the same manner—that is to say, 
by irradiation as before—a _ second 
stratum of atoms which proceeds to 
deposit itself upon the first; the num- 
ber of atoms, in this case as in the 
former, being, of course, the measure 
of the force which emitted them; in 
other words, the force being precisely 
adapted to the purpose it effects—the 
force, and the number of atoms sent 
out by the force, being directly pro- 
portional. 

When this second stratum has 
reached its destined position—or while 
approaching it—a third still inferior 
exertion of the force, or a third inferior 
force of a similar character—the num- 
ber of atoms emitted being in all cases 
the measure of the force—proceeds to 
deposit a third stratum upon the sec- 
ond, and so on, until these concentric 
strata, growing gradually less and less, 


845 


come down at length to the central 
point, and the diffusive matter, simul- 
taneously with the diffusive force, is 
exhausted. 


We have now the sphere filled, 
through means of irradiation, with 
atoms equably diffused. The two 


necessary conditions—those of irradia- 
tion and of equable diffusion—are sat- 
isfied; and by the sole process in which 
the possibility of their simultaneous 
satisfaction is conceivable. For this 
reason I confidently expect to find, 
lurking in the present condition of the 
atoms as distributed throughout the 
sphere, the secret of which I am in 
search—the all-important principle of 
the modus operandi of the Newtonian 
Law. Let us examine then, the actual 
condition of the atoms. 

They lie in a series of concentric 
strata. They are equably diffused 
throughout the sphere. They have been 
irradiated into these states. 

The atoms being equably distributed, 
the greater the superficial extent of any 
of these concentric strata or spheres, 
the more atoms will lie upon it. In 
other words, the number of atoms lying 
upon the surface of any one of the 
concentric spheres, is directly propor- 
tional to the extent of that surface. 

But, in any series of concentric 
spheres, the surfaces are directly pro- 
portional to the squares of the distances 
from the centre. 

Therefore the number of atoms in 
any stratum is directly proportional to 
the square of that stratum’s distance 
from the centre. 

But the number of atoms in any 
stratum is the measure of the force 
which emitted that stratum—that is to 


846 


say, is directly proportional to the 
force. 

Therefore the force which irradiated 
any stratum is directly proportional to 
the square of that stratum’s distance 
from the centre—or, generally, 

The force of the irradiation has been 
directly proportional to the squares of 
the distances. 

Now, Reaction, as far as we know 
anything of it, is Action conversed. 
The general principle of Gravity being, 
in the first place, understood as the 
reaction of an act—as the expression 
of a desire on the part of Matter, while 
existing in a state of diffusion, to return 
into the Unity whence it was diffused; 
and, in the second place, the mind being 
called upon to determine the character 
of the desire—the manner in which it 
would naturally be manifested; in other 
words, being called upon to conceive a 
probable law or modus operandi for the 
return, could not well help arriving at 
the conclusion that this law of return 
would be precisely the converse of the 
law of departure. That such would 
be the case any one at least would be 
abundantly justified in taking for 
sranted, until such time as some person 
should suggest something like a plausi- 
ble reason why it should not be the 
case—until such period as a law of 
return shall be imagined which the in- 
tellect can consider as preferable. 

Matter, then, irradiated into space 
with a force varying as the squares 
of the distances, might a priori be sup- 
posed to return towards its centre of 
irradiation with a force varying zn- 
versely as the squares of the distances: 
and I have already shown that any 
principle which will explain why the 
atoms should tend, according to any 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


law, to the general centre, must be 
admitted as satisfactorily explaining at 
the same time why, according to the 
same law, they should tend each to 
each. For, in fact, the tendency to the - 
general centre is not to a centre as 
such, but because of its being a point 
in tending towards which each atom 
tends most directly to its real and essen- 
tial centre, Unity—the absolute and 
final Union of all. 

The consideration here involved 
presents to my own mind no embarrass- 
ment whatever—but this fact does not 
blind me to the possibility of its being 
obscure to those who may have been 
less in the habit of dealing with ab- 
stractions:—and, upon the whole, < 
may be as well to look at the matter 
from one or two other points of view. 

The absolute, irrelative particle 
primarily created by the Volition of 
God, must have been in a condition of 
positive normality, or rightfulness—for 
wrongfulness implies relation. Right is 
positive; wrong is negative—is merely 
the negation of right; as cold is the nega- 
tion of heat—darkness of light. That a 
thing may be wrong in relation to 
which it is wrong—some condition 
which it fails to satisfy; some law 
which it violates; some being whom it 
aggrieves. If there be no such being, 
law, or condition, in respect to which 
the thing is wrong—and, still more 
especially, if no beings, laws, or condi- 
tions exist at all—then the thing cannot 
be wrong, and consequently must be 
right. Any deviation from normality 
involves a tendency to return to it. A 
difference from the normal—from the 
right—from the just—can be under- 
stood as effected only by the overcom- 
ing a difficulty; and if the force which 





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overcomes the difficulty be not infinitely 
continued, the ineradicable tendency to 
return will at length be permitted to 
act for its own satisfaction. 


Upon 
withdrawal of the force, the tendency 
acts. This is the principle of reaction 


as the inevitable consequence of finite 
action. 


Employing a phraseology of 
which the seeming affectation will be 
pardoned for its expressiveness, we may 
say that Reaction is the return from 
the condition of as it is and ought not 
to be into the condition of as it was 
originally and therefore ought to be:— 
and let me add here that the absolute 
force of Reaction would no doubt be 
always found in direct proportion with 
the reality—the truth—the absolute- 
ness—of the originality—if ever it were 
possible to measure this latter:—and, 
consequently, the greatest of all con- 
ceivable reactions must be that pro- 
duced by the tendency which we now 


-discuss—the tendency to return into the 


absolutely original—into the supremely 
primitive. Gravity, then, must be the 
strongest of forces—an idea reached 
a priori and abundantly confirmed by 
induction. What use I make of the 
idea will be seen in the sequel. 

The atoms, now, having been diffused 
from their normal condition of Unity, 
seek to return to—what? Not to any 
particular point, certainly; for it is clear 
that if, upon the diffusion, the whole 
Universe of matter had been projected, 
collectively, to a distance from the point 
of irradiation, the atomic tendency to 


‘the general centre of the sphere would 


not have been disturbed in the least— 
the atoms would not have sought the 
point zz absolute space from which they 
were originally impelled. It is merely 
the condition, and not the point or 


847 


locality at which this condition took 
its rise, that these atoms seek to re- 
establish:—it is merely that condition 
which is their normality that they 
desire. “But they seek a centre,” it 
will be said, “and a centre is a point.” 
True; but they seek this point not in 
its character of point—(for, were the 
whole sphere moved from its position, 
they would seek, equally, the centre; 
and the centre then would be a new 
point)—but because it so happens, on 
account of the form in which they 
collectively exist—(that of the sphere) 
—that only through the point in ques- 
tion—the sphere’s centre—they can 
attain their true object, Unity. In the 
direction of the centre each atom per- 
ceives more atoms than in any other 
direction. Each atom is_ impelled 
towards the centre, because along the 
straight line joining it and the centre 
and passing on to the circumference 
beyond, there lie a greater number of 
atoms than along any other straight 
line—a greater number of objects that 
seek it, the individual atom—a greater 
number of tendencies to Unity—a 
greater number of satisfactions for its 
own tendency to Unity—in a word, 
because in the direction of the centre 
lies the utmost possibility of satisfac- 
tion, generally for its own individual 
appetite. To be brief, the condition, 
Unity, is all that is really sought; and 
if the atoms seem to seek the centre 
of the sphere, it is only impliedly, 
through implication—because such cen- 
tre happens to imply, to include, or 
to involve, the only essential centre, 
Unity. But on account of this implica- 
tion or involution, there is no possi- 
bility of practically separating the tend- 
ency to Unity in the abstract, from 


848 


the tendency to the concrete centre. 
Thus the tendency of the atoms to the 
general centre zs, to all practical intents 
and for all logical purposes, the tend- 
ency each to each; and the tendency 
each to each zs the tendency to the 
centre; and the one tendency may be 
assumed as the other; whatever will 
apply to the one must be thoroughly 
applicable to the other; and, in conclu- 
sion, whatever principle will satisfac- 
torily explain the one, cannot be ques- 
tioned as an explanation of the other. 

In looking carefully around me for a 
rational objection to what I have ad- 
vanced, I am able to discover nothing 
but of that class of objections usually 
urged by the doubters for Doubt’s 
sake, I very readily perceive three; 
and proceed to dispose of them in 
order. 

It may be said, first—“That the 
proof that the force of irradiation (in 
the case described) is directly propor- 
tional to the squares of the distances, 
depends upon an unwarranted assump- 
tion—that of the number of atoms in 
each stratum being the measure of the 
force with which they are emitted.” 

I reply, not only that I am war- 
ranted in such assumption, but that I 
should be utterly wnwarranted in any 
other. What I assume is, simply, that 
an effect is the measure of its cause— 
that every exercise of the Divine Will 
will be proportional to that which de- 
mands the exertion—that the means of 
Omnipotence, or Omniscience, will be 
exactly adapted to its purposes. Nei- 
ther can a deficiency nor an excess of 
cause bring to pass any effect. Had 
the force which irradiated any stratum 
to its position, been either more or 
less than was needed for the purpose; 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


that is to say, not directly proportional 
to the purpose, then to its position that 
stratum could not have been irradiated. 
Had the force, which with a view to 
general equability of distribution, 
emitted the proper number of atoms 
for each stratum been not directly pro- 
portional to the number, then the num- 
ber would not have been the number 
demanded for the equable distribution. 

The second supposable objection is 
somewhat better entitled to an answer. 

It is an admitted principle in Dynam- 
ics that every body on receiving an 
impulse, or disposition to move, will 
move onward in a straight line, in the 
direction imparted by the impelling 
force, until deflected, or stopped by 
some other force. How then, it may 
be asked, is my first or external stratum 
of atoms to be understood as discon- 
tinuing their movement at the circum- 
ference of the imaginary glass sphere, 
when no second force of more than 
an imaginary character appears to ac- 
count for the discontinuance? 

I reply that the objection in this 
case actually does arise out of an 
“unwarranted assumption’”—on the part 
of the objector—the assumption of a 
principle in Dynamics, at an epoch 
when zo “principles” in anything exist. 
IT use the word “principle,” of course. 
in the objector’s understanding of the 
word. 

“Tn the beginning” we can admit— 
indeed we can comprehend but one 
First Cause, the truly ultimate Princi- 
ple, the volition of God. The primary 
act, that of Irradiation from Unity, 
must have been independent of all that 
which the world now calls “principle” 
—because all that we so designate is 
but a consequence of the reaction of 


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that primary act. I say “primary” act, 
for the creation of the absolute mate- 
rial particle is more properly to be 
regarded as a conception than as an 
“act” in the ordinary meaning of the 
term. Thus we must regard the pri- 
mary act as an act for the establish- 
ment of what we now call “principles.” 
But this primary act itself is to be 
considered as continuous Volition. The 
Thought of God is to be understood as 
originating the Diffusion—as proceeding 
with it—as regulating it—and finally, 
as being withdrawn from it upon its 
completion. Then commences Reac- 
tion, and through Reaction ‘Principle,’ 
as we employ the word. It will be 
advisable, however, to limit the appli- 
cation of this word to the two imme- 
diate results of the discontinuance of 
the Divine Volition—that is, to the 
two agents, Attraction and Repulsion. 
Every other Natural agent depends, 
either more or less, immediately upon 
these two, and therefore would be more 
conveniently designated as sub-principle. 

It may be objected, thirdly, that in 
general the peculiar mode of distribu- 
tion which I have suggested for the 
atoms is ‘an hypothesis and nothing 
more.” 

Now I am aware that the word hy- 
pothesis is a ponderous sledge-hammer, 
grasped immediately, if not lifted, by 
all very diminutive thinkers, upon the 
first appearance of any proposition, 
Wearing in any particular, the garb of 
a theory. But “hypothesis” cannot be 
wielded here to any good purpose, even 
by those who succeed in lifting it-- 
little men or great. 

I maintain, first, that only in the 
mode described is it conceivable that 
Matter could have been diffused so as 


849 


to fulfil at once the conditions of 
irradiation and of generally equable dis- 
tribution. I maintain, secondly, that 
these conditions themselves. have been 
imposed upon me as necessities, in a 
train of ratiocination as rigorously logi- 
cal as that which establishes any demon- 
stration in Euclid: and I maintain, 
thirdly, that even if the charge. of 
“hypothesis” were as fully sustained 
as it is, in fact, unsustained and un- 
tenable, still the validity and indisputa- 
bility of my result would not, even 
in the slightest particular, be disturbed. 

To explain: The Newtonian Gravity 
~—a law of Nature—a law whose exist- 
ence as such no one out of Bedlam 
questions—a law whose admission as 
such enables us to account for. nine- 
tenths of the Universal phenomena—a 
law which merely because it does so 
enable us to account for these phenom- 
ena, we are perfectly willing, without 
reference to any other considerations, 
to admit, and cannot help admitting as 
a law—a law, nevertheless, of which 
neither the principle nor the modus 
operandi of the principle, has ever yet 
been traced by the human analysis— 
a law, in short, which, neither in its 
detail nor in its generality, has been 
found susceptible ef explanation aé all 
—is at length seen to be at every point 
thoroughly explicable, provided we only 
yield our assent to—what? To an 
hypothesis? Why if an hypothesis— 
if the merest hypothesis—if an hypoth- 
esis for whose assumption—as in the 
case of that pure hypothesis the New- 
tonian law itself—no shadow of a priori 
reason could be assigned—if an hypoth- 
esis, even so absolute as all this implies, 
would enable us to perceive a principle 
for the Newtonian law—would enable 


850 


us to understand as satisfied conditions 
sO miraculously—so ineffably complex 
and seemingly irreconcilable as those 
involved in the relations of which 
Gravity tells us; what rational being 
could so expose his fatuity as to call 
even this absolute hypothesis an hy- 
pothesis any longer—unless, indeed, he 
were to persist in so calling it, with 
the understanding that he did so simply 
for the sake of consistency zm words? 

But what is the true state of our 
present case? What is the fact. Not 
only that it is mot an hypothesis which 
we are required to adopt, in order to 
admit the principle at issue explained, 
but that it zs a logical conclusion which 
Wwe are requested not to adopt if we 
can avoid it—which we are simply 
invited to deny if we can—a conclu- 
sion of so accurate a logicality that to 
dispute it would be the effort—to doubt 
its validity beyond our power—a conclu- 
sion from which we see- no mode of 
escape, turn as we will; a result which 
confronts us either at the end of an 
inductive journey from the phenomena 
of the very Law discussed, or at the 
close of a deductive career from the 
most rigorously simple of all conceiv- 
able assumptions—the assumption, in a 
word, of simplicity itself. 

And if here, for the mere sake of 
cavilling, it be urged that although my 
starting-point is, as I assert, the as- 
sumption of absolute Simplicity, yet 
Simplicity, considered merely in itself, 
is no axiom; and that only deductions 
from axioms are indisputable—it is thus 
that I reply:— 

Every other science than Logic is the 
science of certain concrete relations. 
Arithmetic, for example, is the science 
of the relations of number—Geometry, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the relations of form—Mathematics 
in general, of the relations of quantity 
n general—of whatever can be increased 
or diminished. Logic, however, is the 
science of Relation in the abstract— 
of absolute Relation—of Relation con- 
sidered solely in itself. An axiom in 
any particular science other than Logic, 
is thus merely a proposition announc- 
ing certain concrete relations which 
seem to be too obvious for dispute—as 
when we say, for instance, that the 
whole is greater than its part; and 
thus again, the principle of the Logical 
axiom—in other words, of an axiom in 
the abstract—is simply obviousness of 
relation. Now, it is clear, not only 
that what is obvious to one mind may 
not be obvious to another, but that 
what is obvious to one mind at one 
epoch may be anything but obvious at 
another epoch to the same mind. It 
is clear, moreover, that what to-day 
is obvious even to the majority of 
mankind, or to the majority of the 
best intellects of mankind, may to- 
morrow be to either majority more or 
less obvious, or in no respect obvious 
at all. It is seen, then, that the axio- 
matic principle itself is susceptible of 
variation, and of course that axioms 
are susceptible of similar change. 
Being mutable, the “truths” which 
grow out of them are necessarily muta- 
ble, too; or, in other words, are never 
to be positively depended upon as truths 
at all—since Truth and Immutability 
are one. 

It will now be readily understood 
that no axiomatic idea—no idea founded 
in the fluctuating principle, obvious- 
ness of relation, can possibly be so 
secure, so reliable a basis for any struc- 
ture erected by the Reason, as that 


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idea—(whatever it is, wherever we can 
find it, or if it be practicable to find it 
anywhere)—which is jrrelative alto- 
gether—which not only presents to the 
understanding no obviousness of rela- 
tion, either greater or less to be con- 
sidered, but subjects the intellect, not 
in the slightest degree, to the necessity 
of even looking at amy relation at all. 
If such an idea be not what we too 
heedlessly term “an axiom,” it is at 
least preferable, as a Logical basis, to 
any axiom ever propounded or to all 
imaginable axioms combined; and such 
precisely is the idea with which my 
deductive process, so thoroughly cor- 
roborated by induction, commences. 
My particle proper is but absolute Irre- 
lation. To sum up what has been 
advanced:—As a starting point I have 
taken it for granted, simply, that the 
Beginning had nothing behind it or 
before it—that it was a beginning in 
fact—that it was a beginning and noth- 
ing different from a beginning—in 
short, that this Beginning was—that 
which it was. If this be a “mere 
assumption,” then a “mere assumption” 


let it be. 


To conclude this branch of the sub- 
ject:—I am fully warranted in an- 
nouncing that the law which we have 
been in the habit of calling Gravity 
exists on account of Matter’s having 
been irradiated, at its origin, atomically, 
into a limited* sphere of Space, from 
one, individual, unconditional, irrelative, 
and absolute Particle Proper, by the 
sole process in which it was possible to 


*“Timited sphere.” A sphere is 
necessarily limited. I prefer tautology 
to a chance of misconception.—E. A. P. 


851 


satisfy at the same time the two condi- 
tions, irradiation and generally-equable 
distribution throughout the sphere— 
that is to say, by a force varying in 
direct proportion with the squares of 
the distances between the irradiated 
atoms respectively and the particular 
centre of Irradiation. 

I have already given my reasons for 
presuming Matter to have been diffused 
by a determinate rather than by a con- 
tinuous or infinitely continued force. 
Supposing a continuous force, we should 
be unable, in the first place, to com- 
prehend a reaction at all; and we should 
be required, in the second place, to 
entertain the impossible conception of 
an infinite extension of Matter. Not to 
dwell upon the impossibility of the con- 
ception, the infinite extension of Matter 
is an idea which, if not positively dis- 
proved, is at least not in any respect 
warranted by telescopic observation of 
the stars—a point to be explained more 
fully hereafter; and this empirical 
reason for believing in the original 
finity of Matter is unempirically con- 
firmed. For example:—Admitting, for 
the moment, the possibility of under- 
standing Space filled with the irradi- 
ated atoms—that is to say, admitting, 
as well as we can, for argument’s sake, 
that the succession of the irradiated 
atoms had absolutely no end—then it 
is abundantly clear that, even when 
the Volition of God had been with- 
drawn from them, and thus the tend- 
ency to return into Unity permitted 
(abstractly) to be satisfied, this per- 
mission would have been nugatory and 
invalid—practically valueless and of no 
effect whatever. No Reaction could 
have taken place; no movement towards 


852 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Unity could have been made; no Law 
of Gravity could have obtained. 

To explain:—Grant the «abstract 
tendency of any one atom to any one 
other as the inevitable result of diffu- 
sion from the normal Unity—or, what 
is the same thing, admit any given 
atom as proposing to move in any given 
direction—it is clear that, since there 
is an infinity of atoms on all sides of 
the atom proposing to move, it never 
can actually move towards the satis- 
faction of its tendency in the direction 
given, on account of a precisely equal 
and counter-balancing tendency in the 
direction diametrically opposite. In 
other words, exactly as many tenden- 
cies to Unity are behind the hesitating 
atom as before it; for it is a mere 
sotticism to say that one infinite line 
is longer or shorter than another infinite 
line, or that one infinite number is 
greater or less than another number 
that is infinite. Thus the atom in 
question must remain stationary for 
ever. Under the impossible circum- 
stances which we have been merely 
endeavouring to conceive for argu- 
ment’s sake, there could have been no 
aggregation of Matter—no stars—no 
worlds—nothing but a_ perpetually 
atomic and inconsequential Universe. 
In fact, view it as we will, the whole 
idea of unlimited Matter is not only 
untenable, but impossible and prepos- 
terous. 

With the understanding of a sphere 
of atoms, however, we perceive, at 
once, a satisfiable tendency to union. 
The general result of the tendency each 
to each, being a tendency of all to the 
centre, the general process of condensa- 
tion or approximation commences im- 
mediately, by a common and simul- 


taneous movement, on withdrawal of 
the Divine Volition; the individual 
approximations or coalescences—not 
coalitions—of atom with atom, being 
subject to almost infinite variations of 
time, degree, and condition, on account 
of the excessive multiplicity of rela- 
tion, arising from the differences of 
form assumed as characterising the 
atoms at the moment of their quitting 
the Particle Proper; as well as from 
the subsequent particular inequidis- 
tance, each from each. 

What I wish to impress upon the 
reader is the certainty of there arising, 
at once (on withdrawal of the diffusive 
force, or Divine Volition), out of the 
condition of the atoms as described, at 
innumerable points throughout the Uni- 
versal sphere, innumerable agglomera- 
tions, characterized by innumerable 
specific differences of form, size, essen- 
tial nature, and distance, each from 
each. The development of Repulsion 
(Electricity) must have commenced of 
course with the very earliest particular 
efforts at Unity, and must have pro- 
ceeded constantly in the ratio of Coal- 
escence—that is to say, in that of con- 
densation, or, again, of Heterogeneity. 

Thus the two Principles Proper, 
Attraction and Repulsion—the Material 
and the Spiritual—accompany each 
other, in the strictest fellowship for 
ever. Thus the Body and the Soul 
walk hand in hand. 

If now, in fancy, we select any one 
of the agglomerations considered as in 
their primary stages throughout the 
Universal sphere, and suppose this 
incipient agglomeration to be taking 
place at that point where the centre 
of our Sun exists—or rather where it 
did exist originally; for the Sun is per- 


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petually shifting his position—we shall 
find ourselves met, and borne onward 
for a time at least, by the most mag- 
nificent of theories—by the Nebular 
Cosmogony of Laplace: — although 
“Cosmogony” is far too comprehensive 
a term for what he really discusses— 
which is the constitution of our solar 
system alone—of one among the myriad 
of similar systems which make up 
the Universe Proper—that Universal 
sphere—that all-inclusive and absolute 
Cosmos which forms the subject of my 
present Discourse. 

Confining himself to an obviously 
limited region—that of our solar system 
with its comparatively immediate vi- 
cinity—and nearly assuming—that is to 
say, assuming without any basis what- 
ever, either deductive or inductive— 
much of what I have been just en- 
deavouring to place upon a more stable 
basis than. assumption; assuming, for 
example, matter as diffused (without 
pretending to account for the diffusion) 
throughout, and somewhat beyond, the 
space occupied by our system—diffused 
in a state of heterogeneous nebulosity 
and obedient to that omniprevalent law 
of Gravity at whose principle he ven- 
tured to make no guess; assuming all 
this (which is quite true, although he 
had no logical right to its assumption) 
Laplace has shown, dynamically and 
mathematically, that the results in such 
case necessarily ensuing are those and 
those alone which we find manifested 
in the actually existing condition of the 
system itself. 

To explain: Let us conceive that 
particular agglomeration of which we 
have just spoken—the one at the point 
designated by our Sun’s centre—to have 
so far proceeded that a vast quantity 


853 


of nebulous matter has here assumed 
a roughly globular form; its centre 
being of course coincident with what 
is now, or rather was originally, the 
centre of our Sun; and its periphery 
extending out beyond the orbit of Nep- 
tune, the most remote of our planets— 
in other words, let us suppose the 
diameter of this rough sphere to be 
some 6,000 millions of miles. For ages 
this mass of matter has been under- 
going condensation, until at length it 
has become reduced into the bulk we 
imagine; having proceeded gradually of 
course from its atomic and impercepti- 
ble state into what we understand of 
visible, palpable, or otherwise apprecia- 
ble nebulosity. 

Now, the condition of this mass 
implies a rotation about an imaginary 
axis—a rotation which, commencing 
with the absolute incipiency of the 
aggregation, has been ever since acquir- 
ing velocity. The very first two atoms 
which met, approaching each other 
from points not diametrically opposite, 
would, in rushing partially past each 
other, form a nucleus for the rotary 
movement described. How this would 
increase in velocity, is readily seen. 
The two atoms are joined by others— 
an aggregation is formed. ‘The mass 
continues to rotate while condensing. 
But any atom at the circumference has 
of course a more rapid motion than 
one nearer the centre. The outer 
atom, however, with its superior veloc- 
ity, approaches the centre; carrying 
this superior velocity with it as it goes. 
Thus every atom, proceeding inwardly, 
and finally attaching itself to the con- 
densed centre, adds something to the 
original velocity of that centre—that 


854 


is to say, increases the rotary move- 
ment of the mass. 

Let us now suppose this mass so far 
condensed that it occupies precisely the 
space circumscribed by the orbit of 
Neptune, and that the velocity with 
which the surface of the mass moves, 
in the general rotation, is precisely that 
velocity which Neptune now revolves 
about the Sun. At this epoch, then, 
we are to understand that the con- 
stantly increasing centrifugal force, 
having got the better of the non- 
increasing centripetal, loosened and 
separated the exterior and least con- 
densed stratum, or a few of the ex- 
terior and least condensed strata, at 
the equator of the sphere, where the 
tangential velocity predominated; so 
that these strata formed about the main 
body an independent ring encircling 
the equatorial regions—just as the 
exterior portion thrown off, by excessive 
velocity of rotation, from a grindstone, 
would form a ring about the grind- 
stone, but for the solidity of the super- 
ficial material: were this caoutchouc, or 
anything similar in consistency, pre- 
cisely the phenomenon I describe would 
be presented. 

The ring thus whirled from the nebu- 
lous mass, revolved of course as a sepa- 
rate ring, with just that velocity with 
which, while the surface of the mass, it 
rotated. In the meantime, condensa- 
tion still proceeding, the interval be- 
tween the discharged ring and the main 
body continued to increase, until the 
former was left at a vast distance from 
the latter. 

Now, admitting the ring to have pos- 
sessed, by some seemingly accidental 
arrangement of its heterogeneous ma- 
terials, a constitution nearly uniform, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


then this ring, as such, would never 
have ceased revolving about its pri- 
mary; but, as might have been antici- 
pated, there appears to have been 
enough irregularity in the disposition 
of the materials, to make them cluster 
about centres of superior solidity; and 
thus the annular form was destroyed.* 
No doubt, the band was soon broken 
up into several portions, and one of 
these portions, predominating in mass, 
absorbed the others into itself; the 
whole settling, spherically, into a planet. 
That this latter, as a planet, continued 
the revolutionary movement which 
characterised it while a ring, is suffi- 
ciently clear; and that it took upon 
itself, also, an additional movement in 
its new condition of sphere, is readily 
explained. The ring being understood 
as yet unbroken, we see that its exte- 
rior, while the whole revolves about 
the parent body, moves more rapidly 
than its interior. When the rupture 
occurred, then, some portion in each 
fragment must have been moving with 
greater velocity than the others. The 
superior movement prevailing, must 
have whirled each fragment round— 
that is to say, have caused it to rotate; 
and the direction of the rotation must 
of course have been the direction of 


* Laplace assumed his  nebulosity 
heterogeneous, merely that he might be 
thus enabled to account for the break- 
ing up of the rings; for had the nebu- 
losity been homogeneous, they would 
not have broken. I reach the same 
result—heterogeneity of the secondary 
masses immediately resulting from the 
atoms—purely from an a priori con- 
sideration of their general design— 
Relation.—E. A. P. 





the revolution whence it arose. AJj the 
fragments having become subject to 
the rotation described, must, in coal- 
ete, have imparted it to the one 
planet constituted by their coalescence. 
—This planet was Neptune. Its ma- 
terial continuing to undergo condensa- 
tion, and the centrifugal force gen- 
erated in its rotation, getting, at length, 
the better of the centripetal, as before 
in the case of the parent orb, a ring 
was whirled also from the equatorial 
surface of this planet: this ring, having 
been wnuniform in its constitution, was 
broken up, and its several fragments, 
being absorbed by the most massive, 
were collectively spherified into a moon. 
Subsequently, the operation was re- 
peated, and a second moon was the 
result. We thus account for the planet 
Neptune, with the two satellites which 
accompany him. 

In throwing off a ring from its equa- 
‘tor, the Sun reestablished that equilib- 
rium between its centripetal and cen- 
trifugal forces which had been dis- 
turbed in the process of condensation; 
but, as this condensation still pro- 
ceeded, the equilibrium was again im- 
mediately disturbed through the increase 
of rotation. By the time the mass had 
so far shrunk that it occupied a spheri- 
cal space just that circumscribed by 
the orbit of ‘Uranus, we are to under- 
stand that the centrifugal force had 
so far obtained the ascendency that 
new relief was needed: a second equa- 
torial band was consequently thrown 
off, which, proving ununiform, was 
broken up, as before in the case of 
Neptune; the fragments settling into 
the planet Uranus; the velocity of 
whose actual revolution about the Sun 
‘indicates, of course, the rotary speed 


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‘as twice before; 


855 


of that Sun’s equatorial surface at the 
moment of the separation. Uranus, 
adopting a rotation from the collective 
rotations of the fragments composing 
it, as previously explained, now threw 
off ring after ring; each of which, 
becoming broken up, settled into a 
moon:—other moons, at different 
epochs, having been formed in this 
manner by the rupture and general 
spherification of as many distinct 
uniform rings. 

By the time the Sun had shrunk until 
it occupied a space just that circum- 
scribed by the orbit of Saturn, the 
balance, we are to suppose, between its 
centripetal and centrifugal forces had 
again become so far disturbed, through 
increase of rotary velocity, the result 
of condensation, that a third effort at 
equilibrium became necessary; and an 
annular band was therefore whirled off, 
which, on rupture 
through ununiformity, became consoli- 
dated into the planet Saturn. This 
latter threw off, in the first place, seven 
uniform bands, which, on rupture, were 
spherified respectively into as many 
moons; but, subsequently, it appears tc 
have discharged, at three distinct but 
not very distant epochs, three rings 
whose equability of constitution was, 
by apparent accident, so considerable 
as to present no occasion for their rup- 
ture; thus they continue to revolve as 
rings. I use the phrase “apparent acci- 
dent”; for of accident in the ordinary 
sense ‘there was of course nothing— 
the term is properly applied only to 
the result of indistinguishable or not 
immediate traceable law. 

Shrinking still farther, until it occu- 
pied just the space circumscribed by 
the orbit of Jupiter, the Sun now found 


856 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


need of farther effort to restore the 
counterbalance of its two forces, con- 
tinually disarranged in the still con- 
tinued increase of rotation. Jupiter, 
accordingly, was now thrown off; pass- 
ing from the annular to the planetary 
condition; and, on attaining this latter, 
threw off in its turn, at four different 
epochs, four rings, which finally re- 
solved themselves into so many moons. 

Still shrinking, until its sphere occu- 
pied just the space defined by the orbit 
of the Asteroids, the Sun now discarded 
a ring which appears to have had eight 
centres of superior solidity, and, on 
breaking up, to have separated into 
eight fragments, no one of which so 
far predominated in mass as to absorb 
the others. All therefore, as distinct 
although comparatively small planets, 
proceeded to revolve in orbits whose 
distances, each from each, may be con- 


sidered as in some degree the measure’ 


of the force which drove them asunder 
—all the orbits, nevertheless, being so 
closely coincident as to admit of our 
calling them one, in view of the other 
planetary orbits. 

Continuing to shrink, the Sun, on 
becoming so small as just to fill the 
orbit of Mars, now discharged this 
planet—of course by the process re- 
peatedly described. Having no moon, 
however, Mars could have thrown off 
no ring. In fact, an epoch had now 
arrived in the career of the parent 
body, the centre of the system. The 
decrease of its nebulosity, which is the 
increase of its density, and which again 
is the decrease of its condensation, out 
of which latter arose the constant dis- 
turbance of equilibrium—must, by this 
period, have attained a point at which 
the efforts for restoration would have 


been more and more ineffectual just 
in proportion as they were less fre- 
quently needed. Thus the processes of 
which we have been speaking would 
everywhere show signs of exhaustion— 
in the planets first, and secondly in the 
original mass. We must not fall into 
the error of supposing the decrease of 
interval observed among planets as we 
approach the Sun to be in any respect 
indicative of an increase of frequency 
in the periods at which they were dis- 
carded. Exactly the converse is to be 
understood. The longest interval of 
time must have occurred between the 
discharges of the two interior; the 
shortest, between those of the two 
exterior planets. The decrease of the 
interval of space is, nevertheless, the 
measure of the density, and thus in- 
versely of the condensation, of the Sun, 
throughout the processes detailed. 

Having shrunk, however, so far as 
to fill only the orbit of our Earth, the 
parent sphere whirled from itself still 
one other body—the Earth—in a con- 
dition so nebulous as to admit of this 
body’s discarding, in its turn, yet an- 
other, which is our Moon;—but here 
terminated the lunar formations. 

Finally, subsiding to the orbits first 
of Venus and then of Mercury, the 
Sun discarded these two interior plan- 
ets; neither of which has given birth to 
any moon. 

Thus from his original bulk—or, to 
speak more accurately, from the con- 
dition in which we first considered him 
—from a partially spherified nebular 
mass, certainly much more than 5600 
millions of miles in diameter—the great 
central orb and origin of our solar-plan- 
etary-lunar system, has gradually de- 
scended, by condensation, in obedience 


EUREKA 


to the law of Gravity, to a globe only 
882,000 miles in diameter; but it by no 
means follows, either that its conden- 
sation is yet complete, or that it may 
not still possess the capacity of whirling 
from itself another planet. 

I have here given—in outline, of 
course, but still with all the detail nec- 
essary for distinctness—a view of the 
Nebular Theory as its author himself 
conceived it. From whatever point we 
regard it, we shall find it beautifully 
true. It is by far too beautiful, indeed, 
not to possess Truth as its essentiality 
—and here I am very profoundly se- 
rious in what I say. In the revolution 
of the satellites of Uranus, there does 
appear something seemingly inconsistent 
with the assumptions of Laplace; but 
that one apparent inconsistency can in- 
validate a theory constructed from a 
million of intricate consistencies, is a 
fancy fit only for the fantastic. In 
prophesying, confidently, that the ap- 
parent anomaly to which I refer, will, 
sooner or later, be found one of the 
strongest possible corroborations of the 
general hypothesis, I pretend to no es- 
pecial spirit of divination. It is a mat- 
ter which the only difficulty seems not 
to foresee.* 

The bodies whirled off in the proc- 
esses described, would exchange, it has 
been seen, the superficial rotation of the 
orbs whence they originated, for a rev- 
olution of equal velocity about these 
orbs as distant centres; and the rev- 
olution thus engendered must proceed, 


* I am prepared to show that the an- 
omalous revolution of the satellites of 
Uranus is a simply perspective anomaly 
arising from the inclination of the axis 
of the planet.—E. A. P. 


857 


so long as the centripetal force, or that 
with which the discarded body gravi- 
tates towards its parent, is neither 
greater nor less than that by which it 
was discarded—that is, than the cen- 
trifugal, or far more properly, than the 
tangential, velocity. From the unity, 
however, of the origin of these two 
forces, we might have expected to find 
them as they are found—the one ac- 
curately counterbalancing the other. It 
has been shown, indeed, that the act of 
whirling-off is, in every case, merely an 
act for the preservation of the coun- 
ter-balance. 

After referring, however, the cen- 
tripetal force to the omniprevalent law 
of Gravity, it has been the fashion with 
astronomical treaties, to seek beyond 
the limits of mere Nature—that is to 
say, of Secondary Cause—a solution of 
the phenomenon of tangential velocity. 
This latter they attribute directly to a 
First Cause—to God. The force which 
carries a stellar body around its pri- 
mary they assert to have originated in 
an impulse given immediately by the 
finger—this is the childish phraseology 
employed—by the finger of Deity it- 
self. In this view, the planets, fully 
formed, are conceived to have been 
hurled from the Divine hand, to a po- 
sition in the vicinity of the suns, with 
an impetus mathematically adapted to 
the masses, or attractive capacities, of 
the suns themselves. An idea so gross- 
ly unphilosophical, although so supinely 
adopted, could have arisen only from 
the difficulty of otherwise accounting 
for the absolutely accurate adaptation, 
each to each, of two forces so seeming- 
ly independent one of the other, as are 
the gravitating and tangential. But it 
should be remembered that, for a long 


858 


time, the coincidence between the 
moon’s rotation and her sidereal revo- 
lution—two matters seemingly far 
more independent than those now con- 
sidered—was looked upon as positively 
miraculous; and there was a strong dis- 
position, even among astronomers, to 
attribute the marvel to the direct and 
continual agency of God—who, in this 
case, it was said, had found it neces- 
sary to interpose, specially among his 
general laws, a set of subsidiary regula- 
tions, for the purpose of for ever con- 
cealing from mortal eyes the glories, or 
perhaps the horrors, of the other side 
of the Moon—of that mysterious hem- 
isphere which has always avoided, and 
must perpetually avoid, the telescopic 
scrutiny of mankind. The advance of 
Science, however, soon demonstrated— 
what to the philosophical instinct needed 
no demonstration—that the one move- 
ment is but a portion—something more 
even than a consequence—of the other. 

For my part, I have no patience with 
fantasies at once so timorous, so idle, 
and so awkward. They belong to the 
veriest cowardice of thought. That 
Nature and the God of Nature are dis- 
tinct, no thinking being can long doubt. 
By the former we imply merely the 
laws of the latter. But with the very 
idea of God, omnipotent, omniscient, 
we entertain also the idea of the infalli- 
bility of his laws. With Him there be- 
ing neither Past nor Future—with Him 
all being Now—do we not insult him in 
supposing his laws so contrived as not 
to provide for every possible contin- 
gencyPp—or rather, what idea can we 
have of any possible contingency, ex- 
cept that it is at once a result and a 
manifestation of his laws? He who, 
divesting himself of prejudice, shall 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


have the rare courage to think abso- 
lutely for himself, cannot fail to arrive 
in the end, at the condensation of laws 
into Law—cannot fail of reaching the 


conclusion that each law of Nature is 


dependent at all points upon all other 
laws, and that all are but consequences 
of one primary exercise of the Divine 
Volition. Such is the principle of the 
Cosmogony which, with all necessary 
deference, I here venture to suggest and 
to maintain. 

In this view, it will be seen that, dis- 
missing as frivolous, and even impious, 
the fancy of the tangential force having 
been imparted to the planets imme- 
diately by “the finger of God,’ I con- 
sider this force as originating in the 
rotation of the stars—this rotation as 
brought about by the in-rushing of the 
primary atoms towards their respec- 
tive centres of aggregation—this in- 
rushing as the consequence of the law 
of Gravity—this law as but the mode 
in which is necessarily manifested the 
tendency of the atoms to return into 
imparticularity—this tendency to return 
as but the inevitable reaction of the first 
and most sublime of Acts—that act by 
which a God, self-existing and alone ex- 
isting, became all things at once through 
dint of his volition, while all things 
were thus constituted a portion of God. 

The radical assumptions of this -Dis- 
course suggest to me, and in fact imply, 
certain important modifications of the 
Nebular Theory as given by Laplace. 
The efforts of the repulsive power I 
have considered as made for the pur- 
pose of preventing contact among the 
atoms, and thus as made in the ratio 
of the approach to contact—that is to 
say, in the ratio of condensation. In 
other words, electricity, with its invo- 


EUREKA 


lute phenomena, heat, light, and mag- 
netism, is to be understood as proceed- 
ing as condensation proceeds, and of 
course, inversely, as destiny proceeds, 
or the cessation to condense. Thus the 
Sun in the process of its aggregation, 
must soon, in developing repulsion, have 
become excessively heated—perhaps in- 
candescent; and we can perceive how 
the operation of discarding its rings 
must have been materially assisted by 
the slight incrustation of its surface 
consequent on cooling. Any common 
experiment shows us how readily a crust 
of the character suggested, is separated, 
through heterogeneity, from the interior 
mass. But on every successive rejec- 
tion of the crust, the new surface would 
appear incandescent as before; and the 
period at which it would again become 
so far incrusted as to be readily loos- 
ened and discharged, may well be im- 
agined as exactly coincident with that 
at which a new effort would be needed, 
by the whole mass, to restore the equil- 
ibrium of its two forces, disarranged 
through condensation. In other words 
—by the time the electric influence (Re- 
pulsion) has prepared the surface for 
rejection, we are to understand that the 
gravitating influence (Attraction) is pre- 
cisely ready to reject it. Here then, as 
everywhere, the Body and the soul walk 
hand in hand. 

These ideas are empirically confirmed 
at all points. Since condensation can 
never, in any body, be considered as 
absolutely at an end, we are warranted 
in anticipating that, whenever we have 
an opportunity of testing the matter, 
we shall find indications of resident 
luminosity in all the stellar bodies— 
moons and planets as well as suns. That 
our Moon is strongly self-luminous, we 


859 


see at every total eclipse, when, if not 
so, she would disappear. On the dark 
part of the satellite, too, during her 
phases, we often observe flashes like 
our own Auroras; and that these latter, 
with our various other so-called elec- 
trical phenomena, without reference to 
any more steady radiance, must give 
our Earth a certain appearance of lum- 
inosity to an inhabitant of the Moon, 
is quite evident. In fact, we should re- 
gard all the phenomena referred to as 
mere manifestations, in different moods 
and degrees, of the Earth’s feebly-con- 
tinued condensation. 

If my views are tenable, we should 
be prepared to find the newer planets 
—that is to say, those nearer the Sun— 
more luminous than those older and 
more remote—and the extreme bril- 
liancy of Venus (on whose dark por- 
tions, during her phases, the Auroras 
are frequently visible) does not seem 
to be altogether accounted for by her 
mere proximity to the central orb. She 
is no doubt vividly self-luminous, al- 
though less so than Mercury; while the 
luminosity of Neptune may be compar- 
atively nothing. 

Admitting what I have urged, it is 
clear that, from the moment of the 
Sun’s discarding a ring, there must be 
a continuous diminution both of his 
heat and light on account of the con- 
tinuous incrustation of his surface; and 
that a period would arrive—the period 
immediately previous to a new dis- 
charge—when a very material decrease 
of both light and heat must become 
apparent. Now, we know that tokens 
of such changes are distinctly recognis- 
able. On the Melville islands—to ad- 
duce merely one out of a hundred ex- 
amples—we find traces of wltra-tropi- 


860 


cal vegetation—of plants that never 
could have flourished without immense- 
iy more light and heat than are at 
present afforded by our Sun to any por- 
tion of the surface of the Earth. Is 
such vegetation referable to an epoch 
immediately subsequent to the whirl- 
ing-off of Venus? At this epoch must 
have occurred to us our greatest access 
of solar influence; and, in fact, this in- 
fluence must then have attained its 
maximum—leaving out of view of 
course the period when the Earth itself 
was discarded—the period of its mere 
organization. 

Again:—we know that there exist 
non-luminous suns—that is to say, suns 
whose existence we determine through 
the movements of others, but whose 
luminosity is not sufficient to impress 
us. Are these suns invisible merely on 
account of the length of time elapsed 
since their discharge of a planet? And 
yet again:—may we not—at least in 
certain cases—account for the sudden 
appearances of suns where none had 
been previously suspected, by the hy- 
pothesis that, having rolled with in- 
crusted surfaces throughout the few 
thousand years of our astronomical his- 
tory, each of these suns, in whirling off 
a new secondary, has at length been 
enabled to display the glories of its 
still incandescent interiorPp—To the 
well-ascertained fact of the proportional 
increase of heat as we descend into the 
Earth, I need of course do nothing more 
than refer—it comes in the strongest 
possible corroboration of all that I 
have said on the topic now at issue. 

In speaking, not long ago, of the re- 
pulsive or electrical influence, I re- 
marked that “the important phenom- 
ena of vitality, consciousness, and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


thought, whether we observe them gen- 
erally or in detail, seem to proceed at 
least in the ratio of the heterogeneous.” 

I mentioned, too, that I would recur 
to the suggestion—and this is the proper 
point at which to do so. Looking at the 
matter first in detail, we perceive that 
not merely the manifestation of vitality, 
but its importance, consequences, and 
elevation of character keep pace very 
closely with the heterogeneity or com- 
plexity of the animal structure. Look- 
ing at the question, now in its general- 
ity, and referring to the first movements 
of the atoms towards mass-constitu- 
tion, we find that heterogeneousness, 
brought about directly through conden- 
sation, proportional with it for ever. 
We thus reach the proposition that the 
importance of the development of the 
terrestrial vitality proceeds equably with 
the terrestrial condensation. 

Now this is in precise accordance 
with what we know of the succession of 
animals on the Earth. As it has pro- 
ceeded in its condensation, superior and 
still superior races have appeared. Is 
it impossible that the successive geo- 
logical revolutions which have attended 
at least, if not immediately caused, 
these successive elevations of vitalic 
character—is it improbable that these 
revolutions have themselves been pro- 
duced by the successive planetary dis- 
charges from the Sun—in other words, 
by the successive variations in the solar 
influence on the Earth? Were this idea 
tenable, we should not be unwarranted 
in the fancy that the discharge of yet 
a new planet, interior to Mercury, may 
give rise to yet a new modification of 
the terrestrial surface—a modification 
from which may spring a race both ma- 
terially and spiritually superior to Man. 


EUREKA 861 


These thoughts impress me with all the 
force of truth—but I throw them out 
of course merely in their obvious char- 
acter of suggestion. 

The Nebular Theory of Laplace has 
lately received far more confirmation 
than it needed, at the hands of the phil- 
osopher Comte. These two have thus 
together shown—wnot, to be sure, that 
Matter at any period actually existed 
as described, in a state of nebular dif- 
fusion, but that, admitting it so to have 
existed throughout the space and much 
beyond the space now occupied by our 
solar system, and to have commenced 
a@ movement towards a centre—it must 
gradually have assumed the _ various 
forms and motions which are now seen, 
in that system, to obtain. A demonstra- 
tion such as this—a dynamical and 
mathematical demonstration, as far as 
demonstration can be—unquestionable 
and unquestioned—unless, indeed, by 
that unprofitable and disreputable tribe, 
the professional questioners—the mere 
madmen who deny the Newtonian law 
of Gravity on which the results of the 
French mathematicians are based—a 
demonstration, I say, such as this, would 
to most intellects be conclusive—and 
I confess that it is so to mine—of the 
validity of the nebular hypothesis upon 
which the demonstration depends. 

. That the demonstration does not 
prove the hypothesis according to the 
common understanding of the word 
“proof,” I admit, of course. To show 
that certain existing results—that cer- 
tain established facts—may be, even 
mathematically, accounted for by the 
assumption of a certain hypothesis, is 
by no means to establish the hypothesis 
itself. In other words:—to show that 
certain data being given, a certain ex- 


isting result might, or even must, have 
ensued, will fail to prove that this result 
did ensue from the data, until such 
time as it shall be also shown that there 
are, and can be, no other data from 
which the result in question might 
equally have ensued. But in the case 
now discussed, although all must admit 
the deficiency of what we are in the 
habit of terming “‘proof,” still there are 
many intellects, and those of the loftiest 
order, to which no proof could bring 
one iota of additional conviction. With- 
out going into details which might im- 
pinge upon the Cloud-Land of Meta- 
physics, I may as well here observe that 
the force of conviction, in cases such 
as this, will always with the right-think- 
ing be proportional to the amount of 
complexity intervening between the hy- 
pothesis and the result. To be less ab- 
stract:—The greatness of the complex- 
ity found existing among cosmical con- 
ditions, by rendering great in the same 
proportion the difficulty of accounting 
for all these conditions, at once 
strengthens also in the same proportion 
our faith in that hypothesis which does 
in such manner satisfactorily account 
for them; and as no complexity can well 
be conceived greater than that of the 
astronomical conditions, so no convic- 
tion can be stronger, to my mind at 
least, than that with which I am im- 
pressed by an hypothesis that not only 
reconciles these conditions with math- 
ematical accuracy, and reduces them in- 
to a consistent and intelligible whole, 
but is at the same time the sole hy- 
pothesis, by means of which the hu- 
man intellect has been ever enabled to 
account for them at all. 

A most unfounded opinion has been 
latterly current in gossiping and even 


862 


in scientific circles, the opinion that the 
so-called Nebular Cosmogony has been 
overthrown. This fancy has arisen from 
the report of late observations made 
among what hitherto have been termed 
the “nebule,” through the large teles- 
cope of Cincinnati, and the world-re- 
nowned instrument of Lord Rosse. Cer- 
tain spots in the firmament which pre- 
sented, even to the most powerful of 
the old telescopes, the appearance of 
nebulosity or haze, had been regarded 
for a long time as confirming the the- 
ory of Laplace. They were looked 
upon as stars in that very process of 
condensation which I have been at- 
tempting to describe. Thus it was sup- 
posed that we “had ocular evidence’— 
an evidence by the way which has al- 
ways been found very questionable— 
of the truth of the hypothesis, and al- 
though certain telescopic improvements 
every now and then enabled us to per- 
ceive that a spot here and there, which 
we had been classing among the nebule 
was, in fact, but a cluster of stars de- 
riving its nebular character only from 
its immensity of distance, still it was 
thought that no doubt could exist as to 
the actual nebulosity of numerous 
other masses, the strongholds of the 
nebulists, bidding defiance to every ef- 
fort at segregation. Of these latter the 
most interesting was the great nebula 
in the constellation Orion, but this, with 
innumerable other miscalled ‘“nebule,” 
when viewed through the magnificent 
modern telescopes, has become resolved 
into a simple collection of stars. Now 
this fact has been very generally under- 
stood as conclusive against the Nebu- 
lar Hypothesis of Laplace, and on an- 
nouncement of the discoveries in ques- 
tion the most enthusiastic defender and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


most eloquent populariser of the the- 
ory, Dr. Nichol, went so far as to “ad- 
mit the necessity of abandoning” an 
idea which had formed the material of 
his most praiseworthy book. 

Many of my readers will no doubt be 
inclined to say that the result of these 
new investigations kas at least a strong 
tendency to overthrow the hypothesis, 
while some of them, more thoughtful, 
will suggest that although the theory 
is by no means disproved through the 
segregation of the particular nebulz al- 
luded to, still a failure to segregate 
them with such telescopes might well 
have been understood as a triumphant. 
corroboration of the theory, and this 
latter class will be surprised perhaps to 
hear me say that even with them I dis- 
agree. If the propositions of this Dis- 
course have been comprehended, it will 
be seen that in my view a failure to 
segregate the nebule would have tended 
to the refutation rather than to the 
confirmation of the Nebular Hypothe- 
sis. 

Let me _ explain:—The Newtonian 
Law of Gravity we may of course as- 
sume as demonstrated. This law, it 
will be remembered, I have referred to 
the reaction of the first Divine Act—to 
the reaction of an exercise of the Divine 
Volition temporarily over-coming a dif- 
ficulty. This difficulty is that of forc- 
ing the normal into the abnormal—of 
impelling that whose originality, and 
therefore whose rightful condition, was 
One, to take upon itself the wrongful 
condition of Many. It is only by con- 
ceiving this difficulty as temporarily 
overcome that we can comprehend a re- 
action. There could have been no re- 
action had the act been infinitely con- 
tinued. So long as the act lasted no 


EUREKA 


reaction of course could commence; in 
other words, no gravitation could take 
place, for we have considered the one 
as but the manifestation of the other. 
But gravitation has taken place, there- 
fore the act of Creation has ceased, and 
gravitation has long ago taken place, 
therefore the act of Creation has long 
ago ceased. We can no more expect, 
then, to observe the primary processes 
of Creation, and to these primary proc- 
esses the condition of nebulosity has 
already been explained to belong. 
Through what we know of the prop- 
agation of light, we have direct proof 
that the more remote of the stars have 
existed under the forms in which we 
now see them for an _ inconceivable 
number of years. So far back at least, 
then, as the period when these stars 
underwent condensation, must have 
been the epoch at which the mass-con- 
stitutive processes began. That we may 
conceive these processes, then, as still 
going on in the case of certain nebula, 
while in all other cases we find them 
thoroughly at an end, we are forced into 
assumptions for which we have really 
no basis whatever—we have to thrust 
in again upon the revolting Reason the 
blasphemous idea of special interposi- 
tion—we have to suppose that in the 
particular instances of these nebule, an 
unerring God found it necessary to in- 
troduce certain supplementary regula- 
tions, certain improvements of the gen- 
eral law, certain re-touchings and emen- 
dations, in a word, which had the effect 
of deferring the completion of these 
individual stars for centuries of cen- 
turies beyond the era during which all 
the other stellar bodies had time, not 
only to be fully constituted, but to 


863 


grow hoary with an unspeakable old 
age. 

Of course, it will be immediately ob- 
jected that since the light by which we 
recognised the nebule now must be 
merely that which left their surfaces a 
vast number of years ago, the processes 
at present observed, or supposed to be 
observed, are, in fact, wot processes now 
actually going on, but the phantoms of 
processes completed long in the Past— 
just as I maintain all these mass-con- 
stitutive processes must have been. 

To this I reply that neither is the 
now-observed condition of the con- 
densed stars their actual condition, but a 
condition completed long in the Past, 
so that my argument drawn from the 
relative condition of the stars and the 
nebule is in no manner disturbed. 
Moreover, those who maintain the ex- 
istence of nebule do not refer the nebu- 
losity to extreme distance, they declare 
it a real and not merely a perspective 
nebulosity. ‘That we may conceive in- 
deed a nebular mass as visible at all, 
we must conceive it as very near us in 
comparison with the condensed stars 
brought into view by the modern tele- 
scopes. In maintaining the appearances 
in question, then, to be really nebulous 
we maintain their comparative vicinity 
to our point of view. Thus, their con- 
dition, as we see them now, must be re- 
ferred to an epoch far less remote than 
that to which we may refer the now- 
observed condition of at least the ma- 
jority of the stars. In a word, should 
Astronomy ever demonstrate a nebula, 
in the sense at present intended, I 
should consider the Nebular Cosmog- 
ony, mot indeed as corroborated by the 
demonstration, but as thereby irretriev- 
ably overthrown. 


864 


By way, however, of rendering unto 
Cesar no more than the things that are 
Cesar’s, let me here remark that the as- 
sumption of the hypothesis which led 
him to so glorious a result seems to 
have been suggested to Laplace in great 
measure by a misconception—by the 
very misconception of which we have 
just been speaking—by the generally 
prevalent misunderstanding of the char- 
acter of the nebule, so misnamed. 
These he supposed to be, in reality, 
what their designation implies. The 
fact is, this great man had very prop- 
erly an inferior faith in his own merely 
perceptive powers. In respect, there- 
fore, to the actual existence of nebule, 
an existence so confidently maintained 
by his telescopic contemporaries, he de- 
pended less upon what he saw than 
upon what he heard. 

It will be seen that the only valid ob- 
jections to his theory are those made to 
its hypothesis as such, to what sug- 
gested it, not to what it suggests, 
to its propositions rather than to 
its results. His most unwarranted as- 
sumption was that of giving the atoms 
a@ movement towards a centre, in the 
very face of his evident understanding 
that these atoms, in unlimited succes- 
sion, extended throughout the Universal 
space. I have already shown that under 
such circumstances there could have oc- 
curred no movement at all, and Laplace 
consequently assumed one on no more 
philosophical ground than that some- 
thing of the kind was necessary for the 
establishment of what he intended to 
establish. 

His original idea seems to have been 
a compound of the true Epicurean 
atoms with the false*nebule of his con- 
temporaries, and thus his theory pre- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sents us with the singular anomaly of 
absolute truth deduced, as a mathe- 
matical result, from a hybrid datum of 
ancient imagination intertangled with 
modern inacumen. Laplace’s real 
strength lay, in fact, in an almost mi- 
raculous mathematical instinct :—on this 
he relied, and in no instance did it fail 
or deceive him:—in the case of the 
Nebular Cosmogony it led him, blind-— 
folded, through a labyrinth of Error 
into one of the most luminous and stu- 
pendous temples of Truth. 

Let us now fancy, for the moment, 
that the ring first thrown off by the 
Sun, that is to say the ring whose 
breaking-up constituted Neptune, did 
not, in fact, break up until the throw- 
ing-off of the ring out of which Uranus 
arose; that this latter ring again re- 
mained perfect until the discharge of 
that out of which sprang Saturn; that 
this latter again remained entire until 
the discharge of that form which or- 
iginated Jupiter—and so on. Let us 
imagine, in a word, that no dissolution 
occurred among the rings until the final 
rejection of that which gave birth to 
Mercury. We thus paint to the eye 
of the mind a series of co-existent con- 
centric circles, and looking as well at 
them as at the processes by which, ac- 
cording to Laplace’s hypothesis, they 
were constructed, we perceive at once 
a very singular analogy with the atomic 
strata and the process of the original 
irradiation as I have described it. Is 
it impossible that on measuring the 
forces, respectively, by which each suc- 
cessive planetary circle was thrown off 
—that is to say, on measuring the suc- 
cessive excesses of rotation over gravi- 
tation which occasioned the successive 
discharges—we should find the analogy 


EUREKA 


in question more decidedly confirmed? 
Is it improbable that we should dis- 
cover these forces to have varied, as in 
the original radiation—proportionally to 
the squares of the distances? 

Our solar system, consisting, in chief, 
of one sun, with sixteen planets cer- 
tainly, and possibly a few more, revolv- 
ing about it at various distances, and 
attended by seventeen moons assuredly, 
but very probably by several others— 
is now to be considered as an example 
of the innumerable agglomerations 
which proceeded to take place through- 
out the Universal Sphere of atoms on 
withdrawal of the Divine Volition. I 
mean to say that our solar system is to 
be understood as affording a generic 
instance of these agglomerations, or, 
more correctly, of the ulterior condi- 
tions at which they arrived. If we keep 
our attention fixed on the idea of the 
utmost possible Relation as the Omnip- 
otent design, and on the precautions 
taken to accomplish it through differ- 
ence of form, among the original atoms, 
and particular inequidistance, we shall 
find it impossible to suppose for a mo- 
ment that even any two of the incip- 
ient agglomerations reached precisely 
the same result in the end. We shall 
rather be inclined to think that no two 
steliar bodies in the Universe—whether 
suns, planets or moons—are particularly, 
while all are generally, similar. Still 
less, then, can we imagine any two as- 
semblages of such bodies—any two 
“systems”—as having more than a gen- 
eral resemblance.* Our telescopes, at 


*TIt is not impossible that some un- 
looked-for optical improvement may 
disclose to us, among innumerable vari- 
eties of systems, a luminous sun, en- 


865 


this point, thoroughly confirm our de- 
ductions. Taking our own solar sys- 
tem, then, as merely a loose or general 
type of all, we have so far proceeded in 
our subject as to survey the universe 
under the aspect of a spherical space, 
throughout which, dispersed with merely 
general equability, exist a number of 
but generally similar systems. 

Let us now, expanding our concep- 
tions, look upon each of these systems 
as in itself an atom; which in fact it is, 
when we consider it as but one of the 
countless myriads of systems which con- 
stitute the Universe. Regarding all, 
then, as but colossal atoms, each with 
the same ineradicable tendency to Unity 
which characterises the actual atoms of 
which it consists—we enter at once 
upon a new order of aggregation. The 
smaller systems, in the vicinity of a 
larger one, would inevitably be drawn 
into still closer vicinity. A thousand 
would assemble here; a million there— 
perhaps here, again, even a_billion— 
leaving, thus, immeasurable vacancies 
in space. And if, now, it be demanded 
why, in the case of these systems—of 
these merely Titanic atoms—I speak 
simply of an “assemblage,” and not, as 
in the case of the actual atoms, of a 
more or less consolidated agglomera- 
tion:—if it be asked, for instance, why 
I do not carry what I suggest to its 
legitimate conclusion, and describe at 
once these assemblages of system-atoms 
as rushing to consolidation in spheres— 


circled by luminous and non-luminous 
rings, within and without and between 
which revolve luminous and non-lum- 
inous planets, attended by moons hav- 
ing moons—and even these latter again 
having moons.—E. A. P. 


866 


as each becoming condensed into one 
magnificent sun—my reply is that 
mellonta tauta*—I am but pausing for 
a moment on the threshold of the Fu- 
ture. For the present, calling these as- 
semblages ‘‘clusters,’’ we see them in the 
incipient stages of their consolidation. 
Their absolute consolidation is to come. 

We have now reached a point from 
which we behold the Universe as a 
spherical space interspersed, unequably, 
with clusters. It will be noticed that I 
here prefer the adverb “unequably” to 
the phrase “with a merely general equa- 
bility,’ employed before. It is evident, 
in fact, that the equability of distribu- 
tion will diminish in the ratio of the 
agglomerative processes—that is to say, 
as the things distributed diminish in 
number. Thus the increase of imequa- 
bility—an increase which must continue 
until, sooner or later, an epoch will ar- 
rive at which the largest agglomeration 
will absorb all the others—should be 
viewed as, simply, a corroborative indi- 
cation of the tendency to One. 

And here, at length, it seems proper 
to inquire whether the ascertained 
facts of Astronomy confirm the general 
arrangement which I have thus, deduc- 
tively, assigned to the Heavens. Thor- 
oughly they do. Telescopic observation, 
guided by the laws of perspective, en- 
ables us to understand that the percep- 
tible Universe exists as a cluster of 
clusters, irregularly disposed. 

The “clusters” of which this Univer- 
sal “cluster of clusters’ consists, are 
merely what we have been in the prac- 
tice of designating ‘‘nebule’—and of 
these nebulez one is of paramount inter- 
est to mankind. I allude to the Galaxy 





* See Tale bearing this titl—Ed. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


or Milky Way. This interests us, first 
and most obviously, on account of its 
great superiority in apparent size, not 
only to any one other cluster in the 
firmament, but to all the other clus- 
ters taken together. The largest of 
these latter occupies a mere point com- 
paratively, and is distinctly seen only 
with the aid of a telescope. The Gal- 
axy sweeps throughout the Heaven and 
is brilliantly visible to the naked eye. 
But it interests man chiefly, although 
less immediately, on account of its be- 
ing his home; the home of the Earth 
on which he exists; the home of the 
Sun about which this Earth revolves; 
the home of that “system” of orbs of 
which the Sun is the centre and primary 
—the Earth one of sixteen secondaries, 
or planets—the Moon one of seventeen 
tertiaries, or satellites. The Galaxy, let 
me repeat, is but one of the clusters 
which I have been describing—but one 
of the miscalled “nebule” revealed to 
us—by the telescope alone, sometimes— 
as faint hazy spots in various quarters 
of the sky. We have no reason to sup- 
pose the Milky Way really more exten- 
sive than the least of these nebule. Its 
vast superiority in size is but an appar- 
ent superiority arising from our po- 
sition in regard to it—that is to say, 
from our position in its midst. How- 
ever strange the assertion may at first 
appear to those unversed in Astronomy, 
still the astronomer himself has no hes- 
itation in asserting that we are in the 
midst of that inconceivable host of stars 
—of suns—of systems—which consti- 
tute the Galaxy. Moreover, not only 
have we—not only has our Sun a right 
to claim the Galaxy as its own especial 
cluster, but, with slight reservation, it 
may be said that all the distinctly vis- 


EUREKA 


ible stars of the firmament—ail the stars 
visible to the naked eye—have equally 
a right to claim it as their own. 

There has been a great deal of mis- 
conception in respect to the shape of the 
Galaxy; which, in nearly all our astro- 
nomical treatises, is said to resemble 
that of a capital Y. The cluster in ques- 
tion has, in reality, a certain general— 
very general resemblance to the planet 
Saturn, with its encompassing triple 
ring. Instead of the solid orb of that 
planet, however, we must picture to our- 
selves a lenticular star-island, or collec- 
tion of stars; our Sun lying excentrically 
—near the shore of the island—on that 
side of it which is nearest the constella- 
tion of the Cross and farthest from that 
of Cassiopeia. The surrounding ring, 
where it approaches our position, has 
in it a longitudinal gash, which does, 
in fact, cause the ring in our vicinity to 
assume, loosely, the appearance of a 
capital Y. 

We must not fall into the error, how- 
ever, of conceiving the somewhat in- 
definite girdle as at all remote, compar- 
atively speaking, from the also indefi- 
nite lenticular cluster which it surrounds; 
and thus, for mere purpose of explana- 
tion, we may speak of our Sun as actu- 
ally situated at that point of the Y 
where its three component lines unite; 
and, conceiving this letter to be of a 
certain solidity—of a certain thickness, 
very trivial in comparison with its 
length—we may even speak of our po- 
sition as in the middle of this thickness. 
Fancying ourselves thus placed, we shall 
no longer find difficulty in accounting 
for the phenomena presented—which are 
perspective altogether. When we look 
upwards or downwards—that is to say, 
when we cast our eyes in the direction 


867 


of the letter’s thickness—we look 
through fewer stars than when we cast 
them in the direction of its length or 
along either of the three component 
lines. Of course, in the former case the 
stars appear scattered—in the latter 
crowded. To reverse this explanation: 
—An inhabitant of the Earth when 
looking, as we commonly express our- 
selves, at the Galaxy, zs then beholding 
it in some of the directions of its 
length—is looking along the lines of the 
Y—but when, looking out into the gen- 
eral Heaven, he turns his eyes from the 
Galaxy, he is then surveying it in the 
direction of the letter’s thickness; and 
on this account the stars seem to him 
scattered; while, in fact, they are as 
close together, on an average, as in the 
mass of the cluster. No consideration 
could be better adapted to convey an 
idea of this cluster’s. stupendous extent. 

If, with a telescope of high space- 
penetrating power, we carefully inspect 
the firmament, we shall become aware 
of a belt of clusters—of what we have 
hitherto called “nebule’—a band, of 
varying breadth, stretching from hori- 
zon to horizon, at right angles to the 
general course of the Milky Way. This 
band is the ultimate cluster of clusters. 
This belt is The Universe. Our Galaxy 
is but one, and perhaps one of the most 
inconsiderable of the clusters which go 
to the constitution of this ultimate Uni- 
versal belt or band. ‘The appearance 
of this cluster of clusters to our eyes, 
as a belt or band, is altogether a per- 
spective phenomenon of the same char- 
acter as that which causes us to behold 
our own individual and roughly-spheri- 
cal cluster, the Galaxy, under guise also 
of a belt, traversing the Heavens at 
right angles to the Universal one. The 


868 


shape of the all-inclusive cluster is of 
course generally that of each individual 
cluster which it includes. Just as the 
scattered stars which, on looking from 
the Galaxy, we see in the general sky, 
are in fact but a portion of that Galaxy 
itself, and as closely intermingled with 
it as any of the telescopic points in 
what seems the densest portion of its 
mass—so are the scattered nebule 
which on casting our eyes from the Uni- 
versal belt, we perceive at all points of 
the firmament—so, I say, are these 
scattered nebule to be understood as 
only perspectively scattered, and as part 
and parcel of the one supreme and Uni- 
versal sphere. 

No astronomical fallacy is more un- 
tenable, and none has been more per- 
tinaciously adhered to, than that of the 
absolute illimitation of the Universe of 
Stars. The reasons for limitation, as 
I have already assigned them, a priori, 
seem to me unanswerable; but, not to 
speak of these, observation assures us 
that there is, in numerous directions 
around us, certainly if not in all, a posi- 
tive limit—or, at the very least, affords 
us no basis whatever for thinking other- 
wise. Were the succession of stars end- 
less, then the background of the sky 
would present us an uniform luminosity 
like that displayed by the Galaxy— 
since there could be absolutely no point, 
mm all that background, at which would 
not exist a star. The only mode, there- 
fore, in which, under such a state of af- 
fairs, we could comprehend the voids 
which our telescopes find in innumerable 
directions, would be by supposing the 
distance of the invisible background so 
immense that no ray from it has yet 
been able to reach us at all. That this 
may be so, who shall venture to deny? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


I maintain, simply, that we have not 
even the shadow of a reason for be- 
lieving that it zs so. 

When speaking of the vulgar propen- 
sity to regard all bodies on the Earth 
as tending merely to the Earth’s centre, 
I cbserved that, “with certain excep- 
tions to be specified hereafter, every 


_body on the Earth tended not only to 


the Earth’s centre, but in every conceiv- 
able direction.” The “exceptions” refer 
to those frequent gaps in the Heavens, 
where our utmost scrutiny can detect 
not only no stellar bodies, but no indi- 
cations of their existence—where yawn- 
ing chasms, blacker than Erebus, seem 
to afford us glimpses, through the 
boundary walls of the Universe of Stars, 
into the illimitable Universe of Vacancy, 
beyond. Now as any body, existing on 
the Earth, chances to pass, either 
through its own movement or the 
Earth’s, into a line with any one of these 
voids or cosmical abysses, it clearly is 
no longer attracted in the direction of 
that void, and for the moment, conse- 
quently, is “heavier” than at any period 
either after or before. Independently 
of the consideration of these voids, how- 
ever, and looking only at the generally 
unequable distribution of the stars, we 
see that the absolute tendency of bodies 
on the Earth to the Earth’s centre is 
in a state of perpetual variation. 

We comprehend, then, the insulation 
of our Universe. We perceive the iso- 
lation of that—of all that which we 
grasp with the senses. We know that 
there exists one cluster of clusters—a 
collection around which, on all sides, 
extend the immeasurable wildernesses 
of a Space to all human perception un- 
tenanted. But because upon the confines 
of this Universe of Stars we are com- 


EUREKA 


pelled to pause, through want of fur- 
ther evidence from the senses, is it 
right to conclude that, in fact, there ¢s 
no material point beyond that which we 
have thus been permitted to attain? 
Have we, or have we not, an analogical 
right to the inference that this percep- 
tible Universe—that this cluster of 
clusters—is but one of a series of clus- 
ters, the rest of which are invisible 
through distance—through the diffusion 
of their light being so excessive, ere it 
reaches us, as not to produce upon our 
retinas a light impression—or from 
there being no such emanation as light 
at all in these unspeakably distant 
worlds—or, lastly, from the mere inter- 
val being so vast that the electric tid- 
ings of their presence in Space have not 
yet--through the lapsing myriads of 
years—been enabled to traverse that 
interval? 

Have we any right to inferences— 
have we any ground whatever for vis- 
ions such as these? If we have a right 
to them in any degree, we have a right 
to their infinite extension. 

The human brain has obviously a 
leaning to the “Jnfinite,’ and fondles 
the phantom of the idea. It seems to 
long with a passionate fervour for this 
impossible conception, with the hope 
of intellectually believing it when con- 
ceived. What is general among the 
whole race of Man, of course no indi- 
vidual of that race can be warranted in 
considering abnormal; neverthless, there 
may be a class of superior intelligences, 
to whom the human bias alluded to 
may wear all the character of mono- 
mania. 

My question, however, remains un- 
answered:—Have we any right to in- 
fer—let us say rather, to imagine—an 


869 


interminable succession of the “clusters 
of clusters,’ or of “Universes” more or 
less similar? 

I reply that the “right,” in a case such 
as this, depends absolutely upon the 
hardihood of that imagination which 
ventures to claim the right. Let me 
declare only that, as an individual, I 
myself feel impelled to fancy—without 
daring to call it more—that there does 
exist a limitless succession of Universes, 
more or less similar to that of which we 
have cognisance—to that of which alone 
we shall ever have cognisance—at the 
very least until the return of our own 
particular Universe into Unity. Jf such 
clusters of clusters exist, however— 
and they do—it is abundantly clear 
that, having had no part in our origin, 
they have no portion in our laws. They 
neither attract us, nor we them. ‘Their 
material—their spirit is not ours—is not 
that which obtains in any part of our 
Universe. They could not impress our 
senses or our souls. Among them and 
us—considering all, for the moment, 
collectively—there are no influences in 
common. Each exists, apart and inde- 
pendently, in the bosom of its proper 
and particular God. 

In the conduct of this discourse, I 
am aiming less at physical than at meta- 
physical order. The clearness with 
which even material phenomena are 
presented to the understanding depends 
very little, I have long since learned to 
perceive, upon a merely natural, and 
almost altogether upon a moral, ar- 
rangement. If then I seem to step 
somewhat too discursively from point 
to point of my topic, let me suggest 
that I do so in the hope of thus the 
better keeping unbroken that chain of 
graduated impression by which alone 


870 


the intellect of Man can expect to en- 
eompass the grandeurs of which I speak, 
and in their majestic totality, to com- 
prehend them. 

So far our attention has been directed 
almost exclusively to a general and rel- 
ative grouping of the stellar bodies in 
space. Of specification there has been 
little; and whatever ideas of quantity 
have been conveyed—that is to say, of 
number, magnitude, and distance—have 
been conveyed incidentally and by way 
of preparation for more definitive con- 
ceptions. These latter let us now at- 
tempt to entertain. 

Our solar system, as has been already 
mentioned, consists in chief, of one sun 
and sixteen planets certainly, but in all 
probability a few others, revolving 
around it as a centre, and attended by 
seventeen moons of which we know, 
with possibly several more of which as 
yet we know nothing. These various 
bodies are not true spheres, but oblate 
spheroids—spheres flattened at the poles 
of the imaginary axes about which they 
rotate—the flattening being a_ conse- 
quence of the rotation. Neither is the 
Sun absolutely the centre of the system; 
for this Sun itself, with all the planets, 
revolves about a perpetually shifting 
point of space, which is the system’s 
general centre of gravity. Neither are 
we to consider the paths through which 
these different spheroids move—the 
moons about the planets, the planets 
about the Sun, or the Sun about the 
common centre—as circles in an ac- 
curate sense. They are, in fact, ellipses 
—one of the foci being the point about 
which the revolution is made. An el- 
lipse is a curve, returning into itself, 
one of whose diameters is longer than 
the other. In the longer diameter are 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


two points equidistant from the middle 
of the line, and so situated otherwise 
that, if from each of them a straight 
line be drawn to any one point of the 
curve, the two lines taken together will 
be equal to the long diameter itself. 
Now let us conceive such an ellipse. At 
one of the points mentioned, which are 
the foci, let us fasten an orange. By 
an elastic thread let us connect this 
orange with a pea; and let us place this 
latter on the circumference of the el- 
lipse. Let us now move the pea con- 
tinuously around the orange—keeping 
always on the circumference of the el- 
lipse. The elastic thread, which of 
course varies in length as we move the 
pea, will form what in geometry is 
called a radius vector. Now if the 
orange be understood as the sun, and 
the pea as a planet revolving about it, 
then the revolution should be made at 
such a rate—with a velocity so varying 
—that the radius vector may pass over 
equal areas of space in equal times. 
The progress of the pea should be— 
in other words, the progress of the 
planet—is of course slow in proportion 
to its distance from the Sun—swift in 
proportion to its proximity. Those 
planets, moreover, move the more 
slowly which are the farther from the 
Sun; the squares of their periods of 
revolution having the same proportion 
to each other as have to each other 
the cubes of their mean distances from 
the Sun. 

The wonderfully complex laws of 
revolution here described, however, are 
not to be understood as obtaining in our 
system alone. They everywhere prevail 
where Attraction prevails. They control 
the Universe. Every shining speck in 
the firmament is, no Zoubt, a luminous 


EUREKA 


Sun, resembling our own, at least in its 
general features, and having in attend- 
ance upon it a greater or less number 
of planets, greater or less, whose still 
lingering luminosity is not sufficient to 
render them visible to us at so vast a 
distance, but which, nevertheless, re- 
volve, moon-attended, about their starry 
centres, in obedience to the principles 
just detailed—in obedience to the three 
omniprevalent laws of revolution—the 
three immortal laws guessed by the im- 
aginative Kepler, and but subsequently 
demonstrated and accounted for by the 
patient and mathematical Newton. 
Among a tribe of philosophers who 
pride themselves excessively upon mat- 
ter of fact, it is far too fashionable to 
sneer at all speculation under the com- 
prehensive sobriquet,  “guess-work.” 
The point to be considered is, who 
guesses. In guessing with Plato, we 
spend our time to better purpose, now 
and then, than in hearkening to a dem- 
onstration by Alcmzon. 

In many works on Astronomy, I find 
it distinctly stated that the laws of 
Kepler are the basis of the great prin- 
ciple, Gravitation. This idea must have 
arisen from the fact that the suggestion 
of these laws by Kepler, and his prov- 
ing them a posteriori to have an actual 
existence, led Newton to account for 
them by the Hypothesis of Gravitation, 
and finally, to demonstrate them @ 
priori, as necessary consequences of the 
hypothetical principle. Thus so far 
from the laws of Kepler being the basis 
of Gravity, Gravity is the basis of these 
laws—as it is, indeed, of all the laws of 
the material Universe, which are not re- 
ferable to Repulsion alone. 

The mean distance of the Earth from 
the Moon—that is to say, from the 


$71 


heavenly body in our closest vicinity— 
is 237,000 miles. Mercury, the planet 
nearest the Sun, is distant from him 37 
millions of miles. Venus, the next, re- 
volves at a distance of 68 millions:— 
the Earth, which comes next, at a dis- 
tance of 95 millions:—Mars, then, at 
a distance of 144 millions. Now come 
the eight Asteroids (Ceres, Juno, Vesta, 
Pallas, Astrea, Flora, Iris, and Hebe), 
at an average distance of about 250 mil- 
lions. Then we have Jupiter, distant 
490 millions; then Saturn, 900 millions; 
then Uranus, 19 hundred millions; fi- 
nally Neptune, lately discovered, and re- 
volving at a distance, say of 28 hundred 
millions. Leaving Neptune out of the 
account—of which as yet we know 
little accurately, and which is possibly 
one of a system of Asteroids—it will 
be seen that, within certain limits, there 
exists an order of interval among the 
planets. Speaking loosely, we may say 
that each outer planet is twice as far 
from the Sun as is the next inner one. 
May not the order here mentioned— 
may not the law of Bode—be deduced 
from consideration of the analogy sug- 
gested by me as having place between 
the solar discharge of rings and the 
mode of the atomic irradiation? 

The numbers hurriedly mentioned in 
this summary of distance, it is folly to 
attempt comprehending, unless in the 
light of abstract arithmetical facts. 
They are not practically tangible ones. 
They convey no precise ideas. I have 
stated that Neptune, the planet farthest 
from the Sun, revolves about him at a 
distance of 28 hundred millions. of 
miles. So far good:—I have stated a 
mathematical fact; and, without com- 
prehending it in the least, we may put 
it to use—mathematically. But in 


872 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


mentioning, even, that the Moon re- 
volves about the Earth at the compar- 
atively trifling distance of 237,000 miles, 
I entertained no expectation of giving 
any one to understand—to know—to 
feel—how far from the Earth the Moon 
actually is. 237,000 miles. There are, 
perhaps, few of my readers who have 
not crossed the Atlantic ocean; yet how 
many of them have a distinct idea of 
even the 3000 miles intervening between 
shore and shore? I doubt, indeed, 
whether the man lives who can force 
into his brain the most remote concep- 
tion of the interval between one mile- 
stone and its next neighbour upon the 
turnpike. We are in some measure 
aided, however, in our consideration of 
distance, by combining this consider- 
ation with the kindred one of velocity. 
Sound passes through 1100 feet of space 
in a second of time. Now were it pos- 
sible for an inhabitant of the Earth to 
see the flash of a cannon discharged in 
the Moon, and to hear the report, he 
would have to wait, after perceiving the 
former, more than 13 entire days and 
nights before getting any intimation of 
the latter. 

However feeble be the impression, 
even thus conveyed, of the Moon’s real 
distance from the Earth, it will, never- 
theless, effect a good object in enabling 
us more clearly to see the futility of 
attempting to grasp such intervals as 
that of the 28 hundred millions of 
miles between our Sun and Neptune; 
or even that of the 95 millions between 
the Sun and the Earth we inhabit. A 
cannon-ball, flying at the greatest ve- 
locity with which such a ball has ever 
been known to fly, could not traverse 
the Jatter interval in less than 20 years; 


while for the former it would require 
590. 

Our Moon’s real diameter is. 2160 
miles; yet she is comparatively so trifl- 
ing an object that it would take nearly 
50 such orbs to compose one as great 
as the Earth. 

The diameter of our own globe is 
7912 miles—but from the enunciation 
of these numbers what positive idea 
do we derive? 

If we ascend an ordinary mountain 
and look around us from its summit, 
we behold a landscape stretching, say 
40 miles, in every direction, forming 
a circle 250 miles in circumference, and 
including an area of 5000 square miles. 
The extent of such a prospect, on ac- 
count of the successiveness with which 
its portions necessarily present them- 
selves to view, can be only very feebly 
and very partially appreciated—yet the 
entire panorama would comprehend no 
more than one 40,000th part of the 
mere surface of our globe. Were this 
panorama, then, to be succeeded, after 
the lapse of an hour, by another of 
equal extent; this again by a third, af- 
ter the lapse of an hour; this again by 
a fourth after lapse of another hour— 
and so on, until the scenery of the 
whole Earth were exhausted; and were 
we to be engaged in examining these 
various panoramas for twelve hours of 
every day; we should, nevertheless, be 
9 years and 48 days in completing the 
general survey. 

But if the mere surface of the Earth 
eludes the grasp of the imagination, 
what are we to think of its cubical con- 
tents? It embraces a mass of matter 
equal in weight to at least two sextil- 
lions, two hundred quintillions of tons, 
Let us suppose it in a state of quies- 


EUREKA 


cence; and now let us endeavour to 
conceive a mechanical force sufficient 
to set it in motion! Not the strength 
of all the myriads of beings whom we 
may conclude to inhabit the planetary 
worlds of our system—not the combined 
physical strength of all these beings— 
even admitting all to be more power- 
ful than man—would avail to stir the 
ponderous mass a single inch from its 
position. 

What are we to understand, then, of 
the force which, under similar circum- 
stances, would be required to move the 
largest of our planets, Jupiter? This is 
86,000 miles in diameter, and would 
include within its periphery more than 
a thousand orbs of the magnitude of 
our own. Yet this stupendous body is 
actually flying around the sun at the 
rate of 29,000 miles an hour—that is 
to say, with a velocity forty times 
greater than that of a cannon-ball! The 
thought of such a phenomenon cannot 
well be said to startle the mind—it pal- 
sies and appals it. Not unfrequently 
we task our imagination in picturing the 
capacities of an angel. Let us fancy 
such a being at a distance of some hun- 
dred miles from, Jupiter—a close eye- 
witness of this planet as it speeds on its 
annual revolution. Now, can we, I 
demand, fashion for ourselves any con- 
ception so distinct of this ideal being’s 
spiritual exaltation, as that involved in 
the supposition that, even by this im- 
measurable mass of matter, whirled im- 
mediately before his eyes, with a veloc- 
ity so unutterable, he—an angel—an- 
gelic though he be—is not at once 
struck into nothingness and_ over- 
whelmed? 

At this point, however, it seems 
proper to suggest that, in fact, we have 


873 


been speaking of comparative trifles. 
Our Sun—the central and controlling 
orb of the system to which Jupiter be- 
longs—is not only greater than Jupi- 
ter, but greater by far than all the 
planets of the system taken together. 
This fact is an essential condition in- 
deed of the stability of the system it- 
self. The diameter of Jupiter has been 
mentioned; it is 86,000 miles—that of 
the Sun is 882,000 miies. An inhabi- 
tant of the latter, travelling ninety 
miles a day, would be more than eighty 
years in going round a great circle of 
its circumference. It occupies a cub- 
ical space of 681 quadrillions, 472 tril- 
lions of miles. The Moon, as has been 
stated, revolves about the earth at a 
distance of 237,000 miles—in an orbit, 
consequently, of nearly a million and a 
half. Now, were the Sun placed upon 
the Earth, centre over centre, the body 
of the former would extend, in every 
direction, not only to the line of the 
Moon’s orbit but beyond it, a distance 
of 200,000 miles. 

And here, once again, let me suggest 
that, in fact, we have stil] been speak- 
ing of comparative trifles. The distance 
of’ the planet Neptune from the Sun 
has been stated; it is 28 hundred mil- 
lions of miles; the circumference of its 
orbit, therefore, is about 17 billions. 
Let this be borne in mind while we 
glance at some one of the brightest 
stars. Between this and the star of our 
system (the Sun), there is a gulf of 
space, to convey any idea of which we 
should need the tongue of an archangel. 
From our system, then, and from our 
Sun, or star, the star at which we sup- 
pose ourselves glancing, is a thing alto- 
gether apart :—still, for the moment, let 
us imagine it placed upon our Sun, 


874 
centre over centre, as we just now im- 
agined this Sun itself placed upon the 
Earth. Let us now conceive the par- 
ticular star we have in mind, extend- 
ing, in every direction, beyond the orbit 
of Mercury—of Venus—of the Earth: 
—still on, beyond the orbit of Mars— 
of Jupiter—of Uranus—until, finally, 
we fancy it filling the circle—seventeen 
billions of miles in circumference— 
which is described by the revolution of 
Leverrier’s planet. When we have con- 
ceived all this, we shall have enter- 
tained no extravagant conception. There 
is the very best reason for believing 
that many of the stars are even far 
larger than the one we have imagined. 
I mean to say, that we have the very 
best empirical basis for such belief— 
and, in looking back at the original, 
atomic arrangements for diversity, 
which have been assumed as a part of 
the Divine plan in the constitution of 
the Universe, we shall be enabled easily 
to understand and to credit the exist- 
ence of even far vaster disproportions 
in stellar size than any to which I have 
hitherto alluded. The largest orbs of 
course we must expect to find rolling 
through the widest vacancies of Space. 

I remarked, just now, that to convey 
an idea of the interval between our Sun 
and any one of the other stars, we 
should require the eloquence of an 
archangel. In so saying, I should not 
be accused of exaggeration; for, in 
simple truth, these are topics on which 
it is scarcely possible to exaggerate. 
But let us bring the matter more dis- 
tinctly before the eye of the mind. 

In the first place, we may get a gen- 
eral, relative conception of the interval 
referred to by comparing it with the 
inter-planetary spaces, If, for example, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


we suppose the Earth, which is in real- 
ity 95 millions of miles from the Sun, 
to be only one foot from that luminary, 
then Neptune would be forty feet dis- 
tant, and the star Alpha Lyre, at the 
very least, one hundred and fifty-nine. 

Now I presume that, in the termin- 
ation of my last sentence, few of my 
readers have noticed anything espe- 
cially objectionable—particularly wrong. 
I said that the distance of the Earth 
from the Sun being taken at one foot, 
the distance of Neptune would be forty 
feet, and that of Alpha Lyre one hun- 
dred and fifty-nine. The proportion be- 
tween one foot and one hundred and 
fifty-nine has appeared, perhaps, to con- 
vey a sufficiently definite impression of 
the proportion between the two inter- 
vals—that of the Earth from the Sun, 
and that of Alpha Lyre from the same 
luminary. But my account of the mat- 
ter should in reality have run thus:— 
The distance of the Earth from the Sun 
being taken at one foot, the distance of 
Neptune would be forty feet, and that of 
Alpha Lyre one hundred and fifty-nine 
—muiles:—that is to say, I had assigned 
to Alpha Lyre, in my first statement 
of the case, only the 528th part of that 
distance which is the least distance pos- 
sible at which it can actually lie. 

To proceed:—However distant a 
mere planet is, yet when we look at it 
through a telescope, we see it under a 
certain form—of a certain appreciable 
size. Now I have already hinted at the 
probable bulk of many of the stars; 
nevertheless, when we view any one of 
them, even through the most powerful 
telescope, it is found to present us with 
no form, and consequently with no 
magnitude whatever. We see it as a 
point, and nothing more. 


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Again:—Let us suppose ourselves 
walking at night on a highway. Ina 
field on one side of the road is a line 
of tall objects, say trees, the figures of 
which are distinctly defined against the 
background of the sky. This line of 
objects extends at right angles to the 
road, and from the road to the horizon. 
Now, as we proceed along the road, we 
see these objects changing their posi- 
tions, respectively, in relation to a cer- 
tain fixed point in that portion of the 
firmament which forms the background 
of the view. Let us suppose this fixed 
point—sufficiently fixed for our purpose 
—to be the rising moon. We: become 
aware, at once, that while the tree near- 
est us so far alters its position in re- 
spect to the moon, as to seem flying 
behind us, the tree in the extreme dis- 
tance has scarcely changed at all its 
relative position with the satellite. We 
then go on to perceive that the farther 
the objects are from us, the less they 
alter their positons; and the converse. 
Then we begin, unwittingly, to estimate 
the distances of individual trees by the 
degrees in which they evince the relative 
alteration. Finally, we come to under- 
stand how it might be possible to ascer- 
tain the actual distance of any given 
tree in the line, by using the amount 
of relative alteration as a basis in a sim- 
ple geometrical problem. Now, this rel- 
ative alteration is what we call “par- 
allax”; and by parallax we calculate 
the distances of the heavenly bodies. 
Applying the principle to the trees in 
question, we should of course be very 
much at a loss to comprehend the dis- 
tance of that tree, which, however far 
we proceeded along the road, should 
evince zo parallax at alt. This in the 
case described is a thing impossible; 


875 


but impossible only because all distances 
on our Earth are trivial indeed:—in 
comparison with the vast cosmical quan- 
tities, we may speak of them as abso- 
lutely nothing. 

Now, let us suppose the star Alpha 
Lyre directly overhead; and let us im- 
agine that, instead of standing on the 
Earth, we stand at one end of a straight 
road stretching through Space to a dis- 
tance equalling the’ diameter of the 
Earth’s orbit—that is to say, to a dis- 
tance of one hundred and ninety mil- 
lions of miles. Having observed, by 
means of the most delicate micrometri- 
cal instruments, the exact position of 
the star, let us now pass along this in- 
conceivable road, until we reach the 
other extremity. Now, once again, let 
us look at the star. It is precisely 
where we left it. Our instruments, how- 
ever delicate, assure us that its relative 
position is absolutely—is identically the 
same, as at the commencement of our 
unutterable journey. No  parallax— 
none whatever—has been found. 

The fact is that, in regard to the dis- 
tance of the fixed stars—of any one of 
the myriads of suns glistening on the 
farther side of that awful chasm which 
separates our system from its brothers 
in the cluster to which it belongs—as- 
tronomical science, until very lately, 
could speak only with a negative cer- 
tainty. Assuming the brightest as the 
nearest, we could say, even of them, 
only that there is a certain incompre- 
hensible distance on the hither side of 
which they cannot be:—how far they 
are beyond it we had in no case been 
able to ascertain. We perceived, for 
example, that Alpha Lyre cannot be 
nearer to us than 19 trillions, 200 bil- 
lions of miles; but, for all we knew, and 


876 


indeed for all we now know, it may 
be distant from us the square, or the 
cube, or any other power of the num- 
ber mentioned. By dint, however, of 
wonderfully minute and cautious obser- 
vations, continued with novel instru- 
ments, for many laborious years, Bessel, 
not long ago deceased, has lately suc- 
ceeded in determining the distance of 
six or seven stars; among others, that 
of the star numbered 61 in the constel- 
lation of the Swan. The distance in 
this latter instance ascertained is 670,- 
000 times that of the Sun; which last, 
it will be remembered, is 95 millions of 
miles. The star 61 Cygni, then, is 
nearly 64 trillions of miles from us—or 
more than three times the distance as- 
signed, as the least possible, for Alpha 
Lyre. 

In attempting to appreciate this in- 
terval by the aid of any considerations 
of velocity, as we did in endeavouring 
to estimate the distance of the moon, 
we must leave out of sight altogether 
such nothings as the speed of a cannon 
ball, or of sound. Light, however, ac- 
cording to the latest calculations of 
Struve, proceeds at the rate of 167,000 
miles in a second. Thought itself can- 
not pass through this interval more 
speedily—if, indeed, thought can tra- 
verse it at all. Yet, in coming from 
61 Cygni to us, even at this inconceiv- 
able rate, light occupies more than ten 
years; and, consequently, were the star 
this moment blotted out from the Uni- 
verse, still, for ten years, would it con- 
tinue to sparkle on, undimmed in its 
paradoxical glory. 

Keeping now in mind whatever feeble 
conception we may have attained of 
the interval between our Sun and 61 
Cygni, let us remember that this inter- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


val, however unutterably vast, we are 
permitted to consider as but the aver- 
age interval among the countless host 
of stars composing that cluster, or 
‘nebula,’ to which our system, as well 
as that of 61 Cygni, belongs. I have, 
in fact, stated the case with great 
moderation. We have excellent reason 
for believing 61 Cygni to be one of the 
nearest stars, and thus for concluding, 
at least for the present, that its dis- 
tance from us is less than the average 
distance between star and star in the 
magnificent cluster of the Milky Way. 

And here, once again and finally, it 
seems proper to suggest that even as 
yet we have been speaking of trifles. 
Ceasing to wonder at the space between 
star and star in our Own or in any par- 
ticular cluster, let us rather turn our 
thoughts to the intervals between 
cluster and cluster in the all-comprehen- 
sive cluster of the Universe. 

I have already said that light pro- 
ceeds at the rate of 167,000 miles in a 
second—that is about 10 millions of 
miles in a minute, or about 600 millions 
of miles’in an hour:—yet so far re- 
moved from us are some of the nebule, 
that even light, speeding with this veloc- 
ity, could not and does not reach us; 
from those mysterious regions, in less 
than 3 millions of years. This calcu- 
lation, moreover, is made by the elder 
Herschel, and in reference merely to 
those comparatively proximate clusters 
within the scope of his own telescope. 
There are nebule, however, which, 
through the magical tube of Lord Rosse, 
are this instant whispering in our ears 
the secrets of a million of ages by-gone. 
In a word, the events which we behold 
now—at this moment—in those worlds— 
are the identical events which interested 


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their inhabitants tex hundred thousand 
centuries ago. In intervals—in distance 
such as this suggestion forces upon the 
soul—rather than upon the mind—we 
find at length a fitting climax to all 
hitherto frivolous considerations of 
quantity. 

Our fancies thus occupied with the 
cosmical distances, let us take the op- 
portunity of referring to the difficulty 
which we have so often experienced, 
while pursuing the beaten path of astro- 
nomical reflection 7m accounting for the 
immeasurable voids alluded to—in com- 
prehending why chasms so totally un- 
occupied, and therefore apparently so 
needless, have been made to intervene 
between star and star—between cluster 
and cluster—in understanding, to be 
brief, a sufficient reason for the Titanic 
scale, in respect of mere Space, on 
which the Universe is seen to be con- 
structed. A rational cause for the phe- 
nomenon, I maintain that Astronomy 
has palpably failed to assign—but the 
considerations through which, in this 
Essay, we have proceeded step by step, 
enable us clearly and immediately to 
perceive that Space and Duration are 
one. That the Universe might endure 
throughout an era at all commensurate 
with the grandeur of its component 
material portions and with the high 
majesty of its spiritual purposes, it was 
necessary that the original atomic dif- 
fusion be made to so inconceivable an 
extent as to be only not infinite. It was 
required, in a word, that the stars 
should be gathered into visibility from 
invisible nebulosity—proceed from neb- 
ulosity to consolidation—and so grow 
grey in giving birth and death to un- 
speakably numerous and complex vari- 
ations of vitalic development:—it was 


877 


required that the stars should do all 
this—should have time thoroughly to 
accomplish all these Divine purposes— 
during the period in which all things 
were effecting their return into Unity 
with a velocity accumulating in the in- 
verse proportion of the squares of the 
distances at which lay the inevitable 
End. 

Throughout all this we have no diffi- 
culty in understanding the absolute ac- 
curacy of the Divine adaptation. The 
density of the stars, respectively, pro- 
ceeds of course as their condensation 
diminishes; condensation and_hetero- 
geneity keep pace with each other, 
through the latter, which is the index of 
the former, we estimate the vitalic and 
spiritual development. Thus in the 
density of the globes, we have the meas- 
ure in which their purposes are fulfilled. 
As density proceeds—as the divine in- 
tentions are accomplished—as less and 
still less remains to be accomplished— 
so, in the same ratio, should we expect 
to find an acceleration of the End:— 
and thus the philosophical mind will 
easily comprehend that the Divine de- 
signs in constituting the stars advance, 
mathematically, to their fulfillment; and 
more, it will readily give the advance a 
mathematical expression; it will decide 
that this advance is inversely propor- 
tional to the squares of the distances of 
all created things from the starting- 
point and goal of their creation. 

Not only is this Divine adaptation, 
however, mathematically accurate, but 
there is that about it which stamps it as 
divine, in distinction from that which is 
merely the work of human constructive- 
ness. I allude to the complete mutuality 
of adaptation. For example: in human 
constructions a particular cause has a 


878 


particular effect; a particular inten- 
tion brings to pass a particular object; 
but this is all; we see no reciprocity. 
The effect does not re-act upon the 
cause; the intention does not change 
relations with the object. In Divine 
constructions, the object is either design 
or object as we choose to regard it— 
and we may take at any time a cause 
for an effect, or the converse—so that 
we can never absolutely decide which 
is which. 

To give an instance:—In polar cli- 
mates the human frame, to maintain its 
animal heat, requires for combustion in 
the capillary system an abundant supply 
of highly azotised food, such as train-oil. 
But again:—in polar climates nearly the 
sole food afforded man is the oil of 
abundant seals and whales. Now, 
whether is oil at hand because impera- 
tively demanded, or the only thing de- 
manded because the only thing to be 
obtained? It is impossible to decide. 
There is an absolute reciprocity of adap- 
tation. 

The pleasure which we derive from 
any display of human ingenuity is in 
the ratio of the approach to this species 
of reciprocity. In the construction of 
plot, for example, in fictitious literature, 
we should aim at so arranging the inci- 
dents that we shall not be able to 
determine, of any one of them, whether 
it depends from any one other or up- 
holds it. In this sense, of course, per- 
fection of plot is really or practically 
unattainable—but only because it is a 
finite intelligence that constructs. The 
plots of God are perfect. The Universe 
is a plot of God. 

And now we have reached a point 
at which the intellect is forced, again, to 
struggle against its propensity for ana- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


logical inference—against its mono- 
maniac grasping at the infinite. Moons 
have been seen revolving about planets; 
planets about stars; and the poetical 
instinct of humanity—its instinct of the 
symmetrical, if the symmetry be but a 
symmetry of surface;—this instinct, 
which the Soul, not only of Man but 
of all created beings, took up in the be- 
ginning from the geometrical basis of 
the Universal irradiation—impels us to 
the fancy of an endless extension of 
this system of cycles. Closing our eyes 
equally to deduction and zmduction, we 
insist upon imagining a revolution of all 
the orbs of the Galaxy about some gi- 
gantic globe which we take to be the 
central pivot of the whole. Each cluster 
in the great cluster of clusters is im- 
agined of course to be similarly supplied 
and constructed; while, that the “‘anal- 
ogy’ may be wanting at no point, we 
go on to conceive these clusters them- 
selves, again, as revolving about some 
still more august sphere:—this latter, 
still again, with its incircling clusters, as 
but one of a yet more magnificent series 
of agglomerations, gyrating about yet 
another orb central to them—some orb 
still more unspeakably sublime—some 
orb, let us rather say, of infinite sub- 
limity endlessly multiplied by the in- 
finitely sublime. Such are the condi- 
tions, continued in perpetuity, which 
the voice of what some people term 
“analogy” calls upon the Fancy to de- 
pict and the Reason to contemplate, if 
possible, without becoming dissatisfied 
with the picture. Such, in general, is 
the interminable gyration beyond gyra- 
tion which we have been instructed by 
Philosophy to comprehend and to ac- 
count for, at least in the best manner 
we can. Now and then, however, a 


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philosopher proper—one whose frenzy 
takes a very determinate turn—whose 
genius, to speak more reverentially, has 
a strongly-pronounced washer-woman- 
ish bias, doing everything up by the 
dozen—enables us to see precisely that 
point out of sight, at which the revolu- 
tionary processes in question do, and of 
right ought to, come to an end. 

It is hardly worth while, perhaps, 
even to sneer at the reveries of Fou- 
rier:—but much has been said latterly 
of the hypothesis of Madler—that there 
exists in the centre of the Galaxy a stu- 
pendous globe about which all the sys- 
tems of the cluster revolve. The period 
of our own, indeed, has been stated— 
117 millions of years. 

That our Sun has a motion in space, 
independently of its rotation and its 
revolution about the system’s centre of 
gravity has long been suspected. This 
motion, granting it to exist, would be 
manifested perspectively. The stars in 
that firmamental region which we were 
leaving behind us, would, in a very long 
series of years, become crowded; those 
in the opposite quarter, scattered. Now, 
by.means of astronomical History, we 
ascertain, cloudily, that some such phe- 
nomena have occurred. On this ground 
it has been aeclared that our system is 
moving to a point in the heavens dia- 
metrically opposite the star Zeta Her- 
culis;—but this inference is, perhaps, 
the maximum to which we have any 
logical right. Madler, however, has 
gone so far as to designate a particular 
star, Alcyone in the Pleiades, as being 
at or about the very spot around which 
a general revolution is performed. 

Now, since by “analogy” we are led, 
in the first instance, to these dreams, 
it is no more than proper that we should 


879 


abide by analogy, at least in some meas- 
sure, during their development; and 
that analogy which suggests the revo- 
lution suggests at the same time a cen- 
tral orb about which it should be per- 
formed:—so far the astronomer was 
consistent. This central orb, however, 
should, dynamically, be greater than all 
the orbs taken together which surround 
it. Of these there are about 100 mil- 
lions. ‘‘Why, then,” it was of course 
demanded, “‘do we not see this vast cen- 
tral sun—at least equal in mass to 100 
millions of such suns as ours—why do 
we not see it—we, especially, who oc- 
cupy the mid-region of the cluster—the 
very locality near which, at all events, 
must be situated this incomparable 
star?” The reply was ready—‘It must 
be non-luminous, as are our planets.” 
Here, then, to suit a purpose, analogy 
is suddenly let fall. ‘Not so,” it may 
be said; ‘‘we know that non-luminous 
suns actually exist.” It is true that we 


have reason at least for supposing so; 


but we have certainly no reason what- 
ever for supposing that the non-lumi- 
nous suns in question are encircled by 
luminous suns, while these again are 
surrounded by non-luminous planets:— 
and it is precisely all this with which 
Madler is called upon to find anything 
analogous in the heavens—for it is pre- 
cisely all this which he imagines in the 
case of the Galaxy. Admitting the 
thing to be so, we cannot help here 
picturing to ourselves how sad a puzzle 
the why is it so must prove to all a 
priori philosophers. 

But granting, in the very teeth of 
analogy and of everything else, the non- 
luminosity of the vast central orb, we 
may still inquire how this orb, so 
enormous, could fail of being rendered 


880 


visible by the flood of light thrown 
upon it from the 100 millions-of glori- 
ous suns glaring in all directions about 
it. Upon the urging of this question, 
the idea of an actually solid central 
sun appears in some measure to have 
been abandoned; and speculation pro- 
ceeded to assert that the systems of the 
cluster perform their revolutions merely 
about an immaterial centre of gravity 
common to all. Here again, then to 
suit a purpose, analogy is let fall. Lhe 
planets of our system revolve, it is true, 
about a common centre of gravity; 
but they do this in connection with, and 
in consequence of, a material sun 
whose mass more than counterbalances 
the rest of the system. 

The mathematical circle is a curve 
composed of an infinity of straight lines. 
But this idea of the circle—an idea 
which, in view of all ordinary geometry, 
is merely the mathematical, as contra- 
distinguished from the practical, idea— 


is, in sober fact, the practical concep-— 


tion which alone we have any right to 
entertain in regard to the majestic cir- 
cle with which we have to deal, at 
least in fancy, when we suppose our 
system revolving about a point in the 
centre of the Galaxy. Let the most 
vigorous of human imaginations attempt 
but to take a single step towards the 
comprehension of a sweep so ineffable! 
It would scarcely be paradoxical to say 
that a flash of lightning itself, travel- 
ling for ever upon the circumference of 
this unutterable circle, would still, for 
ever, be travelling in a straight line. 
That the path of our Sun in such an 
orbit would, to any human perception, 
deviate in the slightest degree from a 
straight line, even in a million of years, 
is a proposition not to be entertained; 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


yet we are required to believe that .a 
curvature has become apparent during 
the brief period of our astronomical his- 
tory—during a mere point—during the 
utter nothingness of two or three thou- 
sand years. 

It may be said that Madler has 
really ascertained a curvature in the di- 
rection of our system’s now well-estab. 
lished progress through Space. Admit- 
ting, if necessary, this fact to be in real- 
ity such, I maintain that nothing is 
thereby shown except the reality of this 
fact—the fact of a curvature. For its 
thorough determination, ages will be re- 
quired; and, when determined, it will 
be found indicative of some binary or 
other multiple relation between our Sun 
and some one or more of thé proximate 
stars. JI hazard nothing, however, in 
predicting that, after the lapse of many 
centuries, all efforts at determining the 
path of our Sun through Space will be 
abandoned as fruitless. This is easily 
conceivable when we look at the infinity 
of perturbation it must experience from 
its perpetually-shifting relations with 
other orbs, in the common approach 
of all to the nucleus of the Galaxy. 

But in examining other nebule than 
that of the Milky Way—in surveying, 
generally, the clusters which overspread 
the heavens—do we or do we not find 
confirmation of Madler’s hypothesis? 
We do not. The forms of the clusters 
are exceedingly diverse when casually 
viewed; but on _ close _ inspection, 
through powerful telescopes, we recog- 
nize the sphere very distinctly as at 
least the proximate form of all—their 
constitution in general being at variance 
with the idea of revolution about a com- 
mon centre. 

“It is difficult,’ says Sir John Her- 


EUREKA 


schel, “to form any conception of the 
dynamical state of such systems. On 
one hand, without a rotary motion and 
a centrifugal force, it is hardly possible 
not to regard them as in a state of pro- 
gressive collapse. On the other, grant- 
ing such a motion and such a force, we 
find it no less difficult to reconcile their 
forms with the rotation of the whole 
system [meaning cluster] around any 
single axis, without which internal col- 
lision would appear to be inevitable.” 

Some remarks lately made about the 
nebule by Dr. Nichol, in taking quite 
a different view of the cosmical condi- 
tions from any taken in this Dis- 
course—have a very peculiar applica- 
bility to the point now at issue. He 
says: 

“When our greatest telescopes are 
brought to bear upon them, we find 
that those which were thought to be 
irregular are not so; they approach 
nearer to a globe. Here is one that 
looked oval; but Lord Rosse’s telescope 
brought it into a circle. . . . Now there 
occurs a very remarkable circumstance 
in reference to these comparatively 
speaking circular masses of nebule. 
We find they are not entirely circular, 
but the reverse; and that all around 
them, on every side, there are volumes 
of stars, stretching out apparently as if 
they were rushing towards a great cen- 
tral mass in consequence of the action 
of some great power.’’* 


*T must be understood as denying, 
especially, only the revolutionary por- 
tion of Madler’s hypothesis. Of course, 
if no great central orb exists now in our 
cluster, such will exist hereafter. 
Whenever existing, it will be merely the 
nucleus of the consolidation—E. A. P. 


881 


Were I to describe, in my own words, 
what must necessarily be the existing 
condition of each nebula on the hypo- 
thesis that all matter is, as I suggest, 
now returning to its original Unity, I 
should simply be going over, nearly 
verbatim, the language here employed 
by Dr. Nichol, without the faintest sus- 
picion of that stupendous truth which 
is the key to these nebular phenomena. 

And here let me fortify my position 
still farther, by the voice of a greater 
than Madler—of one, moreover, to 
whom all the data of Madler have 
long been familiar things, carefully and 
thoroughly considered. Referring to the 
elaborate calculations of Argelander— 
the very researches which form Mad- 
ler’s basis—Humboldi, whose general- 
ising powers have never perhaps been 
equaled, has the following observation: 

“When we regard the real, proper, 
or non-perspective motions of the stars, 
we find many groups of them moving 
in opposite directions; and the data as 
yet in hand render it not necessary at 
least to conceive that the systems com- 
posing the Milky Way, or the clusters 
generally composing the Universe, are 
revolving about any particular centre 
unknown, whether luminous or non- 
luminous. It is but Man’s longing for 
a fundamental First Cause that impels 
both his intellect and fancy to the adop- 
tion of such an hypothesis.” 

The phenomenon here alluded to— 
that of “many groups moving in oppo- 
site directions’—is quite inexplicable 
by Madler’s idea; but arises, as a neces- 
sary consequence, from that which 
forms the basis of this Discourse. 
While the merely general direction of 
each atom—of each moon, planet, star 
or cluster—would, on my hypothesis, 


882 


be of course absolutely rectilinear, while 
the general path of all bodies would be 
a right line leading to the centre of all; 
it is clear, nevertheless, that this gen- 
eral rectilinearity would be com- 
pounded of what, with scarcely any ex- 
aggeration, we may term an infinity of 
particular curves—an infinity of local 
deviations from rectilinearity—the re- 
sult of continuous differences of relative 
position among the multitudinous 
masses, as each proceeded on its own 
proper journey to the End. 

I quoted just now from Sir John 
Herschel the following words, used in 
reference to the clusters:—“On one 
hand, without a rotary motion and a 
centrifugal force, it is hardly possible 
not to regard them as in a state of pro- 
gressive collapse.” The fact is, that in 
surveying the “nebule” with a tele- 
scope of high power, we shall find it 
quite impossible, having once conceived 
this idea of “collapse,” not to gather, 
at all points, corroboration of the idea. 
A nucleus is always apparent in the di- 
rection of which the stars seem to be 
precipitating themselves; nor can these 
nuclei be mistaken for merely perspec- 
tive phenomena—the clusters are really 
denser near the centre, sparser in the 
regions more remote from it. In a 
word, we see everything as we should 
see it were a collapse taking place; but, 
in general, it may be said of these 
clusters, that we can fairly entertain, 
while looking at them, the idea of 
orbitual movement about a centre, only 
by admitting the possible existence, in 
the distant domains of space, of dy- 
namical laws with which we are unac- 
quainted. 

On the part of Herschel, however, 
there is evidently a reluctance to regard 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN ‘POE 


the nebulz as in “a state of progressive 
collapse.” But if facts—if even ap- 
pearances justify the supposition of 
their being in this state, why, it may 
well be demanded, is he disinclined to 
admit it? Simply on account of a prej- 
udice; merely because the suspicion is 
at war with a pre-conceived and utterly 
baseless notion—that of the endless- 
ness—that of the eternal stability of the 
Universe. 

If the propositions of this Discourse 
are tenable, the “state of progressive 
collapse” is precisely that state in which 
alone we are warranted in considering 
All Things; and, with due humility, let 
me here confess that, for my part, I 
am at a loss to conceive how any other 
understanding of the existing condition 
of affairs could ever have made its way 
into the human brain. ‘The tendency 
to collapse’ and “the attraction of 
gravitation” are convertible phrases. 
In using either, we speak of the reaction 
of the First Act. Never was necessity 
less obvious than that of supposing 
matter imbued with an _ ineradicable 
quality forming part of its material na- 
ture—a quality or instinct for ever in- 
separable from it, and by dint of which 
inalienable principle every atom is 
perpetually impelled to seek his fellow- 
atom. Never was necessity less obvious 
than that of entertaining this unphilo- 
sophical idea. Going boldly behind the 
vulgar thought, we have to conceive, 
metaphysically, that the gravitating 
principle appertains to Matter tem- 
porarily—only while  diffused—only 
while existing as Many instead of as 
One—appertains to it by virtue of its 
state of irradiation alone—appertains, 
in a word, altogether to its condition, 
and not in the slightest degree to itself. 


EUREKA 


In this view, when the irradiation shall 
have returned into its source—when 
the reaction shall be completed—the 
gravitating principle will no longer exist. 
And, in fact, astronomers, without at 
any time reaching the idea here sug- 
gested, seem to have been approximat- 
ing it, in the assertion that, “if there 
were but one body in the universe, it 
would be impossible to understand how 
the principle Gravity could obtain”; 
that is to say, from a consideration of 
Matter as they find it, they reach a 
conclusion at which I deductively ar- 
rive. That so pregnant a suggestion as 
the one quoted should have been per- 
mitted to remain so long unfruitful is, 
nevertheless, a mystery which I find it 
difficult to fathom. 

It is, perhaps, in no little degree, how- 
ever, our propensity for the continu- 
ous—for the analogical—in the present 
case more particularly for the sym- 
metrical—which has been leading us 
astray. And, in fact, the sense of the 
symmetrical is an instinct which may 
be depended upon with an almost blind- 
fold reliance. It is the poetical essence 
of the Universe—of the Universe which, 
in the supremeness of its symmetry, is 
but the most sublime of poems. Now 
symmetry and consistency are converti- 
ble terms:—thus Poetry and Truth are 
one. A thing is consistent in the ratio 
of its truth—true in the ratio of its con- 
sistency. A perfect consistency, I re- 
peat, can be nothing but an absolute 
truth. We may take it for granted, 
then, that Man cannot long or widely 
err if he suffer himself to be guided by 
his poetical, which I have maintained 
to be his truthful, in being his sym- 
metrical, instinct. He must have a care, 
however, lest, in pursuing too heedlessly 


883 


the superficial symmetry of forms and 
motions, he leave out of sight the really 
essential symmetry of the principles 
which determine and control them. 

That the stellar bodies would finally 
be merged in one, that at last all would 
be drawn into the substance of one 
stupendous central orb already existing, 
is an idea which for some time past 
seems vaguely and indeterminately to 
have held possession of the fancy of 
mankind. It is an idea, in fact, which 
belongs to the class of the excessively 
obvious. It springs, instantly, from a 
superficial observation of the cyclic and 
seemingly gyrating or vortical move- 
ments of those individual portions of 
the Universe which come most imme- 
diately and most closely under our ob- 
servation. There is not perhaps a hu- 
man being of ordinary education and of 
average reflective capacity to whom, at 
some period, the fancy in question has 
not occurred, as if spontaneously, or 
intuitively, and wearing all the char- 
acter of a very profound and very orig- 
inal conception. This conception, how- 
ever, sO commonly entertained, has 
never, within my knowledge, arisen out 
of any abstract considerations; being, 
on the contrary, always suggested, as 
I say, by the vortical movements 
about centres, a reason for it also—a 
cause for the ingathering of all the orbs 
into one, imagined to be already exist- 
ing, was naturally sought in the same 
direction, among these cyclic move- 
ments themselves. 

Thus it happened that on announce- 
ment of the gradual and perfectly reg- 
ular decrease observed in the orbit of 
Encke’s comet, at every successive rev- 
olution about our Sun, astronomers 
were nearly unanimous in the opinion 


884 


that the cause in question was found— 
that a principle was discovered suff- 
cient to account, physically, for that 
final, universal agglomeration which, I 
repeat, the analogical, symmetrical, or 
poetical instinct of man had predeter- 
mined to understand as something more 
than a simple hypothesis. 

This cause, this sufficient reason for 
the final ingathering, was declared to 
exist in an exceedingly rare but still 
material medium pervading space; 
which medium, by retarding in some 
degree the progress of the comet, per- 
petually weakened its tangential force, 
thus giving a predominance to the cen- 
tripetal, which, of course, drew the 
comet nearer and nearer at each revo- 
lution, and would eventually precipi- 
tate it upon the Sun. 

All this was strictly logical—admit- 
ting the medium or ether, but this ether 
was assumed most illogically, on the 
ground that no other mode than the one 
spoken of could be discovered of ac- 
counting for the observed decrease in 
the orbit of the comet:—as if from the 
fact that we could discover no other 
mode of accounting for it, it followed, 
in any respect, that no other mode of 
accounting for it existed. It is clear 
that innumerable causes might operate, 
in combination, to diminish the orbit, 
without even a possibility of our ever 
becoming acquainted with one of them. 
In the meantime, it has never been 
fairly shown, perhaps, why the retarda- 
tion occasioned by the skirts of the 
Sun’s atmosphere, through which the 
comet passes at perihelion, is not 
enough to account for the phenomenon. 
That Encke’s comet will be absorbed 
into the Sun is probable; that all the 
comets of the system will be absorbed 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


is more than merely possible; but in 
such case the principle of absorption 
must be referred to eccentricity of 
orbit—to the close approximation to 
the Sun of the comets at their peri- 
helia; and is a principle not affecting 
in any degree the ponderous spheres 
which are to be regarded as the true 
material constituents of the Universe. 
Touching comets in general, let me here 
suggest, in passing, that we cannot be 
far wrong in looking upon them as the 
lightning flashes of the cosmical 
Heaven. 

The idea of a retarding ether, and 
through it of a final agglomeration of 
all things, seemed at one time, however, 
to be confirmed by the observation of a 
positive decrease in the orbit of the 
solid moon. By reference to eclipses 
recorded 2500 years ago, it was found 
that the velocity of the satellite’s rev- 
olution then was considerably less than 
it is now; that on the hypothesis that 
its motions in its orbit are uniformly ia 
accordance with Kepler’s law, and were 
accurately determined then, 2500 years 
ago, it is now in advance of the position 
it should occupy by nearly 9000 miles. 
The increase of velocity proved. of 
course a diminution of orbit, and as- 
tronomers were fast yielding to a be- 
lief in an ether as the sole mode of 
accounting for the phenomenon when 
Lagrange came to the rescue. He 
showed that owing to the configurations 
of spheroids the shorter axis of their 
ellipses are subject to variation in 
length; the longer axis being perma- 
nent; and that this variation is con- 
tinuous and vibratory, so that every 
orbit is in a state of transition either 
from circle to ellipse or from ellipse to 
circle. In the case of the moon, 


EUREKA 


where the shorter axis is decreasing, 
the orbit is passing from circle to 
ellipse, and consequently is decreasing 
too; but after a long series of ages the 
ultimate eccentricity will be attained, 
then the shorter axis will proceed to 
increase until the orbit becomes a cir- 
cle, when the process of shortening will 
again take place, and so on for ever. 
In the case of the Earth the orbit is 
passing from ellipse to circle. The facts 
thus demonstrated do away of course 
with -all necessity for supposing an 
ether, and with all apprehension of the 
system’s instability on the ether’s ac- 
count. 

It will be remembered that I have 
myself assumed what we may term an 
ether. I have spoken of a subtle zn- 
fluence which we know to be ever in 
attendance upon matter, although be- 
coming manifest only through matter’s 
heterogeneity. To this zzfluence, with- 
out daring to touch it at all in any 
effort at explaining its awful mature, 
I have referred the various phenomena 
of electricity, heat, light, magnetism, 
and more—of vitality, consciousness, 
and thought—in a word, of spirituality. 
It will be seen at once, then, that the 
ether thus conceived is radically dis- 
tinct from the ether of the astronomers, 
inasmuch as theirs is matter and mine 
not. 

With the idea of material ether 
seems, thus, to have departed altogether 
the thought of that universal agglomer- 
ation so long predetermined by the 
poetical fancy of mankind—an agglom- 
eration in which a sound Philosophy 
might have been warranted in putting 
faith, at least to a certain extent, if for 
no other reason than that by this 
poetical fancy it kad been so prede- 


885 


termined. But so far as Astronomy— 
so far as mere Physics has yet spoken, 
the cycles of the Universe have no con- 
ceivable end. Had an end been dem- 
onstrated, however, from so purely col- 
lateral a cause as an ether, Man’s 
instinct of the Divine capacity to 
adapt would have rebelled against the 
demonstration. We should have been 
forced to regard the Universe with 
some such sense of dissatisfaction as 
we experience in contemplating an un- 
necessarily complex work of human art. 
Creation would have affected us as an 
imperfect plot in a romance, where the 
denouement is awkwardly brought about 
by interposed incidents external and 
foreign to the main subject, instead of 
springing out of the bosom of the thesis, 
out of the heart of the ruling idea, in- 
stead of arising as a result of the pri- 
mary proposition, as inseparable and 
inevitable part and parcel of the funda- 
mental conception of the book. 

What I mean by the symmetry of 
mere surface will now be more clearly 
understood. It is simply by the blan- 
dishment of this symmetry that we 
have been beguiled into the general idea 
of which Madler’s hypothesis is but a 
part—the idea of the vortical indraw- 
ing of the orbs. Dismissing this naked- 
ly physical conception, the symmetry 
of principle sees the end of all things 
metaphysically involved in the thought 
of a beginning; seeks and finds in this 
origin of all things the rudiment of this 
end; and perceives the impiety of sup- 
posing this end likely to be brought 
about less simply—less directly—less 
obviously — less artistically — than 


‘through the reaction of the originating 


Act. 
Recurring, then, to a previous sug- 


886 


gestion, let us understand the systems— 
let us understand each star with its 
aitendant planets—as but a Titanic 
atom existing in space with precisely 
the same inclination for Unity which 
characterised, in the beginning, the 
actual atoms after their irradiation 
throughout the Universal sphere. As 
these ‘original atoms rushed towards 
each other in generally straight lines, 
so let us conceive as at least generally 
rectilinear, the paths of the system- 
atoms towards their respective centres 
of aggregation:—and in this direct 
drawing together of the systems into 
clusters, with a similar and simultane- 
ous drawing together of the clusters 
themselves while undergoing consolida- 
tion, we have at length attained the 
great Now—the awful Present—the 
Existing Condition of the Universe. 
Of the still more awful Future a not 
irrational analogy may guide us in 
framing an hypothesis.. The equilib- 
rium between the centripetal and cen- 
trifugal forces of each system, being 
necessarily destroyed upon attainment 
of a certain proximity to the nucleus 
of the cluster to which it belongs, there 
must occur, at once, a chaotic or seem- 
ingly chaotic precipitation, of the 
moons ‘upon the planets, of the planets 
upon the suns, and of the suns upon 
the nuclei; and the general result of this 
precipitation must be the gathering of 
the myriad now-existing stars of the 
firmament into an almost infinitely less 
number of almost infinitely superior 
spheres. In being immeasurably fewer, 
the worlds of that day will be immeas- 
urably greater than our own. Then, in- 
deed, amid unfathomable abysses, will 
be glaring unimaginable suns. But all 
this will be merely a climatic magnifi- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PGZ 


cence foreboding the great End. Of this 
End the new genesis described can be 
but a very partial postponement. 
While undergoing consolidation, the 
clusters themselves, with a speed pro- 
digiously accumulative, have been rush- 
ing towards their own general centre— 
and now, with a thousand-fold electric 
velocity, commensurate only with their 
material grandeur and with the spiritual 
passion of their appetite for oneness, 
the majestic remnants of the tribe of 
Stars flash at length into a common 
embrace. The inevitable catastrophe is 
at hand. 

But this catastrophe—what is it? 
We have seen accomplished the in- 
gathering of the orbs. Henceforward, 
are we not to understand one material 
globe of globes as constituting and com- 
prehending the Universe? Such a fancy 
would be altogether at war with every 
assumption and consideration of this 
Discourse. 

I have already alluded to that abso- 
lute reciprocity of adaptation which is 
the idiosyncrasy of the divine Art— 
stamping it divine. Up to this point of 
our reflections, we have been regard- 
ing the electrical influence as a some- 
thing by dint of whose repulsion alone 
Matter is enabled to exist in that state 
of diffusion demanded for the fulfil- 
ment of its purposes:—so far, in a 
word, we have been considering the 
influence in question as ordained for 
Matter’s sake to subserve the objects 
of matter. With a perfectly legitimate 
reciprocity, we are now permitted to 
look at Matter as created solely for 
the sake of this influence—solely to 
serve the objects of this spiritual Ether. 
Through the aid—by the means— 
through the agency of matter, and by 


EUREKA 


dint of its heterogeneity—is this Ether 
manifested—is Spirit individualised. It 
is merely in the development of this 
Ether, through heterogeneity, that par- 
ticular masses of Matter become ani- 
mate—sensitive—and in the ratio of 
their heterogeneity;—some reaching a 
degree of sensitiveness involving what 
we call Thought, and thus attaining 
Conscious Intelligence. 

In this view, we are enabled to per- 
ceive Matter as a Means not as an End. 
Its purposes are thus seen to have been 
comprehended in its diffusion; and with 
the return into Unity these purposes 
cease. The absolutely consolidated 
globe of globes would be objectless— 
therefore not for a moment could it 
continue to exist. Matter, created for 
an end, would unquestionably, on ful- 
filment of that end, be Matter no 
longer. Let us endeavour to understand 
that it would disappear, and that God 
would remain all in all. 

That every work of Divine concep- 
tion must coexist and coexpire with its 
particular design, seems to me especially 
obvious; and I make no doubt that, on 
perceiving the final globe of globes to 
be objectless, the majority of my read- 
ers will be satisfied with my “therefore 
it cannot continue to exist.”” Neverthe- 
less, as the startling thought of its in- 
stantaneous disappearance is one which 
the most powerful intellect cannot be 
expected readily to entertain on grounds 
so decidedly abstract, let us endeavour 
to look at the idea from some other 
and more ordinary point of view; let 
us see how thoroughly and beautifully 
it is corroborated in an a posteriori 
consideration of Matter as we actually 
find it. 

I have before said that “Attraction 


887 


and Repulsion being undeniably the sole 
properties by which Matter is mani- 
fested to Mind, we are justified in as- 
suming that Matter exists only as At- 
traction and Repulsion—in other words, 
that Attraction and Repulsion are Mat- 
ter; there being no conceivable case in 
which we may not employ the term 
Matter and the terms ‘Attraction’ and 
‘Repulsion’ taken together, as equiva- 
lent, and therefore convertible, expres- 
sions of Logic.” 

Now the very definition of Attraction 
implies particularity—the existence of 
parts, particles, or atoms; for we define 
it as the tendency of “each atom, etc., 
to every other atom,” etc., according 
to a certain law. Of course where there 
are no parts—where there is absolute 
Unity—where the tendency to oneness 
is satisfied—there can be no Attrac- 
tion:—this has been fully shown, and 
all philosophy admits it. When, on ful- 
filment of its purposes, then, Matter 
shall have returned into its original con- 
dition of One—a condition which pre- 
supposes the expulsion of the separative 
ether, whose province and whose capac- 
ity are limited to keeping the atoms 
apart until that great day when, this 
ether being no longer needed, the over- 
whelming pressure of the finally collec- 
tive Attraction shall at length just suf- 
ficiently predominate and expel it:— 
when, I say, Matter, finally expelling 
the Ether, shall have returned into ab- 
solute Unity—it will then (to speak 
paradoxically for the moment) be Mat: 
ter without Attraction and without Re- 
pulsion—in other words, Matter with- 
out Matter—in other words, again, Mat- 
ter no more. In sinking into Unity, it 
will sink at once into that Nothing- 
ness which, to all Finite Perception, 


888 


Unity must be—into that Material 
Nihility from which alone we can con- 
ceive it to have been evoked—to have 
been created by the Volition of God. 

I repeat, then, let us endeavour to 
comprehend that the final globe of 
globes will instantaneously disappear, 
and that God will remain all in all. 

But are we here to pause? Not so. 
On the Universal agglomeration and dis- 
solution, we can readily conceive that 
a new and perhaps totally different 
series of conditions may ensue—another 
creation and irradiation, returning into 
itself—another action and reaction of 
the Divine Will. Guiding our imagina- 
tion by that omniprevalent Iaw of laws, 
the law of periodicity, are we not, in- 
feed, more than justified in entertain- 
ing a belief—let us say, rather, in in- 
dulging a hope—that the processes we 
have here ventured to contemplate will 
be renewed for ever, and for ever, and 
for ever; a novel Universe swelling 
into existence, and then subsiding into 
nothingness, at every throb of the Heart 
Divine? 

And now—this Heart Divine—what 
is it? It is our own. 

Let not the merely seeming irrever- 
ence of this idea frighten our souls from 
that cool exercise of consciousness— 
from that deep tranquillity of self-in- 
spection—through which alone we can 
hope to attain the presence of this, the 
most sublime of truths, and look it 
leisurely in the face. 

The phenomena on which our conclu- 
sions must at this point depend are 
merely spiritual shadows, but not the 
less thoroughly substantial. 

We walk about, amid the destinies 
of our world-existence, encompassed by 
dim but ever present Memories of a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Destiny more vast—very distant in the 
by-gone time, and infinitely awful. 

We live out a Youth peculiarly 
haunted by such dreams; yet never mis- 
taking them for dreams. As Memories 
we know them. During our Youth the 
distinction is too clear to deceive us 
even for a moment. 

So long as this Youth endures, the 
feeling that we exist is the most natural 
of all feelings. We understand it thor- 
oughly. That there was a period at 
which we did mot exist—or that it 
might so have happened that we never 
had existed at all—are the considera- 
tions, indeed, which during this youth 
we find difficulty in understanding. 
Why we should noé exist is, up to the 
epoch of our Manhood, of all queries 
the most unanswerable. Existence— 
self-existence—existence from all Time 
and to all Eternity—seems, up to the 
epoch of Manhood, a normal and un- 
questionable condition:—seems, because 
it is. 

But now comes the period at which 
a conventional World-Reason awakens 
us from the truth of our dream. Doubt, 
Surprise, and Incomprehensibility arrive 
at the same moment. They say:—“‘You 
live, and the time was when you lived 
not. You have been created. An In- 
telligence exists greater than your own; 
and it is only through this Intelligence 
you live at all.’ These things we 
struggle to comprehend and cannot— 
cannot, because these things, being un- 
true, are thus, of necessity, incompre- 
hensible. 

No thinking being lives who, at some 
luminous point of his life of thought, 
has not felt himself lost amid the surges 
of futile efforts at understanding or 
believing that anything exists greater 


EUREKA 


than his own soul. The utter impos- 
sibility of any one soul feeling itself in- 
ferior to another; the intense, over- 
whelming dissatisfaction and rebellion 
at the thought;—these, with the omni- 
prevalent aspirations at perfection, are 
but the spiritual, coincident with the 
material, struggles towards the original 
Unity—are, to my mind at least, a 
species of proof far surpassing what 
Man terms demonstration, that no one 
soul zs inferior to another—that nothing 
is, or can be, superior to any one soul— 
that each soul is, in part, its own God— 
its own Creator:—in a word, that God— 
the material and spiritual God—now 
exists solely in the diffused Matter and 
Spirit of the Universe; and that the re- 
gathering of this diffused Matter and 
Spirit will be but the reconstitution of 
the purely Spiritual and Individual God. 

In this view, and in this view alone, 
we comprehend the riddles of Divine 
Injustice—of Inexorable Fate. In this 
view alone the existence of Evil be- 
comes intelligible; but in this view it 
becomes more—it becomes endurable. 
Our souls no longer rebel at a Sorrow 
which we ourselves have imposed upon 
ourselves, in furtherance of our own 
purposes—with a view—if even with a 
futile view—to the extension of our own 
Joy. 

I have spoken of Memories that 
haunt us during our youth. They some- 
times pursue us even in our Man- 
hood:—assume gradually less and less 
indefinite shapes:—now and then speak 
to us with low voices, saying: 

“There was an epoch in the Night of 
Tine when a still-existent Being ex- 
isted—one of an absolutely infinite 
number of similar Beings that people 
the absolutely infinite domains of the 


889 


absolutely infinite space. It was not 
and is not in the power of this Being— 
any more than it is in your own—to ex- 


- tend, by actual increase, the joy of his 


Existence; but just as it zs in your 
power to expand or to concentrate your 
pleasures (the absolute amount of hap- 
piness remaining always the same) so 
did and does a similar capability apper- 
tain to this divine being, who thus 
passes his Eternity in perpetual varia- 
tion of Concentrated Self and almost 
Infinite Self-Diffusion. What you call 
The Universe is but his present ex- 
pansive existence. He now feels his 
life through an infinity of imperfect 
pleasures—the partial and pain-inter- 
tangled pleasures of those inconceiv- 
ably numerous things which you desig- 
nate as his creatures, but which are 
really but infinite individualisations of 
Himself. All these creatures—al/]— 
those which you term animate, as well 
as those to whom you deny life for ne 
better reason than that you do not be- 
hold it in operation—al/ these creatures 
have, in a greater or less degree, a ca- 
pacity for pleasure and for pain:—but 
the general sum of their sensations is 
precisely that amount of Happiness 
which appertains by right to the Divine 
Being when concentrated within Him- 
self. These creatures are all, too, more 
or less conscious Intelligences; con- 
scious, first, of a proper identity; con- 
scious, secondly, and by faint indeter- 
minate glimpses, of an identity with the 
Divine Being of whom we speak—of an 
identity with God. Of the two classes 
of consciousness, fancy that the former 
will grow weaker, the latter stronger, 
during the long succession of ages which 
must elapse before these myriads of in- 


890 


dividual Intelligences become blended— 
when the bright stars become blended— 
into One. Think that the sense of in- 
dividual identity will be gradually 
merged in the general consciousness— 
that Man, for example, ceasing imper- 
ceptibly to feel himself Man, will at 
length attain that awfully triumphant 
epoch when he shall recognize his ex- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


istence as that of Jehovah. In the 
meantime bear in mind that all is Life— 
Life—Life within Life—the less within 
the greater, and all within the Spirit 
Divine.” 


Many of the so-called “Unpublished 
Notes” to Eureka are contained ver- 
batim in the tale The Unparalleled Ad- 
ventures of One, Hans Pfaall—Ed. 


¥ 


VOLUME IX 




















eon - ‘WORKS. OF BBB ALLAN POE? 


dividual Intelligertces nto blended itonce As that ff 
pon the bright step hecho Nendeda gaggutinie’ bedesia mas th Chat 

ito Oise Thick. (iat ih sone “of Rie ites fe aaa sees 
vada: . : 


4 


dividual identity”“wil. be prociinlige” Se #reater cane ee 


a= 


merged in’ the general conscionsnesée= paeed” = platen: 
(nat Afan, for eknmapic, crusing ines Meany an a | 
ceptibly- 50) fort lumen Man, will gp Metis’) - ty: Hiab 
length, attain tet .ewfally tit mphant wet ia the tales e : 
cpock when be shal recognize bis wie of bier * 


4 


Vantin 





F ‘ et , et Ms 
a < aee @. 


aL AMUIOL oe 





(ike ae ary hae er - 
ry y . van a. 
i ll a ee e 
“2 Saito RS 
: Ae 
' ot ns pf al 
r 
i ape ‘sy 
Te -9 ee ie mE 
ee eae Le > Ap Lei 
qaniny ae 
Li 
& 
+ la a 
§ tn Saye 
a J out Pan 


Maelzel’s Chess-Player 


(Published in Southern Literary Messenger, April, 1836.—Ed.) 


PerHaps no exhibition of the kind 
has ever elicited so general attention as 
the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever 
seen it has been an object of intense 
curiosity to all persons who think. Yet 
the question of its modus operandi is 
still undetermined. Nothing has been 
written on this topic which can be con- 
sidered as decisive—and accordingly 
we find everywhere. men of mechanical 
genius, of great general acuteness and 
discriminative understanding, who make 
no scruple in pronouncing the Autom- 
aton a pure machine, unconnected 
with human agency in its movements, 
and consequently, beyond all compari- 
son, the most astonishing of the in- 
ventions of mankind. And such it would 
undoubtedly be, were they right in their 
supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, 
it would be grossly absurd to compare 
with the Chess-player any similar thing 
of either modern or ancient days. Yet 
there have been many and wonderful 
automata. In Brewster’s “Letters on 
Natural Magic,” we have an account 
of the most remarkable. Among these 
may be mentioned, as having beyond 
doubt existed, firstly, the coach in- 
vented by M. Camus for the amuse- 
ment of Louis XIV. when a child. A 
table was placed a carriage six inches 
troduced into the room and appro- 
priated for the exhibition. Upon this 
table was placed a carriage six inches 
in length, made of wood, and drawn 
by two horses of the same material. 


891 


One window being down, a lady was 
seen on the back seat. A coachman 
held the reins on the box, and a foot- 
man and page were in their places be- 
hind. M. Camus now touched a spring; 
whereupon the coachman smacked his 
whip, and the horses proceeded in a 
natural manner along the edge of the 
table, drawing after them the carriage. 
Having gone as far as possible in this 
direction, a sudden turn was made to 
the left, and the vehicle was driven at 
right angles to its former course, and 
still closely along the edge of the table. 
In this way the coach proceeded until 
it arrived opposite the chair of the 
young prince. It then stopped, the 
page descended and opened the door, 
the lady alighted and presented a peti- 
tion to her sovereign. She then re- 
entered. The page put up the steps, 
closed the door, and resumed his sta- 
tion. The coachman whipped his 
horses, and the carriage was driven 
back to its original position. 

The Magician of M. Maillardet is 
also worthy of notice. We copy the 
following account of it from the “Let- 
ters” before mentioned of Dr. B., who 
derived his information principally from 
the “Edinburgh Encylopedia.” 

“One of the most popular pieces of 
mechanism which we have seen is the 
Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, 
for the purpose of answering certain 
given questions. A figure, dressed like 
a magician, appears seated at the bot- 


892 


tom of a wall, holding a wand in one 
hand, and a book in the other. A 
number of questions, ready prepared, 
are inscribed on oval medallions, and 
the spectator takes any of these he 
chooses, and to which he wishes an 
answer, and having placed it in a drawer 
ready to receive it, the drawer shuts 
with a spring till the answer is returned. 
The magician then arises from his seat, 
bows his head, describes circles with 
his wand, and consulting the book as if 
in deep thought, he lifts it toward his 
face. Having thus appeared to ponder 
over the proposed question, he raises 
his wand, and striking with it the wall 
above his head, two folding-doors fly 
open, and display an appropriate an- 
swer to the question. The doors again 
close, the magician resumes his original 
position, and the drawer opens to re- 
turn the medallion. There are twenty 
of these medallions, all containing dif- 
ferent questions, to which the magician 
returns the most suitable and striking 
answers. The medallions are thin plates 
of brass, of an elliptical form, ex- 
actly resembling each other. Some of 
the medallions have a question inscribed 
on each side, both of which the magi- 
cian answers in succession. If the 
drawer is shut without a medallion 
being put in it, the magician rises, 
consults his book, shakes his head, and 
resumes his seat; the folding doors re- 
main shut, and the drawer is returned 


empty. If two medallions are put into 


the drawer together, an answer is re- 
turned only to the lower one. When 
the machinery is wound up, the move- 
ments continue about an hour, during 
which time about fifty persons may be 
wmswered. The inventor stated that the 
ineans by which the different medal- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


lions acted upon the machinery, so as 
to produce the proper answers to the 
questions which they contained, were 
extremely simple.” 

The Duck of Vaucanson was still 
more remarkable. It was of the size of 
life, and so perfect an imitation of the 
living animal that all the spectators 
were deceived. It executed, says 
Brewster, all the natural movements 
and gestures, it ate and drank with avid- 
ity, performed all the quick motions of 
the head and throat which are peculiar 
to the duck, and like it muddled the 
water which it drank with its bill. It 
produced also the sound of quacking in 
the most natural manner. In the an- 
atomical structure the artists exhibited 
the highest skill. Every bone in the 
real duck had its representative in the 
automaton, and its wings were anatom- 
ically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, 
and curvature was imitated, and each 
bone executed its proper movements. 
When corn was thrown down before it, 
the duck stretched out its neck to pick 
it up, swallowed, and digested it. 

But if these machines were ingenious, 
what shall we think of the calculating 
machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we 
think of an engine of wood and metal 
which can not only compute astronom- 
ical and navigation tables to any given 
extent, but render the exactitude of its 
operations mathematically certain 
through its power of correcting its pos- 
sible errors? What shall we think of 
the machine which can not only accom- 
plish all this, but actually print off its 
elaborate results, when obtained, with- 
out the slightest intervention of the 
intellect of man? It will, perhaps, be 
said in reply, that a machine such as 
we have described is altogether above 


MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


comparison with the Chess-Player of 
Maelzel. By no means—it is altogether 
beneath it—that is to say, provided we 
assume (what should never for a mo- 
ment be assumed) that the Chess-Player 
is a pure machine, and performs its 
operations without any immediate hu- 
man agency. Arithmetical or alge- 
braical calculations are, from their very 
nature, fixed and determinate. Certain 
data being given, certain results neces- 
sarily and inevitably follow. These 
results have dependence upon nothing, 
and are influenced by nothing but the 
data originally given. And the ques- 
tion to be solved proceeds, or should 
proceed, to its final determination, by 
a succession of unerring steps liable to 
no change, and subject to no modifica- 
tion. This being the case, we can with- 
out difficulty conceive the possibility of 
so arranging a piece of mechanism, 
that upon starting it in accordance with 
the data of the question to be solved, 
it should continue its movements regu- 
larly, progressively, and undeviatingly 
toward the required solution, since 
these movements, however complex, are 
never imagined to be otherwise than 
finite and determinate. But the case is 
widely different with the Chess-Player. 
With him there is no determinate pro- 
gression. No one move in chess neces- 
sarily follows upon any one other. From 
no particular disposition of the men at 
one period of a game can we predicate 
their disposition at a different period. 
Let us place the first move in a game 
of chess, in juxtaposition with the data 
of an algebraical question, and their 
great difference will be immediately 
perceived. From the latter—from the 
data—the second step of the question, 
dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. 


893 
It is modelled by the data. It must 
be thus and not otherwise. But from 


the first move in the game of chess no 
especial second move follows of neces- 
sity. In the algebraical question, as it 
proceeds toward solution, the certainty 
of its operations remains altogether un- 
impaired. The second step having been 
a consequence of the data, the third 
step is equally a consequence of the 
second, the fourth of the third, the 
fifth of the fourth, and so on, and not 
possibly otherwise, to the end. But in 
proportion to the progress made in a 
game of chess, is the uncertainty of 
each ensuing move. A few moves hay- 
ing been made, no step is certain. 
Different spectators of the game would 
advise different moves. All is then de- 
pendent upon the variable judgment of 
the players. Now even granting (what 
should not be granted) that the move- 
ments of the Automaton Chess-Player 
were in themselves determinate, they 
would be necessarily interrupted and 
disarranged by the indeterminate will 
of his antagonist. There is then no 
analogy whatever between the opera- 
tions of the Chess-Player and those of 
the calculating machine of Mr. Bab- 
bage, and if we choose to call the 
former a pure machine we must be 
prepared to admit that it is, beyond 
all comparison, the most wonderful of 
the inventions of mankind. Its original 
projector, however, Baron Kempelen, 
had no scruple in declaring it to be a 
“very ordinary piece of mechanism— 
a bagatelle whose effects appeared so 
marvellous only from the boldness of 
the conception, and the fortunate 
choice of the methods adopted for pro- 
moting the illusion.” But it is needless 
to dwell upon this point. It is quite 


894 


certain that the operations of the Au- 
tomaton are regulated by mind, and by 
nothing else. Indeed this matter is 
susceptible of a mathematical demon- 
stration, a priort. The only question 
then is of the manner in which human 
agency is brought to bear. Before en- 
tering upon this subject it would be as 
well to give a brief history and descrip- 
tion of the Chess-Player for the benefit 
of such of our readers as may never 
have had an opportunity of witnessing 
Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition. 

The Automaton Chess-Player was in- 
vented in 1769 by Baron Kempelen, a 
nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who 
afterward disposed of it, together with 
the secret of its operations, to its pres- 
ent possessor.* Soon after its comple- 
tion it was exhibited in Presburg, Paris, 
Vienna, and other continental cities. In 
1783 and 1784 it was taken to London 
by Mr. Maelzel. Of late years it has 





visited the principal towns in the United 
States. Wherever seen, the most in- 
tense curiosity was excited by its ap- 
pearance, and numerous have been the 
attempts, by men of all classes, to 
fathom the mystery of its evolutions. 





* See Contents, tale, Von Kempelen 
and.His Discovery.—Ed, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The cut on this page gives a toler- 
able representation of the figure as seen 
by the citizens of Richmond a few 
weeks ago. The right arm, however, 
should lie more at length upon the box, 
a chess-board should appear upon it, 
and the cushion should not be seen 
while the pipe is held. Some immate- 
rial alterations have been made in the 
costume of the player since it came into 
the possession of Maelzel—the plume, 
for example, was not originally worn. 

At the hour appointed for exhibition, 
a curtain is withdrawn, or folding-doors 
are thrown open, and the machine rolled 
to within about twelve feet of the 
nearest of the spectators, between 
whom and it (the machine) a rope is 
stretched. A figure is seen habited as 
a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, 
at a large box apparently of maple- 
wood, which serves it as a table. The 
exhibitor will, if requested, roll the 
machine to any portion of the room, 
suffer it to remain altogether on any 
designated spot, or even shift its loca- 
tion repeatedly during the progress of a 
game. The bottom of the box is ele- 
vated considerably above the floor by 
means of the castors or brazen rollers 
on which it moves, a clear view of the 
surface immediately beneath the Autom- 
aton being thus afforded to the specta- 
tors. The chair on which the figure sits 
is affixed permanently to the box. On 
the top of this latter is a chess-board, 
also permanently affixed. The right arm 
of the Chess-Player is extended at full 
length before him, at right angles with 
his body, and lying, in an apparently 
careless position, by the side of the 
board. The back of the hand is up- 
ward. The board itself is eighteen 
inches square. The left arm of the 


MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


figure is bent at the elbow, and in the 
left hand is a pipe. A green drapery 
conceals the back of the Turk, and 
falls partially over the front of both 
shoulders. To judge from the external 
appearance of the box, it is divided into 
five compartments—three cupboards of 
equal dimensions and two drawers oc- 
cupying that portion of the chest lying 
beneath the cupboards. The foregoing 
observations apply to the appearance of 
the Automaton upon its first introduc- 
tion into the presence of the spectators. 

Maelzel now informs the company 
that he will disclose to their view the 
mechanism of the machine. Taking 
from his pocket a bunch of keys, he 
unlocks with one of them a door 
marked 1 in the cut on page 894 and 
throws the cupboard fully open to the 
inspection of all present. Its whole 
interior is apparently filled with wheels, 
pinions, levers, and other machinery, 
crowded very closely together, so that 
the eye can penetrate but a little dis- 
tance into the mass. Leaving this door 
open to its full extent, he goes now 
round to the back of the box, and rais- 
ing the drapery of the figure, opens 
another door situated precisely in the 
rear of the one first opened. Holding a 
lighted candle at this door, and shift- 
ing the position of the whole machine 
repeatedly at the same time, a bright 
light is thrown entirely through the 
cupboard, which. is now clearly seen to 
be full, completely full, of machinery. 
The spectators being satisfied of this 
fact, Maelzel closes the back door, locks 
it, takes the key from the lock, lets fall 
the drapery of the figure, and comes 
round to the front. The door marked 
1, it will be remembered, is still open. 
The exhibitor now proceeds to open 


895 


the drawer which lies beneath the tup- 
boards at the bottom of the box—for 
although there are apparently two 
drawers, there is really only one—the 
two handles and two key-holes being 
intended merely for ornament. Having 
opened this drawer to its full extent, a 
small cushion, and a set of chessmen, 
fixed in a framework made to support 
them perpendicularly, are discovered. 
Leaving this drawer, as well as cup- 
board No. 1, open, Maelzel now un- 
locks door No. 2, and door No. 3, which 
are discovered to be _ folding-doors, 
opening into one and the same compart- 
ment. To the right of this compart- 
ment, however (that is to say to the 
spectators’ right), a small division, six 
inches wide, and filled with machinery, 
is partitioned off. The main compart- 
ment itself (in speaking of that por- 
tion of the box visible upon opening 
doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it 
the main compartment) is lined with 
dark cloth and contains no machinery 
whatever beyond two pieces of steel, 
quadrant-shaped, and situated one in 
each of the rear top corners of the com- 
partment. A small protuberance about 
eight inches square, and also covered 
with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the 
compartment near the rear corner on 
the spectators’ left hand. Leaving 
doors No. 2 and No. 3 open, as well as 
the drawer and door No. 1, the exhibitor 
now goes round to the back of the 
main compartment, and, unlocking an- 
other door there, displays clearly all 
the interior of the main compartment, 
by introducing a candle behind it and 
within it. The whole box being thus 
apparently disclosed to the scrutiny of 
the company, Maelzel, still leaving the 
doors and drawer open, rolls the Autom- 


896 


aton entirely round, and exposes the 
back of the Turk by lifting up the drap- 
ery. A door about ten inches square is 
thrown open in the loins of the figure, 
and a smaller one also in the left thigh. 
The interior of the figure, as seen 
through these apertures, appears to be 
crowded with machinery. In general, 
every spectator is now thoroughly satis- 
fied of having beheld and completely 
scrutinized, at one and the same time, 
every individual portion of the Autom- 
aton, and the idea of any person being 
concealed in the interior, during so com- 
plete an exhibition of that interior, if 
ever entertained, is immediately dis- 
missed as preposterous in the extreme. 

M. Maelzel, having rolled the ma- 
chine back into its original position, 
now informs the company that the 
Automaton will play a game of chess 
with any one disposed to encounter him. 
This challenge being accepted, a small 
table is prepared for the antagonist, and 
placed close by the rope, but on the 
spectators’ side of it, and so situated as 
not to prevent the company from ob- 
taining a full view of the Automaton. 
From a drawer in this table is taken a 
set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges 
them generally, but not always, with 
his own hands, on the chess-board, 
which consists merely of the usual num- 
ber of squares painted upon the table. 
The antagonist having taken his seat, 
the exhibitor approaches the drawer of 
the box, and takes therefrom the cush- 
ion, which, after removing the pipe 
from the hand of the Automaton, he 
places under its left arm as a support. 
Then taking also from the drawer the 
Automaton’s set of chess-men, he ar- 
ranges them upon the chess-board be- 
fore the figure. He now proceeds to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


close the doors and to lock them— 
leaving the bunch of keys in door No. 1. 
He also closes the drawer, and, finally, 
winds up the machine, by applying a 
key to an aperture in the left end (the 
spectators’ left) of the box. The game 
now commences—the Automaton taking 
the first move. The duration of the 
contest is usually limited to half an 
hour, but if it be not finished at the 
expiration of this period, and the an- 
tagonist still contends that he can beat 
the Automaton, M. Maelzel has seldom 
any objection to continue it. Not to 
weary the company is the ostensible 
and no doubt the real object of the 
limitation. It will, of course, be under- 
stood that when a move is made at his 
own table, by the antagonist, the corre- 
sponding move is made at the box of 
the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, 
who then acts as the representative of 
the antagonist. On the other hand, 
when the Turk moves, the correspond- 
ing move is made at the table of the 
antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who 
then acts as the representative of the 
Automaton. In this manner it is neces- 
sary that the exhibitor should often 
pass from one table to the other. He 
also frequently goes in the rear of the 
figure to remove the chess-men which 
it has taken, and which it deposits, 
when taken, on the box to the left (to 
its own left) of the board. When the 
Automaton hesitates in relation to its 
move, the exhibitor is occasionally seen 


to place himself very near its right side, 


and to lay his hand now and then, in 
a careless manner, upon the box. He 
has also a peculiar shuffle with his 
feet, calculated to induce suspicion of 
collusion with the machine in minds 
which are more cunning than sagacious. 


MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


These peculiarities are, no doubt, mere 
mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he 
is aware of them at all, he puts them in 
practice with a view of exciting in the 
spectators a false idea of the pure 
mechanism in the Automaton. 

The Turk plays with his left hand. 
All the movements of the arm are at 
right angles. In this manner, the hand 
(which is gloved and bent in a natural 
way), being brought directly above the 
piece to be moved, descends finally 
upon it, the fingers receiving it, in 
most cases, without difficulty. Occa- 
sionally, however, when the piece is 
not precisely in its proper situation 
the Automaton fails in his attempt at 
seizing it. When this occurs, no sec- 
ond effort is made, but the arm con- 
tinues its movements in the direction 
originally intended, precisely as if the 
piece were in the fingers. Having thus 
designated the spot whither the move 
should have been made, the arm returns 
to its cushion, and Maelzel performs 
the evolution which the Automaton 
pointed out. At every movement of 
the figure machinery is heard in motion. 
During the progress of the game, the 
figure now and then rolls its eyes, as 
if surveying the board, moves its head, 
and pronounces the word echec (check) 
when necessary. If a false move be 
made by his antagonist, he raps briskly 
on the box with the fingers of his right 
hand, shakes his head roughly, and re- 
placing the piece falsely moved, in its 
former situation, assumes the next 
move himself. Upon beating the game, 
he waves his head with an air of tri- 
umph, looks around complacently upon 
the spectators, and drawing his left 
arm farther back than usual, suffers 
his fingers alone to rest upon the cush- 


897 


ion. In general, the Turk is victorious 
—once or twice he has been beaten. 
The game being ended, Maelzel will 
again, if desired, exhibit the mechanism 
of the box, in the same manner as be- 
fore. The machine is then rolled back, 
and a curtain hides it from the view 
of the company. 

There have been many attempts at 
solving the mystery of the Automaton. 
The most general opinion in relation to 
it, an opinion too not unfrequently 
adopted by men who should have known 
better, was, as we have before said, 
that no immediate human agency was 
employed—in other words, that the 
machine was purely a machine and 
nothing else. Many, however, main- 
tained that the exhibitor himself regu- 
lated the movements of the figure by 
mechanical means operating through 
the feet of the box. Others, again, 
spoke confidently of a magnet. Of the’ 
first of these opinions we shall say 
nothing at present more than we have 
already said. In relation to the sec- 
ond it is only necessary to repeat what 
we have before stated, that the machine 
is rolled about on castors, and will, at 
the request of a spectator, be moved 
to and fro to any portion of the room, 
even during the progress of the game. 
The supposition of the magnet is also 
untenable—for if a magnet were the 
agent, any other magnet in the pocket 
of a spectator would disarrange the 
entire mechanism. The exhibitor, how- 
ever, will suffer the most powerful load- 
stone to remain even upon the box 
during the whole of the exhibition. 

The first attempt at a written ex- 
planation of the secret, at least the 
first attempt of which we ourselves 
have any knowledge, was made in a 


898 


large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. 
The author’s hypothesis amounted to 
this—that a dwarf actuated the ma- 
chine. This dwarf he supposed to con- 
ceal himself during the opening of the 
box by thrusting his legs into two hol- 
low cylinders, which were represented 
to be (but which are not) among the 
machinery in the cupboard No. 1, while 
his body was out of the box entirely, 
and covered by the drapery of the Turk. 
When the doors were shut, the dwarf 
was enabled to bring his body within 
the box—the noise produced by some 
portion of the machinery allowing him 
to do so unheard, and also to close the 
door by which he entered. The interior 
of the Automaton being then exhibited, 
and no person discovered, the specta- 
tors, says the author of this pamphlet, 
are satisfied that no one is within any 
portion of the machine. The whole 
hypothesis was too obviously absurd 
to require comment or refutation, and 
accordingly we find that it attracted 
very little attention. 

In 1789 a book was published at 
Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in which 
another endeavor was made to un- 
ravel the mystery. Mr. Freyhere’s book 
was a pretty large one, and copiously 
illustrated by colored engravings. His 
supposition was that “a well taught boy, 
very thin and tall of his age (suffi- 
ciently so that he could be concealed in 
a drawer almost immediately under the 
chess-board)” played the game of chess 
and effected all the evolutions of the 
Automaton. This idea, although even 
more silly than that of the Parisian au- 
thor, met with a better reception, and 
was in some measure believed to be 
the true solution of the wonder, until 
the inventor put an end to the discus- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sion by suffering a close examination of 
the top of the box. 

These bizarre attempts at explana- 
tion were followed by others equally 
bizarre. Of late years, however, an 
anonymous writer, by a course of rea- 
soning exceedingly unphilosophical, has 
contrived to blunder upon a plausible 
solution—although we cannot consider 
it altogether the true one. His Essay 
was first published in a Baltimore 
weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, 
and was entitled “An Attempt to Ana- 
lyze the Automaton Chess-Player of 
M. Maelzel.” This Essay we suppose 
to have been the original of the pam- 
phlet to which Sir David Brewster al- 
ludes in his “Letters on Natural Magic,” 
and which he has no hesitation in de- 
claring a thorough and satisfactory ex- 
planation. The results of the analysis 
are undoubtedly, in the main, just; but 
we can only account for Brewster’s pro- 
nouncing the Essay a thorough and 
satisfactory explanation, by supposing 
him to have bestowed upon it a very 
cursory and inattentive perusal. In the 
compendium of the Essay, made use of 
in the “Letters on Natural Magic,” it 
is quite impossible to arrive at any 
distinct conclusion in regard to the ade- 
quacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on 
account of the gross misarrangement 
and deficiency of the letters of reference 
employed. The same fault is to be 
found in the “Attempt,” etc., as we 
originally saw it. The solution consists 
in a series of minute explanations, (ac- 
companied by wood-cuts, the whole 
occupying many pages,) in which the 
object is to show the possibility of so 
shifting the partitions of the box as to 
allow a human being, concealed in the 
interior, to move portions of his body 





MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


_ from one part of the box to another, 
during the exhibition of the mechanism 
—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spec- 
_tators. There can be no doubt, as we 
have before observed, and as we will 
presently endeavor to show, that the 
principle, or rather the result of this so- 
lution is the true one. Some person 7s 
concealed in the box during the whole 
time of exhibiting the interior. We ob- 
ject, however, to the whole verbose de- 
scription of the manner in which the 
partitions are shifted, to accommodate 
the movements of the person concealed. 
We object to it as a mere theory as- 
sumed in the first place, and to which 
circumstances are afterward made to 
adapt themselves. It was not, and could 
not have been, arrived at by any induc- 
tive reasoning. In whatever way the 
shifting is managed, it is of course con- 
cealed at every step from observation. 
To show that certain movement might 
possibly be effected in a certain way, is 
very far from showing that they are 
actually so effected. ‘There may be an 
infinity of other methods by which the 
same results may be obtained. The 
probability of the one assumed proving 
the correct one is then as unity to in- 
finity. But, in reality, this particular 
point, the shifting of the partitions, is 
of no consequence whatever. It was 
altogether unnecessary to devote seven 
or eight pages for the purpose of prov- 
ing what no one in his senses would 
deny—viz.: that the wonderful me- 
chanical genius of Baron Kempelen 
could invent the necessary means for 
shutting a door or slipping aside a panel, 
with a human agent too at his service 
in actual contact with the panel or the 
door, and the whole operations carried 
on, as the author of the Essay himself 


899 


shows, and as we shall attempt to show 
more fully hereafter, entirely out of 
reach of the observation of the 
spectators. 

In attempting ourselves an explana- 
tion of the Automaton, we will, in the 
first place, endeavor to show how its 
operations are effected, and afterward 
describe, as briefly as possible, the na- 
ture of the observations from which we 
have deduced our result. 

It will be necessary for a proper un- 
derstanding of the subject, that we 
repeat here in a few words, the routine 
adopted by the exhibitor in disclosing 
the interior of the box—a routine from 
which he never deviates in any material 
particular. In the first place he opens 
the door No. 1. Leaving this open, he 
goes round to the rear of the box, and 
opens a door precisely at the back of 
door No. 1. To this back door he 
holds a lighted candle. He then closes 
the back door, locks it, and, coming 
round to the front, opens the drawer to 
its full extent. This done, he opens 
the doors No. 2 and No. 3 (the fold- 
ing-doors), and displays the interior of 
the main compartment. Leaving open 
the main compartment, the drawer, and 
the front door of cupboard No. 1, he 
now goes to the rear again, and throws 
open the back door of the main com- 
partment. In shutting up the box no 
particular order is observed, except that 
the folding-doors are always closed be- 
fore the drawer. 

Now, let us suppose that when the 
machine is first rolled into the presence 
of the spectators, a man is already 
within it. His body is situated behind 
the dense machinery in cupboard No. 1 
(the rear portion of which machinery 


900 


is so contrived as to slip en masse from 
the main compartment to the cupboard 
No. 1, as occasion may require), and 
his legs lie at full length in the main 
compartment. When Maelzel opens 
the door No. 1, the man within is not 
in any danger of discovery, for the 
keenest eye cannot penetrate more than 
about two inches into the darkness 
within. But the case is otherwise when 
the back door of the cupboard No. 1, 
is opened. A bright light then pervades 
the cupboard, and the body of the man 
would be discovered if it were there. 
But it is not. The putting the key in 
the lock of the back door was a signal 
on hearing which the person concealed 
brought his body forward to an angle 
as acute as possible—throwing it al- 
together, or nearly so, into the main 
compartment. This, however, is a pain- 
ful position, and cannot be long main- 
tained. Accordingly we find that Mael- 
zel closes the back door. This being done, 
there is no reason why the body of the 
man may not resume its former situa- 
tion—for the cupboard is again so dark 
as to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now 
opened, and the legs of the person 
within drop down behind it in the space 
it formerly occupied.* There is, conse- 


* Sir David Brewster supposes that 
there is always a large space behind 
this drawer even when shut—in other 
words, that the drawer is a “false 
drawer,’ and does not extend to the 
back of the box. But the idea is alto- 
gether untenable. So commonplace a 
trick would be immediately discovered 
—especially as the drawer is always 
opened to its full extent, and an op- 
portunity thus offered of comparing its 
depth with that of the box—E. A. P. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


quently, now no longer any part of the 
man in the main compartment—his 
body being behind the machinery in 
cupboard No. i, and his legs in the 
space occupied by the drawer. The ex- 
hibitor, therefore, finds himself at lib- 
erty to display the main compartment. 
This he does—opening both its back 
and front doors—and no person is dis- 
covered. The spectators are now satis- 
fied that the whole of the box is ex- 
posed to view—and exposed, too, all 
portions of it at one and the same 
time. But of course this is not the 
case. They neither see the space be- 
hind the drawer, nor the interior of 
cupboard No. 1—the front door of 
which latter the exhibitor virtually 
shuts in shutting its back door. Mael- 
zel, having now rolled the machine 
around, lifted up the drapery of the 
Turk, opened the doors in its back and 
thigh, and shown his trunk to be full 
of machinery, brings the whole back 
into its original position, and closes the 
doors. The man within is now at lib- 
erty to move about. He gets up into 
the body of the Turk just so high as to 
bring his eyes above the level of the 
chess-board. It is very probable that 
he seats himself upon the little square 
block or protuberance which is seen in 
a corner of the main compartment 
when the doors are open. In this po- 
sition he sees the chess-board through 
the bosom of the Turk, which is of 
gauze. Bringing his right arm across 
his breast he actuates. the little ma- 
chinery necessary to guide the left 
arm and the fingers of the figure. This 
machinery is situated just beneath the 
left shoulder of the Turk, and is con- 
sequently easily reached by the right 
hand of the man concealed, if we sup< 


MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


pose his right arm brought across the 
breast. The motion of the head and 
eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, 
as well as the sound echec, are produced 
by other mechanism in the interior, and 
actuated at will by the man within. 
The whole of this mechanism—that is 
to say, all the mechanism essential to 
the machine—is most probably con- 
tained within the little cupboard (of 
about six inches in breadth) partitioned 
off at the right (the spectators’ right) 
of the main compartment. 

In this analysis of the operations of 
the Automaton, we have purposely 
avoided any allusion to the manner in 
which the partitions are shifted, and 
it will now be readily comprehended 
that this point is a matter of no im- 
portance, since, by mechanism within 
the ability of any common carpenter, it 
might be effected in an infinity of 
different ways, and since we have 
shown that, however performed, it is 
performed out of the view of the 
spectators. Our result is founded upon 
the following observations taken during 
frequent visits to the exhibition of 
Maelzel.* 

1. The moves of the Turk are not 
made at regular intervals of time, but 


* Some of these observations are in- 
tended merely to prove that the ma- 
chine must be regulated by mind, and 
it may be thought a work of supereroga- 
tion to advance further arguments in 
support of what has been already fully 
decided. But our object is to convince, 
in especial, certain of our friends upon 
whom a train of suggestive reasoning 
will have more influence than the most 
positive a@ priori demonstration — 
E. A. P. 


901 


accommodate themselves to the moves 
of the antagonist—although this point 
(of regularity), so important in all 
kinds of mechanical contrivance, might 
have been readily brought about by 
limiting the time allowed for the moves 
of the antagonist. For example, if this 
limit were three minutes, the moves of 
the Automaton might be made at any 
given intervals longer than three min- 
utes. The fact then of irregularity, 
when regularity might have been so 
easily attained, goes to prove that regu- 
larity is unimportant to the action of the 
Automaton—in other words, that the 
Automaton is not a pure machine. 

2. When the Automaton is about to 
move a piece, a distinct motion is ob- 
servable just beneath the left shoulder, 
and which motion agitates in a slight 
degree the drapery covering the front 
of the left shoulder. This motion in- 
variably precedes, by about two seconds, 
the movement of the arm itself; and 
the arm never, in any instance, moves 
without this preparatory motion in the 
shoulder. Now let the antagonist move 
a piece, and let the corresponding move 
be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the 
board of the Automaton. Then let the 
antagonist narrowly watch the Automa- 
ton, until he detect the preparatory mo- 
tion in the shoulder. Immediately upon 
detecting this motion, and before the 
arm itself begins to move, let him with- 
draw his piece, as if perceiving an error 
in his manoeuvre. It will then be seen 
that the movement of the arm, which, 
in all other cases, immediately succeeds 
the motion in the shoulder, is withheld 
—is not made—although Maelzel has 
not yet performed, on the board of the 
Automaton, any move corresponding to 
the withdrawal of the antagonist. In 


902 


this case, that the Automaton was 
about to move is evident; and that he 
did not move was an effect plainly pro- 
duced by the withdrawal of the an- 
tagonist, and without any intervention 
of Maelzel. 

This fact fully proves (1) that the 
intervention of Maelzel, in performing 
the moves of the antagonist on the 
board of the Automaton, is not essential 
to the movements of the Automaton; 
(2) that its movements are regulated 
by mind—by some person who sees the 
board of the antagonist; (3) that its 
movements are not regulated by the 
mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned 
toward the antagonist at the with- 
drawal of his move. 

3. The Automaton does not invari- 
ably win the game. Were the machine 
a pure machine, this would not be the 
case—it would always win. The prin- 
ciple being discovered by which a ma- 
chine can be made to play a game of 
chess, an extension of the same prin- 
ciple would enable it to win a game; 
a further extension would enable it to 
win all games—that is, to beat any pos- 
sible game of an antagonist. A little 
consideration will convince any one that 
the difficulty of making a machine beat 
all games is not in the least degree 
greater, as regards the principle of the 
operations necessary, than that of mak- 
ing it beat a single game. If, then, we 
regard the Chess-Player as a machine, 
we must suppose (what is highly im- 
probable) that its inventor preferred 
leaving it incomplete to perfecting it— 
a supposition rendered still more ab- 
surd when we reflect that the leaving 
it incomplete would afford an argument 
against the possibility of its being a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


pure machine—the very argument we 
now adduce. 

4. When the situation of the game is 
difficult or complex, we never perceive 
the Turk either shake his head or roll 
his eyes. It is only when his next move 
is obvious, or when the game is so 
circumstanced that to a man in the Au- 
tomaton’s place there would be no 
necessity for reflection. Now, these 
peculiar movements of the head and 
eyes are movements customary with 
persons engaged in meditation, and the 
ingenious Baron Kempelen would have 
adapted these movements (were the 
machine a pure machine) to occasions 
proper for their display—that is, to 
occasions of complexity. But the re- 
verse is seen to be the case, and this 
reverse applies precisely to our suppo- 
sition of a man in the interior. When 
engaged in meditation about the game 
he has no time to think of setting in 
motion the mechanism of the Automa- 
ton by which are moved the head and 
the eyes. When the game, however, is 
obvious, he has time to look about 
him, and, accordingly, we see the head 
shake and the eyes roll. 

5. When the machine is rolled round 
to allow the spectators an examination 
of the back of the Turk, and when his 
drapery is lifted up and the doors in 
the trunk and thigh thrown open, the 
interior of the trunk is seen to be 
crowded with machinery. In scrutiniz- 
ing this machinery while the Automaton 
was in motion—that is to say, while 
the whole machine was moving on the 
castors—it appeared to us that certain 
portions of the mechanism changed 
their shape and position in a degree too 
great to be accounted for by the simple 
laws of perspective; and subsequent 





MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


examinations convinced us that these 
undue alterations were attributable to 
mirrors in the interior of the trunk. 
The introduction of mirrors among the 
machinery could not have been intended 
to influence, in any degree, the ma- 
chinery itself. Their operation—what- 
ever that operation should prove to be 
—must necessarily have reference to 
the eye of the spectator. We at once 
concluded that these mirrors were so 
placed to multiply to the vision some 
few pieces of machinery within the 
trunk so as to give it the appearance 
of being crowded with mechanism. 
Now the direct inference from this is 
that the machine is not a pure machine. 
For if it were, the inventor, so far 
from wishing its mechanism to appear 
complex, and using deception for the 
purpose of giving it this appearance, 
would have been especially desirous of 
convincing those who witnessed his 
exhibition of the simplicity of the 
means by which results so wonderful 
were brought about. 

6. The external appearance, and, es- 
pecially, the deportment of the Turk, 
are, when we consider them as imita- 
tions of léfe but very indifferent imita- 
tions. The countenance evinces no in- 
genuity, and is surpassed, in its resem- 
blance to the human face, by the very 
commonest of wax-works. The eyes 
roll unnaturally in the head, without 
any corresponding motions of the lids 
or brows. The arm, particularly, per- 
forms its operations in an exceedingly 
stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular 
manner. Now, all this is the result 
either of inability in Maelzel to do bet- 
ter, or of intentional neglect—accidental 
neglect being out of the question, when 
we consider that the whole time of the 


903 


ingenious proprietor is occupied in the 
improvement of his machines. Most 
assuredly we must not refer the unlife- 
like appearances to inability—for all the 
rest of Maelzel’s automata are evidence 
of his full ability to copy the notions 
and peculiarities of life with the 
most wonderful exactitude. The rope- 
dancers, for example, are inimitable. 
When the clown laughs, his lips, his 
eyes, his eyebrows, and eyelids—indeed, 
all the features of his countenance— 
are imbued with their appropriate ex- 
pressions. In both him and his com- 
panion, every gesture is so entirely 
easy, and free from the semblance of 
artificiality, that, were it not for the 
diminutiveness of their size, and the 
fact of their being passed from one 
spectator to another previous to their 
exhibition on the rope, it would be 
difficult to convince any assemblage of 
persons that these wooden automata 
were not living creatures. We cannot, 
therefore, doubt Mr. Maelzel’s ability, 
and we must necessarily suppose that 
he intentionally suffered his Chess. 
Player to remain the same artificial and 
unnatural figure which Baron Kem- 
pelen (no doubt also through design) 
originally made it. What this design 
was it is not difficult to conceive. Were 
the Automaton life-like in its motions, 
the spectator would be more apt te 
attribute its operations to their true 
cause (that is, to human agency within), 
than he is now, when the awkward and 
rectangular manceuvres convey the idea 
of pure and unaided mechanism. 

7. When, a short time previous to 
the commencement’ of the game, the 
Automaton is wound up by the exhibitor 
as usual, an ear in any degree accus- 
tomed to the sounds produced in wind- 


904 


ing up a system of machinery, will not 
fail to discover, instantaneously, that 
the axis turned by the key in the box 
of the Chess-Player cannot possibly be 
connected with either a weight, a spring, 
or any system of machinery whatever. 
The inference here is the same as in 
our last observation. The winding up 
is inessential to the operations of the 
Automaton, and is performed with the 
design of exciting in the spectators the 
false idea of mechanism. 

8. When the question is demanded 
explicitly of Maelzel: “Is the Automa- 
ton a pure machine or not?” his reply 
is invariably the same: “TI will say noth- 
ing about it.” Now the notoriety of 
the Automaton, and the great curiosity 
it has everywhere excited, are owing 
more especially to the prevalent opin- 
ion that it zs a pure machine, than to 
any other circumstance. Of course, 
then, it is the interest of the proprietor 
to represent it as a pure machine. And 
what more obvious, and more effectual 
method could there be of impressing 
the spectators with this desired -idea, 
than a positive and explicit declara- 
tion to that effect? On the other hand, 
what more obvious and effectual method 
could there be of exciting a disbelief 
in the Automaton’s being a pure ma- 
chine than by withholding such explicit 
declaration? For, people will naturally 
reason thus: It is Maelzel’s interest 
to represent this thing a pure machine; 
he refuses to do so, directly, in words, 
although he does not scruple and is evi- 
dently anxious to do so indirectly, by 
actions; were it actually what he wishes 
to represent it by. actions, he would 
gladly avail himself of the more direct 
testimony of words; the inference is, 
that the consciousness of its not being 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


a pure machine is the reason of his 
silence; his actions cannot implicate 
him in a falsehood, his words may. 

9, When, in exhibiting the interior of 
the box, Maelzel has thrown open the 
door No. 1, and also the door imme- 
diately behind it, he holds a lighted 
candle at the back door (as before 
mentioned) and moves the entire ma- 
chine to and fro with a view of convinc- 
ing the company that the cupboard 
No. 1 is entirely filled with machinery. 
When the machine is thus moved about, 
it will be apparent to any careful ob- 
server, that whereas that portion of the 
machinery near the front door No. 1 
is perfectly steady and unwavering, the 
portion farther within fluctuates, in a 
very slight degree, with the movements 
of the machine. This circumstance 
first aroused in us the suspicion that 
the more remote portion of the machin- 
ery was so arranged as to be easily 
slipped, ez masse, from its position 
when occasion should require it. This 
occasion we have already stated to 
occur when the man concealed within 
brings his body into an erect position 
upon the closing of the back door. 

10. Sir David Brewster states the 
figure of the Turk to be of the size of 
life—but in fact it is far above the 
ordinary size. Nothing is more easy 
than to err in our notions of magnitude. 
The body of the Automaton is generally 
insulated, and, having no means of im- 
mediately comparing it with any human 
form, we suffer ourselves to consider 
it as of ordinary dimensions. This mis- 
take may, however, be corrected by ob- 
serving the Chess-Player when, as is 
sometimes the case, the exhibitor ap- 
proaches it. Mr. Maelzel, to be sure, 
is not very tall, but upon drawing 


MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


near the machine his head will be 
found at least eighteen inches below the 
head of the Turk, although the latter, 
it will be remembered, is in a sitting 
position. 

11. The box, behind which the Au- 
tomaton is placed, is precisely three 
feet six inches long, two feet four 
inches deep, and two feet six inches 
high. These dimensions are fully suff- 
cient for the accommodation of a man 
very much above the common size—and 
the main compartment alone is capable 
of holding any ordinary man in the 
position we have mentioned as assumed 
by the person concealed. As these are 
facts, which any one who doubts them 
may prove by actual calculation, we 
deem it unnecessary to dwell upon 
them. We will only suggest that, al- 
though the top of the box is apparently 
a board of about three inches in thick- 
ness, the spectator may satisfy himself, 
by stooping and looking up at it when 
the main compartment is open, that it 
is in reality very thin. The height of 
the drawer also will be misconceived 
by those who examine it in a cursory 
manner. There is a space of about 
three inches between the top of the 
drawer as seen from the exterior, and 
the bottom of the cupboard—a space 
which must be included in the height 
of the drawer. These contrivances to 
make the room within the box appear 
less than it actually is are referable 
to a design on the part of the inventor, 
to impress the company again with a 
false idea, viz., that no human being 
can be accommodated within the box. 

12. The interior of the main com- 
partment is lined throughout with cloth. 
This cloth we suppose to have a two- 
fold object. A portion of it may form, 


905: 


when tightly stretched, the only parti- 
tions which there is any necessity for 
removing during the changes of the 
man’s position, viz., the partition be- 
tween the rear of the main compart- 
ment and the rear of cupboard No. 1, 
and the partition between the main 
compartment and the space behind the 
drawer wher. open. If we imagine-this 
to be the case, the difficulty of shifting 
the partitions vanishes at once, if in- 
deed any such difficulty could be sup- 
posed under any circumstances to exist. 
The second object of the cloth is to 
deaden and render indistinct all sounds 
occasioned by the movements of the 
person within. 

13. The antagonist (as we have be- 
fore observed) is not suffered to play 
at the board of the Automaton, but is 
seated at some distance from the ma- 
chine. The reason which, most prob- 
ably, would be assigned for this circum- 
stance, if the question were demanded, 
is that, were the antagonist otherwise 
situated, his person would intervene 
between the machine and the spectators, 
and preclude the latter from a distinct 
view. But this difficulty might be 
easily obviated, either by elevating the 
seats of the company, or by turning 
the end of the box toward them during 
the game. The true cause of the re- 
striction is, perhaps, very different. 
Were the antagonist seated in contact 
with the box, the secret would be liable 
to discovery, by his detecting, with the 
aid of a quick ear, the breathings of 
the man concealed. 

14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclos- 
ing the interior of the machine, some- 
times slightly deviates from the routine 
which we have pointed out, yet mever in 
any instance does he so deviate from it 


906 


as to interfere with our solution. For 
example, he has been known to open, 
first of all, the drawer—but he never 
opens the main compartment without 
first closing the back door of cupboard 
No. 1—he never opens the main com- 
partment without first pulling out the 
drawer—he never shuts the drawer 
without first shutting the main com- 
partment—he never opens the back 
door of cupboard No. 1 while the main 
compartment is open—and the game of 
chess is never commenced until the 
whole machine is closed. Now, if it 
were observed that never, in any single 
instance, did M. Maelzel differ from 
the routine we have pointed out as 
necessary to our solution, it would be 
one of the strongest possible arguments 
in corroboration of it; but the argu- 
ment becomes infinitely strengthened 
if we duly consider the circumstances 
that he does occasionally deviate from 
the routine, but never does so deviate 
as to falsify the solution. 

15. There are six candles on the 
board of the Automaton during exhibi- 
tion. The question naturally arises: 
“Why are so many employed, when a 
single candle, or, at farthest, two, would 
have been amply sufficient to afford 
the spectators a clear view of the board, 
in a room otherwise so well lit up 
as the exhibition room always is—when, 
moreover, if we suppose the machine 
a pure machine, there can be no neces- 
sity for so much light, or indeed any 
light at all, to enable it to perform its 
operations—and when, especially, only 
a single candle is placed upon the table 
of the antagonist?” The first and most 
obvious inference is, that so strong a light 
is requisite to enable the man within 
to see through the transparent material 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


(probably fine gauze) of which the 
breast of the Turk is composed. But 
when we consider the arrangement of 
the candles, another reason immediately 
presents itself. There are six lights (as 
we have said before) in all. Three of 
these are on each side of the figure. 
Those most remote from the specta- 
tors are the longest—those in the mid- 
dle are about two inches shorter—and 
those nearest the company about two 
inches shorter still—and the candles on 
one side differ in height from the can- 
dies respectively opposite on the other, 
by a ratio different from two inches— — 
that is to say, the longest candle on one 
side is about three inches shorter than 
the longest candle on the other, and se 
on. Thus it will be seen that no two 
of the candles are of the same height, 
and thus also the difficulty of ascertain- 
ing the material of the breast of the fig- 
ure (against which the light is espe- 
clally directed) is greatly augmented 
by the dazzling effect of the complicated 
crossings of the rays—crossings which 
are brought about by placing the cen- 
tres of radiation all upon different 
levels. 

16. While the Chess-Player was in 
possession of Baron Kempelen, it was 
more than once observed, first, that 
an Italian in the suite of the Baron was 
never visible during the playing of a 
game at chess by the Turk; and, sec- 
ondly, that the Italian being taken 
seriously ill, the exhibition was sus- 
pended until his recovery. This Italian 
professed a total ignorance of the game 
of chess, although all others of the suite 
played well. Similar observations have 
been made since the Automaton has 
been purchased by Maelzel. There is 





MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER 


a man, Schlumberger, who attends him 
wherever he goes, but who has no 
ostensible occupation other than that 
of assisting in the packing and unpack- 
ing of the Automaton. This man is 
about the medium size, and has a re- 
markable stoop in the shoulders. 
Whether he professes to play chess or 
not, we are not informed. It is quite 
certain, however, that he is never to be 
seen during the exhibition of the Chess- 
Player, although frequently visible just 
before and just after the exhibition. 
Moreover, some years ago Maelzel 
visited Richmond with his automata, 
and exhibited them, we believe, in the 
house now occupied by M. Bossieux as 
a dancing academy. Schlumberger was 
suddenly taken ill, and during his ill- 
ness there was no exhibition of the 
Chess-Player. These facts are well 
known to many of our citizens. The 
reason assigned for the suspension of 
the Chess-Player’s performances was 
not the illness of Schlumberger. The 
inferences from all this we leave, with- 
out farther comment, to the reader. 
17. The Turk plays with his Jeff arm. 
A circumstance so remarkable cannot 
be accidental. Brewster takes no no- 
tice of it whatever, beyond a mere 


statement, we believe, that such is the 


fact. The early writers of treatises 
on the Automaton seem not to have 
observed the matter at all, and have no 
reference to it. The author of the pam- 
phlet alluded to by Brewster mentions 
it, but acknowledges his inability to 
account for it. Yet it is obviously 
from such prominent discrepancies or 
incongruities as this that deductions 
are to be made (if made at all) which 
shall lead us to the truth. 


907 


The circumstance of the Automaton’s 
playing with his left hand cannot have 
connection with the operations of the 
machine, considered merely as_ such. 
Any mechanical arrangement which 
would cause the figure to move, in any 
given manner, the left arm, could, if 
reversed, cause it to move, in the same 
manner, the right. But these principles 
cannot be extended to the human or- 
ganization, wherein there is a marked 
and radical difference in the construc- 
tion, and, at all events, in the powers, 
of the right and left arms. Reflecting 
upon this latter fact, we naturally refer 
the incongruity noticeable in the Chess- 
Player to this peculiarity in the human 
organization. If so we must imagine 
some reversion—for the Chess-Player 
plays precisely as a man would not. 
These ideas, once entertained, are suffi- 
cient of themselves to suggest the no- 
tion of a man in the interior. A few 
more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, 
to the result. The Automaton plays 
with his left arm, because under no 
other circumstances could the man 
within play with his right—a desider- 
atum of course. Let us, for example, 
imagine the Automaton to play with 
his right arm. To reach the machinery 
which moves the arm, and which we 
have before explained to lie just be- 
neath the shoulder, it would be neces- 
sary for the man within either to use 
his right arm in an exceedingly painful 
and awkward position (viz., brought up 
close to his body and tightly compressed 
between his body and the side of the 
Automaton), or else to use his left arm 
brought across his breast. In neither 
case could he act with the requisite 


908 


ease of precision. On the contrary, the 
Automaton playing, as it actually does, 
with the left arm, all difficulties vanish. 
The right arm of the man within is 
brought across his breast, and his right 
fingers act, without any constraint, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


upon the machinery in the shoulder of | 


the figure. 

We do not believe that any reason- 
able objections can be urged against 
this solution of the Automaton Chess- 
Player. 


Cryptography 


(Poe’s writings on Cryptography formed the basis for deciphering one of the most 


important secret code messages of the Germans during the World War. 


named Secret Writing —Ed.) 


As we can scarcely imagine a time 
when there did not exist a necessity, 
or at least a desire, of transmitting in- 
formation from one individual to an- 
other in such manner as to elude gen- 
eral comprehension, so we may well 
suppose the practice of writing in cipher 
to be of great antiquity, De la Guil- 
letiere, therefore, who, in his ‘“Lacede- 
mon Ancient and Modern,” maintains 
that the Spartans were the inventors of 
Cryptography, is obviously in error. 
He speaks of the scytala as being the 
origin of the art; but he should only 
have cited it as one of its earliest in- 
stances, so far as our records extend. 
The scytala were two wooden cylinders, 
precisely similar in all respects. The 
general of an army, in going upon any 
expedition, received from the ephori 
one of these cylinders, while the other 
remained in their possession. If either 
party had occasion to communicate 
with the other, a narrow strip of parch- 
ment was so wrapped around the scytala 
that the edges of the skin fitted ac- 
curately each to each. The writing 
was then inscribed longitudinally, and 
the epistle unrolled and despatched. 


Also 


If, by mischance, the messenger was 
intercepted, the letter proved unintel- 
ligible to his captors. If he reached his 
destination safely, however, the party 
addressed had only to involve the sec- 
ond cylinder in the strip to decipher the 
inscription. The transmission to our 
own times of this obvious mode of 
cryptography is due, probably, to the 
historical uses of the scytala rather 
than to anything else. - Similar means 
of secret inter-communication must 
have existed almost contemporaneously 
with the invention of letters. 

It may be as well to remark, in 
passing, that in none of the treatises 
on the subject of this paper which have 
fallen under our cognisance have we 
observed any suggestion of a method— 
other than those which apply alike to 
all ciphers—for the solution of the 
cipher by scytala. We read of in- 
stances, indeed, in which the _ inter- 
cepted parchments were deciphered; 
but we are not informed that this was 
ever done except accidentally. Yet a 
solution might be obtained with abso- 
lute certainty in this manner. The 
strip of skin being intercepted, let there 





CRYPTOGRAPHY 


be prepared a cone of great length 
comparatively—say six feet long—and 
whose circumference at base shall at 
least equal the length of the strip. Let 
this latter be rolled upon the cone near 
the base, edge to edge, as above de- 


scribed; then, still keeping edge to 
edge, and maintaining the parch- 
ment close upon the cone, let 


it be gradually slipped towards the 
apex. In this process, some of those 
words, syllables, or letters, whose con- 
nection is intended, will be sure to 
come together at that point of the cone 
where its diameter equals that of the 
scytala upon which the cipher was writ- 
ten. And as in passing up the cone to 
its apex all possible diameters are 
passed over, there is no chance of a 
failure. The circumference of the 
scytala being thus ascertained, a similar 
one can be made, and the cipher ap- 
_ plied to it. 

Few persons can be made to believe 
that it is not quite an easy thing to 
Invent a method of secret writing which 
shall baffle investigation. Yet it may 
_be roundly asserted that human inge- 
_nuity cannot concoct a cipher which 
human ingenuity cannot resolve. In 
the facility with which such writing is 
_ deciphered, however, there exist very 
remarkable differences in different in- 
tellects. Often, in the case of two 
| individuals of acknowledged equality as 
regards ordinary mental efforts, it will 
be found that, while one cannot un- 
riddle the commonest cipher, the other 
will scarcely be puzzled by the most 
abstruse. It may be observed generally 
that in such investigations the analytic 
ability is very forcibly called into ac- 
tion; and, for this reason, cryptograph- 


909 


ical solutions might with great propri- 
ety be introduced into academies as the 
means of giving tone to the most im- 
portant of the powers of mind. 

Were two individuals, totally unprac- 
tised in cryptography, desirous of 
holding by letter a correspondence 


which should be unintelligible to all 


but themselves, it is most probable that 
they would at once think of a peculiar 
alphabet, to which each should have a 
key. At first it would, perhaps, be 
arranged that a should stand for z, b 
for y, c for x, d for w,.etc., etc.; that 
is to say, the order of the letters would 
be reversed. Upon second thoughts, 
this arrangement appearing too obvious, 
a more complex mode would be 
adopted. The first thirteen letters 
might be written beneath the last thir- 
teen, thus: 


x 


n x Z 
a ke Lams 


Om Dilla) deorvSnahtellenitesds 
RVR te a ee ae sam OR 
and, so placed, a might stand for m and 
n for a, o for 6 and 0 for 9, etc., etc. 
This, again, having an air of regularity 
which might be fathomed, the key al- 
phabet might be constructed absolutely 


at random. 


Thus, a might stand for p 

|! b “ 74 “ x 
Cc (<9 cc « u 
drack “Ste refhielmete, 


The correspondents, unless convinced 
of their error by the solution of their 
cipher, would no doubt be willing to 
rest in this latter arrangement as afford- 
ing full security. But if not, they would 
be likely to hit upon the plan of arbi- 


910 


trary marks used in place of the usual 
characters. For example, 


( might be employed for a 


. b 

‘ ce ce c 

5 ce (<9 

: d 

) « % e, etc. 


A letter composed of such characters 
would have an intricate appearance un- 
questionably. If still, however, it did 
not give full satisfaction, the idea of 
a perpetually shifting alphabet might 
be conceived, and thus effected. Let 
two circular pieces of pasteboard be 
prepared, one about half-an-inch in di- 
ameter less than the other. Let the 
centre of the smaller be placed upon 
the centre of the larger, and secured 
for a moment from slipping; while 
radii are drawn from the common cen- 
tre to the circumference of the smaller 
circle, and thus extended to the circum- 
ference of the greater. Let there be 
twenty-six of these radii, forming on 
each pasteboard twenty-six spaces. In 
each of these spaces on the under circle 
write one of the letters of the alphabet, 
so that the whole alphabet be written— 
if at random so much the better. Do 
the same with the upper circle. Now 
run a pin through the common centre, 
and let the upper circle revolve, while 
the under one is held fast. Now stop 
the revolution of the upper circle, and, 
while both lie still, write the epistle 
required; using for a that letter in the 
smaller circle which tallies with a in the 
larger, for 6 that letter in the smaller 
circle which tallies with 6 in the larger, 
etc., etc. In order that an epistle thus 
written may be read by the person for 
whom it is intended, it is only necessary 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


that he should have in his possession — 
circles constructed as those just de- 
scribed, and that he should know any 
two of the characters (one in the under 
and one in the upper circle) which were 
in juxtaposition when his correspondent 
wrote the cipher. Upon this latter 
point he is informed by looking at the 
two initial letters of the document 
which serve as a key. Thus, if he sees 
a m at the beginning, he concludes that, 
by turning his circles so as to put these 
characters in conjunction, he will arrive 
at the alphabet employed. 

At a cursory glance, these various 
modes of constructing a cipher seem to 
have about them an air of inscrutable 
secrecy. It appears almost an impossi- 
bility to unriddle what has been put to- 
gether by so complex a method. And 
to some persons the difficulty might be 
great; but to others—to those skilled in 
deciphering—such enigmas are very 
simple indeed. The reader should bear 
in mind that the basis of the whole art 
of solution, as far as regards these mat- 
ters, is found in the general principles 
of the formation of language itself, and 
thus is altogether independent of the 
particular laws which govern any 
cipher, or the construction of its key. 
The difficulty of reading a cryptograph- 
ical puzzle is by no means always in 
accordance with the labour or ingenuity 
with which it has been constructed. 
The sole use of the key, indeed, is for 
those au fait to the cipher; in its peru- 
sal by a third party, no reference is had 
to it at all. The lock of the secret is 
picked. In the different methods of 
cryptography specified above, it will be 
observed that there is a gradually in- 
creasing complexity. But this complex- 
ity is only in shadow. It has no sub- 





CRYPTOGRAPHY 


stance whatever. . It appertains merely 
to the formation, and has no bearing 
upon the solution of the cipher. The 
last mode mentioned is not in the least 
degree more difficult to be deciphered 
than the first—whatever may be the 
difficulty of either. 

In the discussion of an analogous 
subject, in one of the weekly papers* 
of this city, about eighteen months ago, 
the writer of this article had occasion 
to speak of the application of a rigor- 
ous method in all forms of thought—of 
its advantages—of the extension of its 
use even to what is considered the 
operation of pure fancy—and thus, sub- 
sequently, of the solution of cipher. 
He even ventured to assert that no 
cipher, of the character above specified, 
could be sent to the address of the 
paper, which he would not be able to 
resolve. This challenge excited, most 
unexpectedly, a very lively interest 
among the numerous readers of the 
journal. Letters were poured in upon 
the editor from all parts of the coun- 
try; and many of the writers of these 
epistles were so convinced of the im- 
penetrability of their mysteries as to be 
at great pains to draw him into wagers 
on the subject. At the same time, 
they were not always scrupulous about 
sticking to the point. The cryptographs 
were, in numerous instances, altogether 
beyond the limits defined in the begin- 
ning. Foreign languages were employed. 
Words and sentences were run together 
‘without interval. Several alphabets 
were used in the same cipher. One 
gentleman, but moderately endowed 
with consciousness, inditing us a puzzle 





*Alexander’s Weekly (Express) Mes- 
senger, Philadelphia.—Ed.) 


individuals 


911 


composed of pothooks and hangers to 
which the wildest typography of the 
office could afford nothing similar, went 
even so far as to jumble together no 
less than seven distinct alphabets, with- 
out intervals between the letters, or 
between the lines. Many of the crypto- 
graphs were dated in Philadelphia, and 
several of those which urged the sub- 
ject of a bet were written by gentle- 
men of this city. Out of, perhaps, one 
hundred ciphers altogether received, 
there was only one which we did not 
immediately succeed in solving. This 
one we demonstrated to be an imposi- 
tion—that is to say, we fully proved 
it a jargon of random characters, hav- 
ing no meaning whatever. In respect 
to the epistle of the seven alphabets, 
we had the pleasure of completely non- 
plussing its inditer by a prompt and 
satisfactory translation. 

The weekly paper mentioned was, for 
a period of some months, greatly occu- 
pied with the hieroglyphic and cabal- 
istic-looking solutions of the crypto- 
graphs sent us from all quarters. Yet 
with the exception of the writers of*the 
ciphers, we do-not believe that any 
could have been found 
among the readers of the journal who 
regarded the matter in any other light 
than in that of a desperate humbug. 
We mean to say that no one really 
believed in the authenticity of the 
answers. One party averred that the 
mysterious figures were only inserted to 
give a queer air to the paper, for the 
purpose of attracting attention. An- 
other thought it more probable that we 
not only solved the ciphers, but put 
them together ourselves for solution. 
This having been the state of affairs at 
the period when it was thought expe- 


912 


dient to decline further dealings in 
necromancy, the writer of this article 
avails himself of the present opportu- 
nity to maintain the truth of the jour- 
nal in question—to repel the charges of 
rigmarole by which it was assailed— 
and to declare in his own name, that 
the ciphers were all written in good 
faith, and solved in the same spirit. 

A very common and somewhat too 
obvious mode of secret correspondence 
is the following. A card is_ inter- 
spersed, at irregular intervals with 
oblong spaces, about the length of 
ordinary words of three syllables in a 
bourgeois type. Another card is made 
exactly coinciding. One is in possession 
of each party. When a letter is to be 
written, the key-card is placed upon 
the paper and words conveying the true 
meaning inscribed in the spaces. The 
card is then removed and the blanks 
filled up, so as to make out a significa- 
tion different from the real one. When 
the person addressed receives the cipher, 
he ‘has merely to apply to it his own 
card, when the superfluous words are 
coneealed, and the significant ones alone 
appear. The chief objection to this 


cryptography is the difficulty of so fill- 


ing the blanks as not to give a forced 
appearance to the sentences. Differ- 
ences also in the handwriting between 
the words written in the spaces, and 
those inscribed upon removal of the 
card, will always be detected by a close 
observer. 

A pack of cards is sometimes made 
the vehicle of a cipher, in this manner. 
The parties determine, in the first place, 
upon certain arrangements of the pack. 
For example: it is agreed that, when a 
writing is to be commenced, a natural 
sequence of the spots shall be made; 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with spades at top, hearts next, dia- 
monds next, and clubs last. 
being obtained, the writer proceeds te 
inscribe upon the top card the first let- 
ter of his epistle, upon the next the 
second, upon the next the third, and so 
cn until the pack is exhausted, when, 
of course, he will have written fifty-two 
letters. He now shuffles the pack ac- 
cording to a preconcerted plan. For 
example: he takes three cards from the 
bottom and places them at top, then 
one from top, placing it at bottom, and 
so on, for a given number of times. 
This done, he again inscribes fifty-two 
characters as before, proceeding thus 
until his epistle is written. The pack 
being received by the correspondent, 
he has only to place the cards in the 
order agreed upon for commencement, 
to read letter by letter, the first fifty- 
two characters as intended. He has 
then only to shuffle in the manner pre- 
arranged for the second perusal, to de- 
cipher the series of the next fifty-twe 
letters—and so on to the end. The 
objection to this cryptograph lies in the 
nature of the missive. A pack of cards 
sent from one party to another would 
scarcely fail to excite suspicion, and it 
cannot be doubted that it is far better 
to secure ciphers from being considered 
as such than to waste time in attempts 
at rendering them scrutiny-proof when 
intercepted. Experience shows that the 
most cunningly constructed  crypto- 
graph, if suspected, can and will be 
unriddled. 

An unusually secure mode of secret 
intercommunication might be thus de- 
vised. Let the parties each furnish 
themselves with a copy of the same 
edition of a book—the rarer the edition 
the better—as also the rarer the book. 


This order ° 








CRYPTOGRAPHY 


In the cryptograph, numbers are used 
altogether, and these numbers refer to 
the locality of letters -in the volume. 
For example—a cipher is received com- 
-mencing, 121-6-8. The party addressed 

refers to page 121, and looks at the 
sixth letter from the left of the page 
in the eighth line from the top. What- 
ever letter he there finds is the initial 
letter of the epistle—and so on. This 
method is very secure; yet it is possible 
to decipher any cryptograph written by 
its means—and it is greatly objection- 
able otherwise, on account of the time 
necessarily required for its solution, 
even with the key-volume. 

It is not to be supposed that Cryp- 
tography, as a serious thing, as the 
means of imparting important informa- 
tion, has gone out of use at the present 
day. It is still commonly practised in 
diplomacy; and there are individuals, 
even now, holding office in the eye of 
various foreign governments, whose 
real business is that of deciphering. We 
have already said that a peculiar mental 
action is called into play in the solution 
of cryptographical problems, at least, 
in those of the higher order. Good 
_cryptographists are rare indeed; and 
thus their services, although seldom 
_ required, are necessarily well requited. 
An instance of the modern employ- 
ment of writing in cipher is mentioned 
in a work lately published by Messieurs 
Lea and Blanchard of this city— 
_ “Sketches of Conspicuous Living Char- 
acters of France.” In a notice of Ber- 
_ryer, it is said that a letter being 
addressed by the Duchess de Berri to 
the Legitimists of Paris, to inform 
them of her arrival, it was accompa- 
nied by a long note in cipher, the key 
of which she had forgotten to give. 


913 


“The penetrating mind of Berryer,” 
says the biographer, ‘soon discovered 
it. It was this phrase substituted for 
the twenty-four letters of the alphabet 
—Le gouvernement provisoire.” 

The assertion that Berryer “‘soon dis- 
covered the key-phrase,” merely proves 
that the writer of these memoirs is 
entirely innocent of cryptographical 
knowledge. Monsieur B. no doubt as- 
certained the key-phrase: but it was 
merely to satisfy his curiosity, after the 
riddle had been read. He made no use 
of the key in deciphering. The lock 
was picked. 

In our notice of the book in question 
(published in the April number of this 
magazine), we alluded to this subject 
thus— 

“The phrase ‘Le gouvernement pro- 
visoire’? is French, and the note in 
cipher was addressed to Frenchmen. 
The difficulty of deciphering may well 
be supposed much greater, had the key 
been in a foreign tongue; yet any one 
who will take the trouble may address 
us a note, in the same manner as here 
proposed, and the key-phrase may be 
either in French, Italian, Spanish, Ger- 
man, Latin or Greek (or in any of the 
dialects of these languages), and we 
pledge ourselves for the solution of 
the riddle.” 

This challenge has elicited but a 
single response, which is embraced in 
the following letter. The only quarrel 
we have with the epistle, is that its 
writer has declined giving us his name 
in full. We beg that he will take an 
early opportunity of doing this, and 
thus relieve us of the chance of that 
suspicion which was attached to the 
cryptography of the weekly journal 
above mentioned—the suspicion of in- 


014 


diting ciphers to ourselves. The post- 
mark of the letter is Stonington, Conn. 


S , Cr., Aprit 21, 1841. 

To the Editor of Graham’s Magazine. 

Sir——In the April number of your 
magazine, while reviewing the transla- 
tion by Mr. Walsh of ‘Sketches of 
Conspicuous Living Characters. of 
France,” you invite your readers to 
address you a note in cipher, “the key- 
phrase to which may be either in 
French, Italian, Spanish, German, 
Latin or Greek,’ and pledge yourself 
for its: solution. My attention being 
called, by your remarks, to this species 
of cipher-writing, I composed for my 
own amusement the following exercises, 
in the first part of which the key-phrase 
is in English—in the second in Latin. 
As I did not see (by the number for 
May), that any of your correspondents 
had availed himself of your offer, I 
take the liberty to send the enclosed, 
on which, if you should think it worth 
your while, you can exercise your inge- 
nuity. 

I am, yours respectfully, 

s. DT 





No.. 1 

Cauhiif aud ftd sdftirf ithot tacd 
wdde rdchfdr tiu fuaefshffheo fdoudf 
hetiusafhie tuis ied herhchriai fi aeiftdu 
wn sdaef it iuhfheo hiidohwid fi aen 
deodsf ths tiu itis hf iaf iuhoheaiin 
rdffhedr; aer td auf it ftif fdoudfin 
oissiehoafheo hefdiihodeod taf wdde 
odeduaiin fdusdr ounsfiouastn. Saen 
fsdohdf it fdoudf iuhfheo idud weiie 
fi ftd aeohdeff. Fisdfhsdf a fiacdf tdar 
iaf ftacdr aer ftd ouiie iuhffde isie ihft 
fisd herdihwid oiiiiuheo tiihr; atfdu 
ithot ftd tahu wdheo sdushffdr fi ouii 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


aoahe, hetiusafhie oiiir wd fuaefshffdr 
ihft ihffid raeodu ftaf rhfoicdun iir 
defid iefhi ftd aswiiafiun dshffid fatdin 
udaotdr hff rdffheafhie. Ounsfiouastn, 
tiidcdu siud, suisduin dswuaodf ftifd 
sirdf it iuhfheo ithot aud uderdudr 
idohwid iein wn sdaef it fisd desiaeafiun 
wdn ithot sawdf weiie ftd udai fhoeh- 
thoafhie it ftd ohstduf dssiindr fi hff 
siffdffu. 
NOs 


Ofolioiiaso ortsii sov eodisoioe afdui- 
ostifoi ft iftvi si tri oistoiv oiniafetsorit 
ifeov rsri afotiiliv ridiiot irio rivvio 
eovit atrotfetsoria aioriti itri tf oitovin 
tri aetifei ioreitit sov usttoi oioittstifo 
dfti afdooitior trso ifeov tri dfit 
ot{tfeov softriedi ft oistoiv oriofiforiti 
trir uet otiiiotiv uitfti rid io tri 
eoviieeliiv rfasueostr ft rii dftrit tfoeel. 


In the solution of the first of these 
ciphers we had little more than ordi- 
nary trouble. The second proved to be 
exceedingly difficult, and it was only © 
by calling every faculty into play that 
we could read it at all. The first runs 
thus: 

“Various are the methods which have 
been devised for transmitting secret in- 
formation from one individual to an- 
other by means of writing, illegible to 
any except him for whom it was orig- 
inally destined; and the art of thus 
secretly communicating intelligence has 
been generally termed cryptography. 
Many species of secret writing were 
known to the ancients. Sometimes a 
slave’s head was shaved and the crown 
written upon with some _ indelible 
colouring fluid; after which the hair 
being permitted to grow again, infor- 























CRYPTOGRAPHY 


_ mation could be transmitted with little 
danger that discovery would ensue 
until the ambulatory epistle safely 
_ reached its destination. Cryptography, 
_ however pure, properly embraces those 
modes of writing which are rendered 
legible only by means of some explana- 
tory key which makes known the real 
signification of the ciphers employed to 
its possessor.” 

| The key-phrase of this cryptograph 
_is—“‘A word to the wise is sufficient.” 
_ The second is thus translated— 

“Nonsensical phrases and unmeaning 
combinations of words, as the learned 
lexicographer would have _ confessed 
himself, when hidden under crypto- 
graphic ciphers, serve to perpdex the 
curious enquirer, and baffle penetration 
more completely than would the most 
profound apothegms of learned philoso- 
phers. Abstruse disquisitions of the 
scholiasts were they but presented be- 
fore him in the undisguised vocabulary 
of his mother tongue” 

The last sentence here (as will be 
seen) is broken off short. The spelling 
we have strictly adhered to. D, by 
mistake, has been put for / in perplex. 

The key-phrase is—“Suaviter in 
modo, fortiter in re.” 

In the ordinary cryptograph, as will 
be seen in reference to most of those 
we have specified above, the artificial 
alphabet agreed upon by the corre- 
spondents is employed, letter for letter, 
in place of the usual or natural one. 
For example—two parties wish to com- 
municate secretly. It is arranged be- 
fore parting that 





) shall stand for a 
( >Di %” b 





915 


* shall stand for d 








” +) € 
, ” ”» f 
>| ”» +> g 
»”» ” h 
P >” ”» 1 or j 
! ” 3 k 
& > pb) | 
O » ”> m 
: ”»> ”» n 
T ”» 3) 0 
t PP 3) p 
qj ”» >] Gg 
a x) 33 r 
| ’”» ” S 
[ %) bb t 
DI 3s ts u or Vv 
$ ” bD Ww 
d ” ” x 


i Ty 
| ” ” y 


e ,, jp) Ez 


Now the following note is to be 
communicated— 

“We must see you immediately upon 
a matter of great importance. Plots 
have been discovered, and the conspir- 
ators are in our hands. MHasten!” 

These words would be written thus— 


$.o£]]..i -£200.*?)[.&i£tt')o) [| FS 7 
.) [Pot fH [)‘—.t&t))£.0.°*.. TL. .* 
)*[:.— 7] t aE) [eS] 2 LEE 
*} DIL 


This certainly has an intricate ap- 
pearance, and would prove a most diffi- 
cult cipher to any one not conversant 
with cryptography. But it will be 
observed that a, for example, is never 


916 


represented by any other character than 
), 6 never by any other character than 
(, and so on. Thus by the discovery, 
accidental or otherwise, of any one 
letter, the party intercepting the epistle 
would gain a permanent and decided 
advantage, and could apply his knowl- 
edge to all the instances in which the 
character in question was employed 
throughout the cipher. 

In the cryptographs, on the other 
hand, which have been sent us by our 
correspondent at Stonington, and which 
are identical in conformation with the 
cipher resolved by Berryer, no such 
permanent advantage is to be obtained. 

Let us refer to the second of these 
puzzles. Its key-phrase runs thus.— 


Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re. 


Let us now place the alphabet beneath 
this phrase, letter beneath letter— 


1 1 










































































Sjujalv|iit/el rjilnim|o} dio 

Albjcidle|f|g{h}il jl ki limin 

ge ee nirle 

oO |piqir|s|tlulv|w|xly |Z 

We here see that 

a stands for C 
d *f m 
e se g, u, and z 
f 23 re) 
i ! e, 1, s and w 
m 3 k 
n $f j and x 
) sé 1, n, and p 
r a h, q, v, and y 
S ¢ a 
t se fo rand + 
u 4 b 
Vv 44 d 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


In this manner ” stands for two letters, — 
and e, o and ¢ for three each, while z 
and r represent each as many as four. 
Thirteen characters are made to per- 
form the operations of the whole alpha- 
bet. The result of such a key-phrase 
upon the cipher is to give it the ap- 
pearance of a mere medley of the let- 
ters e, o, t, r, and 2, the latter character 
greatly predominating through the acci- 
dent of being employed for letters, 
which, themselves, are inordinately 
prevalent in most languages—we mean 
é and 2. 

A letter thus written being inter- 
cepted, and the key-phrase unknown, 
the individual who should attempt to 
decipher it may be imagined guessing, 
or otherwise attempting to convince 
himself, that a certain character (2, for 
example) represented the letter e. 
Looking throughout the cryptograph 
for confirmation of this idea he would 
meet with nothing but a negation of it. 
He would see the character in situa- 
tions where it could not possibly repre- 
sent e. He might, for instance, be 
puzzled by four 2z’s forming of them- 
selves a single word, without the inter- 
vention of any other character, in 
which case, of course, they could not 
be all e’s. It will be seen that the 
word wise might be thus constructed. 
We say this may be seen now, by us, 
in possession of the key-phrase, but the 
question will no doubt occur, how, 
without the key-phrase and without 
cognisance of any single letter in the 
cipher, it would be possible for the 
interceptor of such a cryptograph to — 
make anything of such a word as 77? 

But again. A key-phrase might 
easily be constructed in which one. 
character would represent seven, eight, 





CRYPTOGRAPHY 


or ten letters. Let us then imagine 


cryptograph to an individual without 
the proper key-phrase, or, if this be 
2 supposition somewhat too perplexing, 
let us suppose it occurring to the per- 
son for whom the cipher is designed, 
and who has the key-phrase. What is 
In any of the ordinary books upon 
Algebra will be found a very concise 
formula (we have not the necessary 
type for its insertion here) for ascer- 
taining the number of arrangements in 
which m letters may be placed, taken 
m at a time. But no doubt there are 
none of our readers ignorant of the 
innumerable combinations which may 
be made from these ten 2’s. Yet, unless 
it occur otherwise by accident, the 
correspondent receiving the cipher 
would have to write down all these 
combinations before attaining the word 
intended, and even when he had written 
them he would be inexpressibly per- 
plexed in selecting the word designed 
from the vast number of other words 
arising in the couse of the permutation. 

To obviate, therefore, the exceeding 
difficulty of deciphering this species of 
cryptograph, on the part of the posses- 
sors of the key-phrase, and to confine 
the deep intricacy of the puzzle to 
those for whom the cipher was not 
designed, it becomes necessary that 
some order should be agreed upon by 
the parties corresponding—some order 
in reference to which those characters 
are to be read which represent more 
than one letter—and this order must 
be held in view by the writer of the 
cryptograph. It may be agreed, for 
example, that the first time an 7 occurs 
in the cipher it is to be understood 


917 


as representing that character which 
stands against the first i in the key- 
phrase, that the second time an 7 occurs 
it must be supposed to represent that 
letter which stands opposed to the 
second z in the key-phrase, etc., etc. 
Thus the location of each cipherical 
letter must be considered in connection 
with the character itself in order to 
determine its exact signification. 

We say that some preconcerted order 
of this kind is necessary lest the cipher 
prove too intricate a lock to yield even 
to its true key. But it will be evident, 
upon inspection, that our correspond- 
ent at Stonington has inflicted upon us 
a cryptograph in which mo order has 
been preserved, in which many charac~ 


ters respectively stand, at absolute 
random, for many others. If, there- 
fore. in regard to the gauntlet we 


threw down in April, he should be half 
inclined to accuse us of braggadocio. 
he will yet admit that we have more 
than acted up to our boast. If what 
we then said was not said suaviter in 
modo, what we now do is at least done 
fortiter in re. 

In these cursory observations we 
have by no means attempted to exhaust 
the subject of Cryptography. With 
such object in view a folio might be 
required. We have indeed mentioned 
only a few of the ordinary modes of 
Cipher. Even two thousand years ago 
AMneas Tacticus detailed twenty dis- 
tinct methods, and modern ingenuity 
has added much to the science. Our 
design has been chiefly suggestive, and 
perhaps we have already bored the 
readers of the Magazine. To those 
who desire further information upon 
this topic we may say that there are 


918 


extant treatises by Trithemius, Cap. 
Porta, Vignere, and P. Niceron. The 
works of the two latter may be found, 
we believe, in the library of the Har- 
vard University. If, however, there 
should be sought in these disquisitions, 
or in any, rules for the solution of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


cipher, the seeker will be disappointed. 
Beyond some hints in regard to the 
general structure of language, and some 
minute exercises in their practical ap- 
plication, he will find nothing upon 
record which he does not in his own 
intellect possess. 


Philosophy of Furniture 


(First published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, May, 1840.—Ed.) 


In the internal decoration, if not in 
the external architecture of their resi- 
dences, the English are supreme. The 
Italians have but little sentiment be- 
yond marbles and colours. In France, 
meliora probant deteriora sequuntur— 
the people are too much a race of gad- 
abouts to maintain those household 
properties of which, indeed, they have 
a delicate appreciation, or at least the 
elements of a proper sense. The Chi- 
nese and most of the Eastern races 
have a warm but inappropriate fancy. 
The Scotch are poor decorists. The 
Dutch have perhaps an indeterminate 
idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. 
In Spain they are all curtains—a nation 
of hangmen. The Russians do not 
furnish. The Hottentots and Kicka- 
poos are very well in their way. The 
Yankees alene are preposterous. 

How this happens it is not difficult 
to see. We have no aristocracy of 
blood, and having therefore as a natu- 
ral, and indeed as an inevitable thing, 
fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy 
of dollars, the display of wealth has 
here to take the place and perform the 
office of the heraldic display in mon- 
archical countries. By a transition 


readily understood, and which might 
have been as readily foreseen, we have 
been brought to merge in simple show 
our notions of taste itself. 

To speak less abstractly. In Eng- 
land, for example, no mere parade of 
costly appurtenances would be so likely 
as with us, to create an impression of 
the beautiful in respect to the appurte- 
nances themselves—or of taste as re- 
gards the proprietor:—this for the 
reason, first, that wealth is not in Eng- 
land, the loftiest object of ambition as 
constituting a nobility; and secondly, 
that there, the true nobility of blood, 
confining itself within the strict limits - 
of legitimate taste, rather avoids than 
affects that mere costliness in which a 
parvenu rivalry may at any time be 
successfully attempted. The people 
will imitate the nobles, and the result 
is a thorough diffusion of the proper 
feeling. But in America, the coins 
current being the sole arms of the aris- 
tocracy, their display, may be said, in 
general, to be the sole means of aristo- 
cratic distinction; and the populace, 
looking always upward for models, are 
insensibly led to confound the two en- 
tirely separate ideas of magnificence 





ment. 
_ —too 


PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE 


and beauty. In short, the cost of an 
article of furniture has at length come 
to be with us nearly the sole test of 
its merit in a decorative point of view 
—and this test, once established, has 
led the way to many analogous errors, 
readily traceable to the one primitive 
folly. 

There could be nothing more directly 
offensive to the eye of an artist than 
the interior of what is termed in the 
United States—that is to say, in Appa- 
lachia—a well-furnished apartment. Its 
most usual defect is a want of keep- 
ing. We speak of the keeping of a 
room as we would of the keeping of a 
picture—for both the picture and the 
room are amenable to those undevi- 
ating principles which regulate all vari- 
eties of art; and very nearly the same 
laws by which we decide on the higher 
merits of a painting, suffice for decision 


on the adjustment of a chamber. 


A want of keeping is observable 
sometimes in the character of the sev- 
eral pieces of furniture, but generally 


in their colours or modes of adapta- 
tion to use. 


Very often the eye is 
offended by their inartistic arrange- 
Straight lines are too prevalent 
uninterruptedly continued—or 
clumsily interrupted at right angles. 
If curved lines occur, they are repeated 
into unpleasant uniformity. By undue 


precision, the appearance of many a 


fine apartment is utterly spoiled. 
Curtains are rarely well disposed, or 
well chosen in respect to other decora- 
tions. With formal furniture, curtains 
are out of place; and an extensive 
volume of drapery of any kind is, 
under any circumstances, irreconcilable 
with good taste—the proper quantum, 
as well as the proper adjustment, de- 


919 


pending upon the character of the gen- 
eral effect. 

Carpets are better understood of late 
than of ancient days, but we still very 
frequently err in their patterns and 
colours. The soul of the apartment 
is the carpet. From it are deduced 
not only the hues but the forms of all 
objects incumbent. A judge at com- 
mon law may be an ordinary man; a 
good judge of a carpet must be a 
genius. Yet we have heard discoursing 
of carpets, with the air “d’un mouton 
qui reve,” fellows who should not and 
who could not be entrusted with the 
management of their own moustaches. 
Every one knows that a large floor may 
have a covering of large figures, and 
that a small one must have a covering 
of small—yet this is not all the knowl- 
edge in the world. As regards texture, 
the Saxony is alone admissible. Brus- 
sels is the preterpluperfect tense of 
fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dy- 
ing agonies. Touching pattern—a car- 
pet should mot be bedizened out like 
a Riccaree Indian—all red chalk, yel- 
low ochre, and cock’s feathers. In 
brief—distinct grounds, and vivid cir- 
cular or cycloid figures, of no meaning, 
are here Median laws. The abomina- 
tion of flowers, or representations of 
well-known objects of any kind, should 
not be endured within the limits of 
Christendom. Indeed, whether on car- 
pets, or curtains, or tapestry, or otto- 
man coverings, all upholstery of this 
nature should be rigidly Arabesque. 
As for those antique floor-cloths_ still 
occasionally seen in the dwellings of 
the rabble—cloths of huge, sprawling, 
and radiating devices, _ stripe-inter- 
spersed, and glorious with all hues, 
among which no ground is intelligible 


920 


—these are but the wicked invention 
of a race of time-servers and money- 
lovers—children of Baal and worship- 
pers of Mammon—Benthams, who, to 
spare thought and economise fancy, 
first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, 
and then established joint-stock com- 
panies to twirl it by steam. 

Glare is a leading error in the 
philosophy of American household 
decoration—an error easily recognised 
as deduced from the perversion of 
taste just specified. We are violently 
enamoured of gas and of glass. The 
former is totally inadmissible within 
doors. Its harsh and unsteady light 
offends. No one having both brains 
and eyes will use it. A mild, or what 
artists term a cool light, with its con- 
sequent warm shadows, will do wonders 
for even an_ ill-furnished apartment. 
Never was a more lovely thought than 
that of the astral lamp. We mean, of 
course, the astral lamp proper—the 
lamp of Argand, with its original plain 
ground glass shade, and its tempered 
and uniform moonlight rays. The cut- 
glass shade is a weak invention of the 
enemy. The eagerness with which we 
have adopted it, partly on account of 
its flashiness, but principally on ac- 
count of its greater cost, is a good 
commentary on the proposition with 
which we began. It is not too much to 
say, that the deliberate employer of a 
cut-glass shade is either radically defi- 
cient in taste, or blindly subservient to 
the caprices of fashion. The light pro- 
ceeding from one of these gaudy abom- 
inations is unequal, broken, and painful. 
It alone is sufficient to mar a world of 
good effect in the furniture subjected 
to its influence. Female loveliness, in 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


especial, is more than one-half disen- 
chanted beneath its evil eye. 

In the matter of glass, generally, we 
proceed upon false principles. Its 
leading feature is glitter—and in that 
one word how much of all that is de- 
testable do we express! Flickering, 
unquiet lights, are sometimes pleasing 
—to children, and idiots, always so— 
but in the embellishment of a room 
they should be scrupulously avoided. 
In truth, even strong, steady lights are 
inadmissible. The huge and unmean- 
ing glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas- 
lighted, and without shade, which dan- 
gle in our most fashionable drawing- 
rooms, may be cited as the quintessence 
of all that is false in taste or prepos- 
terous in folly. 

The rage for glitter—because its idea 
has become, as we before observed, 
confounded with that of magnificence 
in the abstract—has led us also to the 
exaggerated employment of mirrors. 
We line our dwellings with great Brit- 
ish plates, and then imagine we have 
done a fine thing. Now the slightest 
thought will be sufficient to convince 
any one who has an eye at all of the 
ill effect of numerous looking glasses, 
and especially of large ones. Regarded 
apart from its reflection, the mirror 
presents a continuous, flat, colourless, 
unrelieved surface—a thing always and 
obviously unpleasant. Considered as a 
reflector, it is potent in producing a 
monstrous and odious uniformity; and 
the evil is here aggravated, not in 
merely direct proportion with the 
augmentation of its sources, but in a 
ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a 
room with four or five mirrors ar- 
ranged at random, is, for all purposes 
of artistic show, a room of no shape 








PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE 


at all. If we add to this evil, the at- 
tendant glitter upon glitter, we have a 
perfect farrago of discordant and dis- 
pleasing effects. The veriest bumpkin, 
on entering an apartment so bedizened, 
would be instantly aware of something 
wrong, although he might be altogether 
unable to assign a cause for his dis- 
satisfaction. But let the same person 
be Jed into a room tastefully furnished, 
and he would be startled into an excla- 
mation of pleasure and surprise. 

It is an evil growing out of our 
republican institutions that here a man 
of large purse has usually a very little 
soul which he keeps in it. The cor- 
ruption of taste is a portion or a pen- 
dant of the dollar-manufacture. As we 
grow rich our ideas grow rusty. It is, 
therefore, not among our aristocracy 
that we must look (if at all, in Appa- 
lachia) for the spirituality of a British 
boudoir. But we have seem apart- 
ments in the tenure of Americans of 
moderate means, which, in negative 
| Merit at least, might vie with any of 
the ormolu’d cabinets of our friends 
across the water. Even now, there is 
present to our mind’s eye a small and 
not ostentatious chamber with whose 
decorations no fault can be found. The 
vroprietor lies asleep on a sofa—the 
weather is cool—the time is near mid- 
night: we will make a sketch of the 
room during his slumber. 

It is oblong—some thirty feet in 
length and twenty-five in breadth—a 
_ shape affording the best (ordinary) op- 
__ portunities for the adjustment of fur- 
niture. It has but one door—by no 
means a wide one—which is at one end 
of the parallelogram, and but two win- 
dows, which are at the other. These 
latter are large, reaching down to the 


921 


floor—have deep recesses—and open on 
an Italian veranda. Their panes are of 
a crimson-tinted glass, set in rosewood 
framings, more massive than usual. 
They are curtained within the recess by 
a thick silver tissue adapted to the 
shape of the windows, and hanging 
loosely in small volumes. Without the 
recess are curtains of an exceedingly 
rich crimson silk, fringed with a deep 
network of gold, and lined with the 
silver tissue, which is the material of 
the exterior blind. There are no 
cornices; but the folds of the whole 
fabric (which are sharp rather than 
massive, and have an airy appearance), 
issue from beneath a broad entablature 
of rich giltwork, which encircles the 
room at the junction of the ceiling and 
walls. The drapery is thrown open also, 
or closed, by means of a thick rope of 
gold loosely enveloping it, and resolving 
itself readily into a knot; no pins or 
other such devices are apparent. The 
colours of the curtains and their fringe 
—the tints of crimson and gold—appear 
everywhere in profusion, and determine 
the character of the room. The carpet 
—of Saxony material—is quite half-an- 
inch thick, and is of the same crimson 
ground, relieved simply by the appear- 
ance of a gold cord (like that festoon- 
ing the curtains) slightly relieved above 
the surface of the ground, and thrown 
upon it in such a manner as to form a 
succession of short irregular curves— 
one occasionally overlaying the other. 
The walls are prepared with a glossy 
paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with 
small Arabesque devices of a fainter 
hue of the prevalent crimson. Many 
paintings relieve the expanse of the 
paper. These are chiefly landscapes of 


922 


an imaginative cast—such as the fairy 
grottoes of Stanfield, or the lake of the 
Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There 
are, nevertheless, three or four female 
heads of an ethereal beauty—portraits 
in the manner of Sully. The tone of 
each picture is warm, but dark. There 
are no “brilliant effects.” Repose 
speaks in all. Not one is of small size. 
Diminutive paintings give that spotty 
look to a room, which is the blemish 
of so many a fine work of Art over- 
touched. The frames are broad but 
not deep, and richly carved without 
being dulled or filigreed. They have 
the whole lustre of burnished gold. 
They lie flat on the walls, and do not 
hang off with cords. The designs them- 
selves are often seen to better advan- 
tage in this latter position, but the 
general appearance of the chamber is 
injured. But one mirror—and this not 
a very large one—is visible. In shape 
it is nearly circular—and it is hung so 
that a reflection of the person can be 
obtained from it in none of the ordi- 
nary sitting-places of the room. ‘Two 
large low sofas of rosewood and crim- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


son silk, gold-flowered, form the only | 
seats, with the exception of two light 
conversation chairs, also of rosewood. 
There is a pianoforte (rosewood also), 
without cover, and thrown open. An | 
octagonal table, formed altogether of 
the richest gold-threaded marble, is 
placed near one of the sofas. This is 
also without cover—the drapery of the 
curtains has been thought sufficient. 
Four large and gorgeous Sevres vases, in 
which bloom a profusion of sweet and 
vivid flowers, occupy the - slightly 
rounded angles of the room. A tall » 
candelabrum, bearing a small antique 
lamp with highly perfumed oil, is stand- 
ing near the head of my _ sleeping 
friend. Some light and graceful hang- 
ing shelves, with golden edges and crim- 
son silk cords with gold tassels, sustain 
two or three hundred magnificently 
bound books. Beyond these things, 
there is no furniture, if we except an 
Argand lamp, with a plain crimson- 
tinted ground-glass shade, which de- 
pends from the lofty vaulted ceiling by 
a single slender gold chain, and throws 
a tranquil but magical radiance over all. 


Magazine Writing—Peter Snook 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, October, 1836.—Ed.) 


In a late number of the “Democratic 
Keview” there appeared a very excellent 
paper (by Mr. Duyckinck) on the sub- 
ject of Magazine Literature—a subject 
much less thoroughly comprehended 
here than either in France or in Eng- 
land. In America we compose now and 
then agreeable essays and other matters 
of that character, but we have not yet 


caught the true Magazine spirit—a thing 
neither to be defined nor described. 
Mr. Duyckinck’s article, although pi- 
quant, is not altogether to our mind. 
We think he places too low an estimate 
on the capability of the Magazine 
paper. He is inclined to undervalue its 
power, to limit unnecessarily its prov- 
ince, which is illimitable- In fact, it is 





MAGAZINE WRITING.—PETER SNOOK 


in the extent of subject, and not less in 
the extent or variety of tone, that the 
French and English surpass us to so 
good a purpose. How very rarely are 
we struck with an American Magazine 
article as with an absolute novelty— 
how frequently the foreign articles so 
affect us! We are so circumstanced as 
to be unable to pay for elaborate com- 
positions—and, after all, the true inven- 
tion is elaborate. There is no greater 
mistake than the supposition that a true 
originality is a mere matter of impulse 
or inspiration. To originate, is care- 
fully, patiently, and understandingly to 
combine. The few American Magazin- 
ists who ever think of this elaboration 
at all, cannot afford to carry it into 
practice for the paltry prices offered 
them by our periodical publishers. For 
this and other glaring reasons we are 
behind the age in a very important 
branch of literature, a branch which, 
moreover, is daily growing in impor- 
tance, and which, in the end (not far 
distant) will be the most influential of 


all the departments of Letters. 


We are lamentably deficient not only 
in invention proper, but in that which 
is more strictly art. What American, 
for instance, in penning a criticism ever 
supposes himself called upon to present 
his readers with more than the exact 


_ stipulation of his title—to present them 
with a criticism and something beyond? 
Who thinks of making his critique a 
work of art in itself, independently of 
its critical opinions? a work of art. such 


as are all the more elaborate and most 
effective reviews of Macaulay? Yet 
these reviews we have evinced no in- 
capacity to appreciate when presented. 
The best American review ever penned 
is miserably ineffective when compared 


923 


with the notice of Montagu’s Bacon, 
and yet this latter is, in general, a piece 
of tawdry sophistry, owing everything 
to a consummate, to an exquisite ar- 
rangement—to a thorough and _ just 
sufficiently comprehensive diffuseness, 
to a masterly climaxing of points—to a 
style which dazzles the understanding 
with its brilliancy, but not more than it 
misleads it-by its perspicuity, causing us 
so distinctly to comprehend that we 
fancy we coincide—in a word, to the 
perfection of art—of all the art which a 
Macaulay can wield, or which is appli- 
cable to any criticism that a Macaulay 
could write. 

It is, however, in the composition of 
that class of Magazine papers which 
come properly under the head of Tales 
that we evince the most remarkable 
deficiency in skill. If we except, first, 
Mr. Hawthorne, secondly Mr. Simms, 
thirdly, Mr. Willis, and fourthly, one 
or two others whom we may as well put 
mentally together without naming them, 
there is not even a respectably skilful 
tale-writer on this side the Atlantic. We 
have seen, to be sure, many very well 
constructed stories—individual  speci- 
mens—the work of American Magazin- 
ists, but these specimens have invari- 
ably appeared to be happy accidents of 
construction, their authors in subse- 
quent tales having always evinced an 
incapacity to construct. 

We have been led to a comparison 
of the American with the British ability 
in tale-writing by a perusal of some 
Magazine papers, the composition of the 
author of ‘“Chartley” and “The Invisi- 
ble Gentleman.” He is one of the best 
of the English journalists, and has some 
of the happiest peculiarities of Dickens, 
whom he preceded in the popular fa- 


924 


vour. The longest and best of his tales, 
properly so-called, is ‘Peter Snook,” 
and this presents so many striking 
points for the consideration of the 
Magazinist, that we feel disposed to 
give an account of it in full. 

Peter Snook, the hero, and the beau 
ideal of a Cockney, is a retail linen- 
draper in Bishopsgate Street. He is of 
course a stupid and conceited, although 
at bottom a very good little fellow, and 
“always looks as if he was frightened.” 
Matters go on very thrivingly with him 
until he becomes acquainted with Miss 
Clarinda Bodkin, “‘a young lady owning 
to almost thirty, and withal a great 
proficient in the mysteries of millinery 
and mantua-making.” Love and ambi- 
tion, however, set the little gentleman 
somewhat beside himself. “If Miss 
Clarinda would but have me,” says he, 
“we might divide the shop, and have a 
linen-drapery side, and a haberdashery 
and millinery side, and one would help 
the other. There’d be only one rent to 
pay, and a double business—and_ it 
would be so comfortable, too!” Think- 
ing thus, Peter commences a flirtation, 
to which Miss Clarinda but doubtfully 
responds. He escorts the lady to White 
Conduit House, Bagnigge Wells, and 
other genteel places of public resort— 
and finally, is so rash as to accede to 
the proposition, on her part, of a trip 
to Margate. At this epoch of the nar- 
rative, the writer observes that the sub- 
sequent proceedings of the hero are 
gathered from accounts rendered by 
himself, when called upon, after the 
trip, for explanation. 

It is agreed that Miss Clarinda shall 
set out alone for Margate—Mr. Snook 
following her, after some indispensable 
arrangements. These occupy him until 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the middle of July, at which period, 
taking passage in the “Rose in June,” 
he safely reaches his destination. But 
various misfortunes here await him— 
misfortunes admirably adapted to the 
meridian of Cockney feeling, and the 
capacity of Cockney endurance. His 
umbrella, for example, and a large 
brown paper parcel, containing a new 
pea-green coat and flower-patterned em- 
broidered silk waistcoat, are tumbled 
into the water at the landing-place, and 
Miss Bodkin forbids him her presence 
in his old clothes. By a tumble of his 
own, too, the skin is rubbed from both 
his shins for several inches, and the 
surgeon, having no regard to the lover’s 
cotillion engagements, enjoins on him a 
total abstinence from dancing. A cock- 
chafer, moreover, is at the trouble of 
flying into one of his eyes, and (worse 
than all) a tall military-looking shoe- 
maker, Mr. Last, has taken advantage 
of the linen-draper’s delay in reaching 
Margate, to ingratiate himself with his 
mistress. Finally, he is cut by Last, 
and rejected by the lady, and has noth- 
ing left for it but to secure a homeward 
passage in the ‘Rose in June.” 

In the evening of the second day 
after his departure, the vessel. drops 
anchor off Greenwich. Most of the 
passengers go ashore, with the view of 
taking the stage to the city. Peter, 
however, who considers that he has 
already spent money enough to no pur- 
pose, prefers remaining on board. “We 
shall get to Billingsgate,’ says he, 
“while I am sleeping, and I shall have 
plenty of time to go home and dress, 
and go into the city and borrow the 
trifle I may want for Pester and Com- 
pany’s bill, that comes due the day 
after to-morrow.” This determination 





MAGAZINE WRITING.—PETER SNOOK 


is a source of much trouble to our hero, 
as will be seen in the sequel. Some 
shopmen who remain with him in the 
packet, tempt him to unusual indul- 
gences, in the way, first, of brown 
stout, and, secondly, of positive French 
brandy. The consequence is that 
Mr. Snook falls, thirdly, asleep, and, 
fourthly, overboard. 

About dawn on the morning after this 
event, Ephraim Hobson, the confidential 
clerk and factotum of Mr. Peter Snook, 
is disturbed from a sound sleep by the 
sudden appearance of his master. That 
gentleman seems to be quite in a bustle, 
and delights Ephraim with an account 
of a whacking wholesale order for ex- 
portation just received. ‘Not a word 
to anybody about the matter!” exclaims 
Peter, with unusual emphasis. “It’s 
such an opportunity as don’t come often 
in a man’s life-time. There’s a captain 
of a ship—he’s the owner of her, too; 
but never mind! there an’t time to enter 
into particulars now, but you'll know all 
by-and-by—all you have to do, is to do 
as I tell you—so, come along!” 


_ Setting Ephraim to work, with di- 

rections to pack up immediately all the 
goods in the shop, with the exception 
of a few trifling articles, the master 
_ avows his intention of going into the 
city, “to borrow enough money to make 
up Peter’s bill, due to-morrow.” “I 
don’t think you'll want much, sir,” re- 
plied Mr. Hobson with a self-com- 
placent air. “I’ve been looking about 
long-winded ’uns, you see, since you’ve 
been gone, and I’ve got Shy’s money 
and Slack’s account, which we’d pretty 
well given up for a bad job, and one or 
two more. ‘There—there’s the list— 
and there’s the key to the strong box, 


925 


where you'll find the money, besides 
what I’ve took at the counter.” Peter, 
at this, seems well pleased, and shortly 
afterwards goes out, saying, he cannot 
tell when he’ll be back, and giving di- 
rections that whatever goods may be 
sent in during his absence shall be left 
untouched till his return. 

It appears that, after leaving his 
shop, Mr. Snook proceeded to that of 
Jobb, Flashbill and Co. (one of whose 
clerks, on board the “Rose in June,” 
had been very liberal in supplying our 
hero with brandy on the night of his 
ducking), looked over a large quantity 
of ducks and other goods, and finally 
made purchase of ‘a choice assort- 
ment,” to be delivered the same day. 
His next visit was to Mr. Bluff, the 
managing partner in the banking-house 
where he usually kept his cash. His 
business now was to request permission 
to overdraw a hundred pounds for a few 
days. 


“Humph,” said Mr. Bluff, “money is 
very scarce; but—bless me!—yes—it’s 
he! Excuse me a minute, Mr. Snook, 
there’s a gentleman at the front counter 
whom I want particularly to speak to— 
Tl be back with you directly.” As he 
uttered these words, he rushed out, and 
in passing one of the clerks on his way 
forward he whispered, “Tell Scribe to 
look at Snook’s account, and let me 
know directly.” He then went to the 
front counter, where several people 
were waiting to pay and receive money. 
“Fine weather this, Mr. Butt. What! 
you're not out of town like the rest of 
them?” 

“No,” replied Mr. Butt, who kept a 
thriving gin-shop, “no, I sticks to my 
business—make hay while the sun 


926 


shines—that’s my maxim. Wife up at 
night—I up early in the morning.” 

The banker chatted and listened with 
great apparent interest, till the closing 
of a huge book on which he kept ‘his 
eye, told him that his whispered order 
had been attended to. He then took a 
gracious leave of Mr. Butt, and re- 
turned back to the counting-house with 
a slip of paper, adroitly put in his 
hand while passing, on which was writ- 
ten, ‘“Peter Snook, Linen-Draper, Bish- 
opsgate Street—old account—increasing 
gradually—balance, £153:15:6:—very 
regular.” “Sorry to keep you waiting, 
Mr. Snook,” said he, “but we must catch 
people when we can. Well, what is it 
you were saying you wanted us to do!” 

“T should like to be able to overdraw 
just for a few days,” replied Peter. 

“How much?” 

“A hundred.” 

“Won’t fifty do?” 

“No, not quite, sir.” 

“Well, you’re an honest fellow, and 
don’t come bothering us often; so, I 
suppose we must not be too particular 
with you for this once.” 


Leaving Bluff, Mr. Snook hurries to 
overtake Mr. Butt, the dealer in spirits, 
who had just left the banking-house 
before himself, and to give that gentle- 
man an order for a hogshead of the best 
gin. As he is personally unknown to 
Mr. Butt, he hands him a card, on 
which is written, ‘Peter Snook, linen 
and muslin warehouse, No. — Bishops- 
gate Street Within,” etc. etc., and takes 
occasion to mention that he purchases 
at the recommendation of Mr. Bluff. 
The gin is to be at Queenhithe the 
same evening. The spirit-dealer, as 
soon as his new customer has taken 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


leave, resolves in his mind the oddity | 
of a linen-draper’s buying a hogshead of © 
gin, and determines to satisfy himself — 
of Mr. Snook’s responsibility by a per- | 
sonal application to Mr. Bluff. On | 
reaching the bank, however, he is told | 
by the clerks that Mr. Bluff, being in 
attendance upon a committee of the 
House of Commons, will not be home — 
in any reasonable time—but also that © 
Peter Snook is a perfectly safe man. 
The gin is accordingly sent; and sev- | 
eral other large orders for different 
goods, upon other houses, are promptly | 
fulfilled in the same manner. 
time, Ephraim is busily engaged at © 
home in receiving and inspecting the © 
invoices of the various purchases as | 
they arrive, at which employment he © 
is occupied until dusk, when his master — 
makes his appearance in unusually high © 
spirits. We must here be pardoned for | 
copying some passages: 


“Well, Ephraim,” he exclaimed, “this | 
looks something like business! You 
haven’t had such a job this many a day! 
Shop looks well now, eh?” 

“You know best, sir,’ replied Hobson. 
“But hang me if I ain’t frightened. 
When we shall sell all these goods, I’m 
sure I can’t think. You talked of hav- 
ing a haberdashery side to the shop, 
but if we go on at this rate, we shall 
want another side for ourselves; [I’m 
sure I don’t know where Miss Bodkin is 
to be put.” 

“She go to Jericho!” said Peter con- 
temptuously. “As for the goods, my 
boy, they'll be gone before tomorrow 
morning. All you and I have got to do 
is pack ’em up; so, let us turn to, and 
strap at it.” 

Packing was Ephraim’s favourite em- 


Mean- | 





| 
| 








MAGAZINE WRITING.—PETER SNOOK 


} ployment, but, on the present occasion, 


he set to work with a heavy heart. His 
master, on the contrary, appeared full 


of life and spirits, and corded boxes, 


sewed up trusses, and packed huge 
paper parcels with a celerity and an 
adroitness, truly wonderful. 

“Why, you don’t get on, Hobson,” 
he exclaimed; ‘‘see what I’ve done! 


} Where’s the ink-pot?—oh, here it is!” 


and he proceeded to mark his packages 
with his initials, and the letter G below. 
“There,” he resumed, “P. S. G.; that’s 
for me, at Gravesend. I’m to meet the 
Captain and owner there; show the 
goods—if there’s any he don’t like, shall 
bring *em back with me; get bills— 
bankers’ acceptances for the rest; see 
’m safe on board; then—but—xnot be- 
fore, mind that, Master Ephraim! No, 
no, keep my weather eye open, as the 
men say on board the ‘Rose in June.’ 
By-the-bye, I haven’t told you yet 
about my falling overboard, whap into 
the river.” 

“Falling overboard!” exclaimed the 


astonished shopman, quitting his occu- 


pation to stand erect and listen. 

“Ay, ay,’ continued Peter—‘see it 
won’t do to tell you long stories now. 
There—mark that truss, will you! 


Know all about it some day. Lucky 
job, though—tell you that; 
_ thundering order by it. 


got this 
Had one tum- 
ble, first, going off, at Margate. Spoilt 


| my peagreen—never mind—that was a 
lucky tumble, ‘too. 
_ that, shouldn’t so soon have found out 
the game a certain person was playing 
| with me. 


Hadn’t been for 


She go to Jericho!” 
But for the frequent repetition of this 


_ favourite expression, Ephraim Hobson 
has since declared he should have 


doubted his master’s identity during the 


927 


whole of that evening, as there was 
something very singular about him; «and 
his strength and activity in moving the 
bales, boxes, and trussés, were such as 
he had never previously exhibited. The 
phrase condemning this, that, or the 
other thing or person to “go to Jericho,” 
was the only expression that he uttered, 
as the shopman said, “naturally,” and 
Peter repeated that whimsical anathema 
as often as usual. 


The goods being all packed up, carts 
arrive to carry them away, and by half- 
past ten o’clock the shop is entirely 
cleared, with the exception of some 
trifling articles to make show on the 
shelves and counters. Two hackney 
coaches are called. Mr. Peter Snook 
gets into one with a variety of loose 
articles which would require too much 
time to pack, and his shopman into 
another with some more. Arriving at 
Queenhithe, they find all the goods pre- 
viously sent already embarked in the 
hold of a long-decked barge, which lies 
near the shore. Mr. Snook now insists 
upon Ephraim’s going on board and 
taking supper and some hot rum and 
water. This advice he follows to so 
good a purpose, that he is at length 
completely bewildered, when his master 
taking him up in his arms carries him on 
shore, and there setting him down, 
leaves him to make the best of his way 
home as he can. 

About eight the next morning, 
Ephraim awaking of course in a sad 
condition both of body and mind, sets 
himself immediately about arranging the 
appearance of the shop, “so as to secure 
the credit of the concern.” In spite of 
all his ingenuity, however, it maintains 
a poverty-striken appearance, which cir- 
cumstance excites some most unreason- 


928 


able suspicions in the mind of Mr. 
Bluff’s clerk, upon his calling at ten 
with Pester & Co.’s bill (three hundred 
and sixteen pounds seventeen shillings), 
and receiving by way of payment a 
cheque upon his own banking house for 
the amount—Mr. Snook having written 
this cheque before his departure with 
the goods, and left it with Ephraim. 
On reaching the bank, therefore, the 
clerk inquires if Peter Snook’s cheque 
is good for three hundred and sixteen 
pounds odd, and is told that it is not 
worth a farthing, Mr. S. having over- 
drawn for a hundred. While Mr. Bluff 
and his assistants are conversing on this 
subject, Butt, the gin-dealer calls to 
thank the banker for having recom- 
mended him a customer, which the 
banker denies having done. An ex- 
planation ensues, and “stop thief!” is 
the cry. Ephraim is sent for, and re- 
luctantly made to tell all he knows of 
his master’s proceedings on the day be- 
fore—by which means a knowledge is 
obtained of the other houses who (it is 
supposed) have been swindled. Get- 
ting a description of the barge which 
conveyed the goods from Queenhithe, 
the whole party of the creditors now 
set off in pursuit. 

About dawn the next morning they 
overtake the barge a little below Grave- 
send—where four men are observed 
leaving her and rowing to the shore in 
a skiff. Peter Snook is found sitting 
quietly in the cabin, and, although ap- 
parently a little surprised at seeing Mr. 
Pester, betrays nothing like embarrass- 
ment or fear. 

“Ah, Mr. Pester! is it you? Glad to 
see you, sir! So you’ve been taking a 
trip out o’ town, and are going back 
with us! We shall get to Billingsgate 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


between eight and nine, they say; and I 
hope it won’t be later, as I’ve a bill of 
yours comes due to-day, and I want to 
be at home in time to write a check 
TOPhit.’’ 


The goods are also found on board, 
together with three men in the hold, 
gagged and tied hand and foot. They 
give a strange account of themselves. 
Being in the employ of Mr. Heaviside, 
a lighterman, they were put in charge 
of “The Flitter,’ when she was hired 
by Peter Snook for a trip to Gravesend. 
According to their orders, they took the 
barge, in the first instance, to a wharf 
near Queenhithe, and helped to load 
her with some goods brought down in 
carts. Mr. Snook afterwards came on 
board, bringing with him two fierce- 
looking men, and “a little man with a 
hooked nose” (Ephraim). Mr. S. and 
the little man then “had a sort of jolli- 
fication”? in the cabin, till the latter 
got drunk and was carried ashore. 
They then proceeded down the river, 
nothing particular occurring till they 
had passed Greenwich Hospital, when 
Mr. S. ordered them to lay the barge 
alongside a large black-sided ship. No 
sooner was the order obeyed than they 
were boarded by a number of men from 
said ship, who seized them, bound them, 
gagged them, and put them in the hold. 

The immediate consequence of this 
information is that Peter is bound, 
gagged, and put down into the hold in 
the same manner, by way of retaliation, 
and for safe keeping on his way back 
to the city. On the arrival of the party, 
a meeting of the creditors is called. 
Peter appears before them in a great 
rage and with the air of an injured man. 
Indeed, his behaviour is so mal a propos 


MAGAZINE WRITING.—PETER SNOOK 


to his situation as entirely to puzzle his 
interrogators. He accuses the whole 
party of a conspiracy. 


“Peter Snook,’ said Mr. Pester 
solemnly from the chair, “that look 
does not become you after what has 
passed. Let me advise you to conduct 
yourself with propriety. You will find 
that the best policy, depends on’t.” 

“A pretty thing for you for to come 
to talk of propriety!” exclaimed Peter; 
“you, that seed me laid hold on by a 
set of ruffians, and never said a word, 
nor give information a’terwards! And 
here have I been kept away from busi- 
ness I don’t know how long, and shut 
up like a dog in a kennel; but I look 
upon’t you were at the bottom of it 
all—you and that fellow with the plum- 
pudding face, as blowed me up about 
a cask of gin! What you both mean 
by it, I can’t think; but if there’s any 
law in the land, I’ll make you remember 
it, both of you—that’s what I will!” 


Mr. Snook swears that he never saw 
Jobb in his life, except on the occasion 
of his capture in the “The Flitter,” and 
positively denies having looked out any 
parcel of goods at the house of Jobb, 
Flashbill, and Co. With the banker, 
Mr. Bluff, he acknowledges an acquaint- 
ance—but not having drawn for the 
two hundred and seventy pounds odd, 
or having ever overdrawn for a shilling 
in his life. Moreover, he is clearly of 
opinion that the banker has still in his 
hands more than a hundred and fifty 
pounds of his (Mr. Snook’s) money. 
He can designate several gentlemen as 
being no creditors of his, although they 
were of the number of those from whom 
his purchases had been made for the 


929 


“whacking” shipping out, and although 
their goods were found in “The Flit- 
ter.’ Ephraim is summoned, and tes- 
tifies to all the particulars of his mas- 
ter’s return, and the subsequent pack- 
ing, cart-loading, and embarkation as 
already told—accounting for the ex- 
travagances of Mr. Snook as being “all 
along of that Miss Bodkin.” 


“Lor’, master, hi’s glad to see you 
agin,” exclaimed Ephraim. ‘“Who’d 
ha’ thought as ’twould come to this?” 

“Come to what?” cried Peter, “TI’ll 
make ’em repent of it, every man Jack 
of ’em, before I’ve done, if there’s law 
to be had for love or money!” 

“Ah, sir,” said Ephraim, “we'd better 
have stuck to the retail. I was afraid 
that shipping consarn wouldn’t answer, 
and tell’d you so, if you recollect, but 
you wouldn’t hearken to me.” 

“What shipping concern?” inquired 
Peter, with a look of amazement. 

“La! master,” exclaimed Ephraim, 
“it ain’t of any use to pretend to keep 
it a secret now, when everybody knows 
it. I didn’t tell Mr. Pester, though, 
till the last, when all the goods was gone 
out of the shop, and the sheriff’s officers 
had come to take possession of the 
house.” 

“Sheriff’s officers in possession of my 
house!” roared Peter. “All the goods , 
gone out of the shop! What do you 
mean by that, you rascal! What have 
you been doing in my absence?” And 
he sprang forward furiously, and seized 
the trembling shopman by the collar 
with a degree of violence which ren- 
dered it difficult for the two officers in 
attendance to disengage him from his 
hold. 


930 


Hereupon, Mr. Snap, the attorney re- 
tained by the creditors, harangues the 
company at some length, and intimates 
that Mr. Snook is either mad or acting 
the madman for the purpose of evading 
punishment. A practitioner from Bed- 
lam is sent for, and some artifices re- 
sorted to, but to no purpose. It is 
found impossible to decide upon the 
question of sanity. The medical gentle- 
man, in his report to the creditors, con- 
fesses himself utterly perplexed, and, 
without giving a decision, details the 
particulars of a singular story told him 
by Mr. Snook himself, concerning the 
mode of his escape from drowning after 


he fell overboard from the ‘‘Rose in 


June.” “It is a strange unlikely tale 
to be sure,” says the physician, “and 
if his general conversation was of that 
wild, imaginative, flighty kind which I 
have so often witnessed, I should say 
it was purely ideal; but he appears such 
a plain-spoken, simple sort of a person, 
that it is difficult to conceive how he 
could invent such a fiction.” Mr. 
Snook’s narration is then told, not in 
his very words, but in the author’s own 
way, with all the particulars obtained 
from Peter’s various recitations. We 
give it only in brief. 

Upon tumbling overboard, Mr. Snook 
(at least according to his own story) 
swam courageously as long as he could. 
He was upon the point of sinking, how- 
ever, when an oar was thrust under his 
arm, and he found himself lifted in a 
boat by a “dozen dark-looking men.” 
He is taken on board a large ship, and 
the captain, who is a droll genius, and 
talks in rhyme somewhat after the fash- 
ion of the wondrous Tale of Alroy, en- 
tertains him with great  cordiality, 
dresses him in a suit of his own clothes, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


makes him drink in the first place a 
brimmer of “something hot,” and aft- | 
erwards plies him with wines and cor- _ 
dials of all kinds at a supper of the | 
Warmed © 


most magnificent description. 
in body and mind by this excellent 
cheer, Peter reveals his inmost secrets 
to his host, and talks freely and mi- 
nutely of a thousand things; of his man 
Ephraim and his oddities; of his bank 
account; of his great credit; of his ad- 
ventures with Miss Bodkin; of his pros- 
pects in trade; and especially of the 


names, residences, etc. etc., of the 
wholesale houses with whom he is in the 
habit of dealing. Presently, being 


somewhat overcome with wine he goes 
to bed at the suggestion of the captain, 
who promises to call him in season for 
a boat in the morning, which will con- 
vey him to Billingsgate in full time for 
Pester and Co.’s note. How long he 
slept is uncertain—but when he awoke 
a great change was observable in the 
captain’s manner, who was somewhat 
brusque, and handed him over the ship’s 
side into the barge where he was dis- 
covered by the creditors in pursuit, and 
which he was assured would convey him 
to Billingsgate. 

This relation, thus succinctly given 
by us, implies little or nothing. The 
result, however, to which the reader is 


ingeniously led by the author is, that — 


the real Peter Snook has been duped, 
and that the Peter Snook who made the 
various purchases about town, and who 
appeared to Ephraim only during the 
morning and evening twilights of the 
eventful day, was in fact, no other per- 
son than the captain of “the strange, 
black-sided ship.” We are to believe 
that, taking advantage of Peter’s com- 
municativeness, and a certain degree 














= ——— 




















SOME SECRETS OF THE MAGAZINE PRISON-HOUSE 


of personal resemblance to himself, he 
assumed our hero’s clothes while he 
slept, and made a bold and nearly suc- 
cessful attempt at wholesale peculation. 
_ The incidents of this story are forci- 
_ bly conceived, and even in the hands of 
an ordinary writer would scarcely fail 
of effect. But, the present instance, 
so unusual a tact is developed in the 
narration that we are inclined to rank 
“Peter Snook” among the few tales 
which (each in its own way) are abso- 


931 


lutely faultless. It is a Flemish home- 
piece of the highest order—its merits 
lying in its chiaroscuro—in that blend- 
ing of light and shade and shadow 
where nothing is too distinct, yet 
where the idea is fully conveyed—in the 
absence of all rigid outlines and all min- 
iature paintings—in the not undue 
warmth of the colouring—and in a well- 
subdued exaggeration at all points—an 
exaggeration never amounting to carica- 
ture. 


Some Secrets of the Magazine Prison 
Flouse 


(First appeared in Broadway Journal, Vol. 1:7.—Ed.) 


_ Tue want of an International Copy- 
_ right Law, by rendering it nearly impos- 
sible to obtain anything from the book- 
sellers in the way of remuneration for 
literary labour, has had the effect of 
forcing many of our very best writers 
into the service of the Magazines and 
Reviews, which, with a pertinacity that 
does them credit, keep up in a certain 
or uncertain degree the good old saying 
that even in the thankless field of Let- 
ters the labourer is worthy of his hire. 
How—by dint of what dogged instinct 
of the honest and proper, these journals 
have contrived to persist in their pay- 
yng practises, in the very teeth of the 
opposition got up by the Fosters and 
Leonard Scotts, who furnish for eight 
dollars any four of the British periodi- 
cals for a year, is a point we have had 
much difficulty in settling to our satis- 
faction, and we have been forced to 
settle it at last upon no more reasonable 


ground than that of a still lingering 
esprit de patrie. That Magazines can 
live, and not only live but thrive, and 
not only thrive but afford to disburse 
money for original contributions, are 
facts which can only be solved, under 
the circumstances, by the really fanciful 
but still agreeable supposition that there 
is somewhere still existing an ember 
not altogether quenched among the fires 
of good feeling for letters and literary 
men that once animated the American 
bosom. 

It would not do (perhaps this is the 
idea) to let our poor-devil authors ab- 
solutely starve while we grow fat, in a 
literary sense, on the good things of 
which we unblushingly pick the pocket 
of all Europe: it would not be exactly 
the thing comme il faut to permit a 
positive atrocity of this kind; and hence 
we have Magazines, and hence we have 
a portion of the public who subscribe 


932 


to these Magazines (through sheer 
pity), and hence we have Magazine 
publishers (who sometimes take upon 
themselves the duplicate title of “editor 
and proprietor’)—publishers, we say, 
who ‘under certain conditions of good 
conduct, occasional puffs, and decent 
subserviency at all times, make it a 
point of conscience to encourage the 
poor-devil author with a dollar or two, 
more or less, as he behaves himself 
properly and abstains from the indecent 
habit of turning up his nose. 

We hope, however, that we are not so 
prejudiced or so vindictive: as to in- 
sinuate. that what certainly does look 
like illiberality on the part of them (the 
Magazine publishers) is really an illi- 
berality chargeable to them. In fact, it 
will be seen at once that what we have 
said has a tendency directly the reverse 
of any such accusation. These pub- 
lishers pay something—other publishers 
nothing at all. Here certainly is a dif- 
ference—although a mathematician 
might be infinitesimally small. Still, 
these Magazine editors and proprietors 
pay (that is the word), and with your 
true poor-devil author the smallest 
favours are sure to be thankfully re- 
ceived. No: the illiberality lies at the 
door of the demagogue ridden public, 
who suffer their anointed delegates (or 
perhaps arointed—which is it?) to insult 
the common sense of them (the public) 
by making orations in our national halls 
on beauty and conveniency of robbing 
the Literary Europe on the highways, 
and on the gross absurdity in especial 
of admitting so unprincipled a principle 
that a man has any right and title 
either to his own brains or to the flimsy 
material that he chooses to spin out of 
them, like a confounded caterpillar as 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


he is. If anything of this gossamer 
character stands in need of protection, 
why we have our hands full at once with 
the silk worms and the morus multicau- 
lis. 

But if we cannot, under the circum- 
stances, complain of the absolute illib- 
erality of the Magazine publishers © 
(since pay they do), there is at least — 
one particular in which we have against — 
them good grounds of accusation. Why 
(since pay they must) do they not pay 
with a good grace and promptly? Were 
we in an ill-humour at this moment we 
could a tale unfold which would erect 
the hair on the head of Shylock. A 
young author, struggling with Despair 
itself in the shape of a ghastly poverty, 
which has no alleviation—no sympathy 
from an every-day world, that cannot 
understand his necessities, and that 
would pretend not to understand them 
if it comprehended them ever so well— 
this young author is politely requested 
to compose an article, for which he will 
“be handsomely paid.’ Enraptured, he 
neglects perhaps for a month the sole 
employment which affords him the 
chance of a livelihood, and having 
starved through the month (he and his 
family) completes at length the month 
of starvation and the article, and des- 
patches the latter (with a broad hint 
about the former) to the pursy “editor” 
and bottle-nosed “proprietor” who has 
condescended to honour him (the poor 
devil) with his patronage. A month 
(starving still), and no reply. Another 
month—still none. Two months more— 
still none. A second letter, modestly 
hinting that the article may not have 
reached its destination—still: no reply. 
At the expiration of six additional 
months, personal application is made 








MARGINALIA 


at the “editor and proprietor’s” office. 
Call again. The poor devil goes out, 
and does not fail to call again. Still 
call again;—and call again is the word 
for three or four months more. His 
patience exhausted, the article is de- 
manded. No—he can’t have it—(the 
truth is, it was too good to be given up 
so easily)—“it is in print,’ and “con- 
tributions of this character are never 
paid for (it is a rule we have) under 
six months after publication. Call in 
six months after the issue of your affair, 
and your money is ready for you—for 
we are business men _ ourselves— 
prompt.” With this the poor devil is 
satisfied, and makes up his mind that 
the “editor and proprietor” is a gentle- 
man, and that of course he (the poor 
devil) will wait as requested. And it 
is supposable that he would have waited 
if he could—but Death in the mean- 


933 


time would not. He dies, and by the 
good luck of his decease (which came 
by starvation) the fat “editor and pro- 
prietor” is fatter henceforward and for 
ever to the amount of five and twenty 
dollars, very cleverly saved, to be spent 
generously in canvas-backs and cham- 
pagne. 

There are two things which we hope 
the reader will not do as he runs over 
this article: first, we hope that he will 
not believe that we write from any per- 
sonal experience of our own, for we 
have only the reports of actual sufferers 
to depend upon; and second, that he 
will not make any personal application 
of our remarks to any Magazine pub- 
lisher now living, it being well known 
that they are all as remarkable for their 
generosity and urbanity, as for their in- 
telligence and appreciation of Genius. 


Marginahia 


(These ‘“Marginalia” contain many of the ideas found in the essays, criticisms and 


tales. 


The parts of the ‘Marginalia” which are verbally the same have been 


omitted from this edition. First published in Democratic Review, November, 


1844.—Ed.) 


IN getting my books I have been al- 
Ways solicitous of an ample mar- 
gin; this not so much through any love 
of the thing in itself, however agree- 
able, as for the facility it affords me 
of pencilling suggested thoughts, agree- 
ments, and differences of opinion, or 
brief critical comments in general. 
Where what I have to note is too much 
to be included within the narrow limits 
of a margin, I commit to a slip of pa- 
per, and deposit it between the leaves; 


taking care to secure it by an impercep- 
tible portion of gum tragacanth paste. 

All this may be whim; it may be not 
only a very hackneyed, but a very idle 
practice, yet I persist in it still; and it 
affords me pleasure—which is profit, in 
despite of Mr. Bentham with Mr. Mill 
on his back. 

This making of notes, however, is by 
no means the making of mere memoran- 
da—a custom which has its disadvan- 
tages, beyond doubt. “Ce que je mets 


934 


sur papier,’ says Bernardin de St. 
Pierre, “je remets de ma memoire, et 
par consequence je Voublie ;’—and, in 
fact, if you wish to forget anything on 
the spot, make a note that this thing is 
to be remembered. 

But the purely marginal jottings, 
done with no eye to the Memorandum 
Book, have a distinct complexion, and 
not only a distinct purpose, but none 
at all; this it is which imparts to them 
a value. They have a rank somewhat 
above the chance and desultory com- 
ments of literary chit-chat—for these 
latter are not unfrequently “talk for 
talk’s sake,’ hurried out of the mouth; 
while the marginalia are deliberately 
pencilled, because the mind of the reader 
wishes to unburthen itself of a thought— 
however flippant—however silly—how- 
ever trivial—still a thought indeed, not 
merely a thing that might have been a 
thought in time, and under more favour- 
able circumstances. In the marginalia, 
too, we talk only to ourselves; we there- 
fore talk freshly—boldly—originally— 
with abandonnement—without conceit— 
much after the fashion of Jeremy 
Taylor, and Sir Thomas Browne, and 
Sir William Temple, and the anatomical 
Burton, and that most logical analogist 
Butler, and some other people of the 
old day, who were too full of their mat- 
ter to have any room for their manner, 
which being thus left out of question 
was a capital manner indeed—a model 
of manners, with a richly marginallic 
air. 

The circumscription of space too, in 
these pencillings, has in it something 
more of advantage than inconvenience. 
It compels us (whatever diffuseness of 
idea we may clandestinely entertain) 
into Montesquieu-ism, into Tacitus-ism 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


(here I leave out of view the conclud- 
ing portion of the ‘“Annals’)—or even 
into Carlyle-ism—a thing which, I have 
been told, is not to be confounded with 
your ordinary affectation and bad gram- 
mar. I say “bad grammar” through 
sheer obstinacy, because the grammar- 


ians (who should know better) insist — 


upon it that I should not. But then 
grammar is not what these grammarians 





will have it; and, being merely the © 
analysis of language, with the result of — 


this analysis, must be good or bad just 
as the analyst is sage or silly—just as 
he is a Horne Tooke or a Cobbett. 

But to our sheep. 


mood too listless for continuous study, 
I sought relief from ennui in dipping 
here and there at random among the 


During a rainy — 
afternoon, not long ago, being in a 


volumes of my library—no very large © 
one certainly, but sufficiently miscel- — 


laneous, and, I flatter myself, not a 
little recherche. 
Perhaps it was what the Germans call 
the ‘“‘brain-scattering” humour of the 
moment; but, while the picturesqueness 
of the numerous pencil-scratches: ar- 
rested my attention, their helter-skelter- 
iness of commentary amused me. I 


found myself at length forming a wish — 


that it had been some other hand than 
my own which had so bedevilled the 
books, and fancying that, in such case, 
I might have derived no inconsiderable 
pleasure from turning them over. From 
this .the transition-thought (as Mr. 
Lyell, or Mr. Murchison, or Mr. Feath- 


erstonhaugh would have it) was natural 


enough—there might be something even 
in my scribblings which, for the mere 


sake of scribbling, would have interest — 


for others. 
The main difficulty respected the 




















——————— 











MARGINALIA 


_ mode of transferring the notes from the 


volumes—the context from the text— 


without detriment to that exceedingly 
| frail fabric of intelligibility in which the 
context was imbedded. With all appli- 
- ances to boot, with the printed pages 
at their back, the commentaries were 
too often like 
those of Lycophron Tenebrosus—or the 
essays of 
| Quintilian, which were “necessarily ex- 
cellent, since even he (the pedant) 
found it 
_them:” what, then, would become of 
it — this 
translated? 
| traduit (traduced) which is the French 
synonym, or overzezet (turned topsy- 
_ turvy) which is the Dutch one! 


Dodona’s_ oracles—or 


the pedant’s pupils in 


impossible to comprehend 


context —if transferred—if 
Would it not rather be 


I concluded at length to put extensive 


_ faith in the acumen and imagination 
of the reader—this as a general rule. 
_ But, in some instances, where even 
faith would not remove mountains, 
there seemed no safer plan than so to 
_ remodel the note as to convey at least 
_ the ghost of a conception as to what it 
was all about. 


Where, for such con- 
ception, the text itself was absolutely 
necessary, I could quote it; where the 
title of the book commented upon was 
indispensable, I could name it. In 
short, like a novel-hero dilemma’d, I 


_ made up my mind “to be guided by cir- 


cumstances,” in default of more satis- 
factory rules of conduct. 

As for the multitudinous opinion ex- 
pressed in the subjoined farrago—as for 
my present assent to all, or dissent 
from any portion of it—as to the pos- 
sibility of my having in some instances 
altered my mind—or as to the impos- 
sibility of my not having altered it 
often—these are pecints upon which I 


935 


say nothing, because upon these there 
can be nothing cleverly said. It may 
be as well to observe, however, that just 
as the goodness of your true pun is in 
the direct ratio of its intolerability, so 
is nonsense the essential sense of the 
Marginal Note. 


One of the happiest examples, in a 
small way, of the carrying-one’s-self-in- 
a-hand-basket logic is to be found in a 
London weekly paper, called ‘““‘The Pop- 
ular Record of Modern Science; a 
Journal of Philosophy and General In- 
formation.” This work has a vast cir- 
culation, and is respected by eminent 
men. Sometime in November, 1845, it 
copied from the “Columbian Magazine” 
of New York, a rather adventurous 
article of mine called ‘““Mesmeric Rev- 
elation.” It had the impudence, also, 
to spoil the title by improving it te 
“The Last Conversation of a Somnam- 
bule’”—a phrase that is nothing at all to 
the purpose, since the person who “‘con- 
verses” is not a Somnambule. He is a 
sleep-waker—not a sleep-walker; but I 
presume that “The Record” thought it 
was only the difference of an /. What 
I chiefly complain of, however, is that 
the London editor prefaced my paper 
with these words:—‘‘The following is 
an article communicated to the ‘Colum- 
bian Magazine,’ a journal of respecta- 
bility and influence in the United 
States, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe. Jt bears 
internal evidence of authenticity!” 
There is no subject under Heaven about 
which funnier ideas are, in general, en- 
tertained than about this subject of 
internal evidences. It is by “internal 
evidence,” observe, that we decide upon 
the mind. But to “The Record:”—On 
the issue of my “Valdemar Case,” this 


936 


journal copies it, as a matter of course, 
and (also as a matter of course) im- 
proves the title, as in the previous in- 
stance. But the editorial comments 
may as well be called profound: Here 
they are: 


The following narrative appears in a 
recent number of ‘““The American Mag- 
agine,” a respectable periodical in the 
United States. It comes, it will be ob- 
served, from the narrator of the ‘Last 
Conversation of a Somnambule,” pub- 
lished in “The Record” of the 29th of 
November. In extracting this case the 
“Morning Post,” of Monday last, takes 
what it considers the safe side, by re- 
marking—‘“For our own parts we do not 
believe it; and there are several state- 
ments made, more especially with re- 
gard to the disease of which the patient 
died, which at once prove the case to 
be either of fabrication, or the work of 
one little acquainted with consumption. 
The story, however, is wonderful, and 
we therefore give it.” The editor, how- 
ever, does not point out the especial 
statements which are inconsistent with 
what we know of the progress of con- 
sumption, and as few scientific persons 
would be willing to take their pathology 
any more than their logic from the 
‘Morning Post,” his caution, it is to be 
feared, will not have much weight. The 
reason assigned by ‘‘The Post” for pub- 
lishing the account is quaint, and would 
apply equally to an adventure from 
Baron Munchausen—“‘it is wonderful 
and we therefore give it.” The 
above case is obviously one that cannot 
be received except on the strongest tes- 
timony, and it is equally clear that the 
testimony by which it is at present ac- 
companied is not of that character. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The most favourable circumstances m 
support of it consist in the fact that 
credence is understood to be given to it, 
at New York, within a few miles of 
which city the affair took place, and 
where consequently the most ready 
means must be found for its authenti- 
cation or disproval. The initials of the 
medical men and of the young medical 
student must be sufficient in the im- 
mediate locality to establish their iden- 
tity, especially as M. Valdemar was well 
known, and had been so long ill as to 
render it out of the question that there 
should be any difficulty in ascertaining 
the names of the physicians by whom he 
had been attended. In the same way 
the nurses and servants under whose 
cognisance the case must have come 
during the seven months which it occu- 
pied are of course accessible to al! sorts 
of inquiries. It will therefore appear 
that there must have been too many 
parties concerned to render. prolenged 
deception practicable. The angry ex- 
citement and various rumours which 
have at length rendered a public state- 
ment necessary, are also sufficient to 
show that something extraordinary must 
have taken place. On the other hand 
there is no strong point for disbelief. 
The circumstances are, as “The Post” 
says, “wonderful;” but so are all cir- 
cumstances that come to our knowledge © 
for the first time—and in Mesmerism 
everything is new. An objection may 
be made that the article has rather a 
Magazinish air; Mr. Poe having evi- 
dently written with a view to effect, and 
so as to excite rather than to subdue 
the vague appetite for the mysterious 
and the horrible which such a case, un- 
der any circumstances, is sure to 
awaken—but apart from this there is 











nothing to deter a philosophic mind 
from further inquiries regarding it. It 
is a matter entirely for testimony. [So 
it is.| Under this view we shall take 
_steps to procure from some of the most 
intelligent and influential citizens of 
|New York all the evidence that can be 
_had upon the subject. No steamer will 
leave England for America till the 3d of 
February, but within a few weeks of 
that time we doubt not it will be pos- 
| sible to lay before the readers of ‘“The 
_ Record” information which will enable 
' them to come to a pretty accurate con- 
' clusion. 





Yes; and no doubt they came to one 
accurate enough in the end. But all this 
rigmarole is what people call testing a 
| thing by “internal evidence.” “The 
| Record” insists upon the truth of the 
story because of certain facts—because 
_ the “initials of the young men must be 
_ sufficient to establish their identity”— 
_ because “the nurses must be accessible 
_to all sorts of inquiries’—and because 
the “angry excitement and_ various 
rumours which at length rendered a 
| public statement necessary, are suffi- 
cient to show that something extraor- 
_ dinary must have taken place.” To be 
‘sure. The story is proved by these 
| facts—the facts about the students, the 
nurses, the excitement, the credence 
| given the tale at New York. And now 
_ all we have to do is to prove these 
facts. Ah! they are proved by the 
story. As for the “Morning Post,” it 
evinces more weakness in its disbelief 
than “The Record” in its credulity. 
_ What the former says about doubting 
on account of inaccuracy in the detail of 
the phthisical symptoms, is a mere 
_ fetch, as the Cockneys have it, in order 


MARGINALIA 


937 


to make a very few little children be- 
lieve that it, “The Post,” is not quite 
so stupid as a post proverbially is. It 
knows nearly as much about pathology 
as it does about English grammar—and 
I really hope it will not feel called upon 
to blush at the compliment. I repre- 
sented the symptoms of M. Valdemar 
as “severe,” to be sure. I put an ex- 
treme case; for it was necessary that I 
should leave on the reader’s mind no 
doubt as to the certainty of death with- 
out the aid of the Mesmerist—but such 
symptoms might have appeared—the 
identical symptoms have appeared and 
will be presented again and again. Had 
“The Post” been only half as honest as 
ignorant, it would have owned that it 
disbelieved for no reason more pro- 
found than that which influences all 
dunces in disbelieving—it would have 
owned that it doubted the thing merely 
because the thing was a “wonderful” 
thing, and had never yet been printed 
in a book. 


We mere men of the world, with no 
principle—a very old-fashioned and 
cumbersome thing—should be on our 
guard lest, fancying him on his last 
legs we insult or otherwise maltreat 
some poor devil of a genius at the very 
instant of his putting his foot on the 
top round of his ladder of triumph. 
It is a common trick with these fel- 
lows, when on the point of attaining 
some long-cherished end, to sink them- 
selves into the deepest possible abyss 
of seeming despair for no other purpose 
than that of increasing the space of 
success through which they have made 
up their minds immediately to soar. 
innumerable 


Mr. Hudson, among 


938 


blunders, attributes to Sir Thomas 
Browne the paradox of Tertullian in his 
De Carne Christi—‘Mortuus est Det 
flius, credible est quia ineptum est; et 
sepultus resurrexiz, certum est quia 1m- 
possible est.” 


After reading all that has been writ- 
ten, and after thinking all that can be 
thought on the topics of God and the 
soul, the man who has a right to say 
that he thinks at all, will find himself 
face to face with the conclusion that, on 
these topics, the most profound thought 
is that which can be the least easily dis- 
tinguished from the most superficial 
sentiment. 


That punctuation is important all 
agree, but how few comprehend the ex- 
tent of its importance! The writer 
who neglects punctuation or mispunc- 
tuates is liable to be misunderstood,— 
this, according to the popular idea, is 
the sum of the evils arising from heed- 
lessness or ignorance. It does not seem 
to be known that even where the sense 
is perfectly clear, a sentence may be de- 
prived of half its force, its spirit, its 
point, by improper punctuation. For 
the want of merely a comma—it often 
occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, 
or that a sarcasm is converted into a 
sermonoid. There is no treatise on the 
topic—and there is no topic on. which 
a treatise is more needed. There seems 
to exist a vulgar notion that the sub- 
ject is one of pure conventionality, and 
cannot be brought within the limits of 
intelligible and consistent rule. And 
yet, if fairly looked in the face, the 
whole matter is so plain that its 
rationale may be read as we run. If not 
anticipated I shall hereafter make an 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


attempt at a magazine paper on “The 
Philosophy of Point.” In the mean- 
time let me say a word or two of the 
dash.: Every writer for the press who 
has any sense of the accurate, must 
have been frequently mortified and 
vexed at the distortion of his sentences 
by the printer’s now general substitu- 
tion of a semicolon or a comma for the 
dash of the MS. The total or nearly 
total disuse of the latter point has been 
brought about by the revulsion conse- 
quent upon its excessive employment 
about twenty years ago. The Byronic 
poets were all dash. John Neal in his 
earlier novels exaggerated its use into 
the grossest abuse—although his very 
error arose from the philosophical and 
self-dependent spirit which has always 
distinguished him, and which will even 
yet lead him, if I am not greatly mis- 
taken in the man, to do something for 
the literature of the country which the 
country “will not willingly,” and cannot 
possibly, ‘let die.” Without entering 
now into the why, let me observe that 
the printer may always ascertain when 
the dash of the MS. is properly and 
when improperly employed, by bearing 
in mind that this point represents @ 
second thought—an emendation. In 
using it just above I have exemplified 
its use. The words “an emendation” 
are, speaking with reference to gram- 
matical construction, put in apposition 
with the words ‘‘a second thought.” 
Having written these latter words, I re- 
flected whether it would not be possible 
to render their meaning more distinct 
by certain other words. Now, instead 
of erasing the phrase “a _ second 
thought,’ which is of some use—which 
partially conveys the idea intended— 
which advances me a step toward my 





MARGINALIA 


full purpose, I suffer it to remain, and 
merely put a dash between it and the 
phrase “an emendation.” The dash 
_ gives the reader a choice between two, 
_ or among three or more expressions, one 
of which may be more forcible than 
another, but all of which help out the 
idea. It stands in general for these 
_ words—“or, to make my meaning more 
distinct.” ‘This force it has—and this 
force no other point can have, since 
all other points have well-understood 
uses quite different from this. There- 
fore the dash cannot be dispensed with. 
It has its phases—its variation of the 
force described, but the one principle, 
that of second thought or emendation, 
will be found at the bottom of all. 


Diana’s Temple at Ephesus having 
been burnt on the night in which Alex- 
ander was born, some person observed 
that “it was no wonder, since at the 
period of the conflagration she was 
gossiping at Pella.’ Cicero commends 
this as a witty conceit, Plutarch con- 
demns it as senseless, and this is the one 
point in which I agree with the biog- 
rapher. 


Until we analyse a religion ora phi- 
losophy in respect of its inducements, 
independently of its rationality, we 
shall never be in a condition to estimate 
that religion or that philosophy by the 
mere number of its adherents:—un- 
luckily. 


“Tf in any point,” says Lord Bacon, 
“IT have receded from what is com- 
monly received, it hath been for the 
purpose of proceeding melius and not 
in aliud”—but the character assumed, 


939 


in general, by modern “Reform” is 
simply that of Opposition. 


A strong argument for the religion of 
Christ is this—that offences against 
Charity are about the only ones which 
men on their death-beds can be made, 
not to understand, but to feel, as crime. 








The effect derivable from well-man- 
aged rhyme is very imperfectly under- 
stood. Conventionally, “rhyme” im- 
plies merely close similarity of sound 
at the ends of verse, and it is really curi- 
ous to observe how long mankind have 
been content with their limitation of the 
idea. What, in rhyme, first and princi- 
pally pleases, may be referred to the hu- 
man sense or appreciation of equality— 
the common element, as might be easily 
shown, of all the gratification we derive 
from music in its most extended sense— 
very especially in its modifications of 
metre and rhythm. We see, for ex- 
ample, a crystal, and are immediately 
interested by the equality between the 
sides and angles of one of its faces— 
but, on bringing to view a second face, 
in all respects similar to the first, our 
pleasure seems to be sguared—on bring- 
ing to view a third, it appears to be 
cubed, and so on: I have no doubt, 
indeed, that the delight experienced, 
if measurable, would be found to have 
exact mathematical relations, such, or 
nearly such, as I suggest—that is to say, 
as far as a certain point, beyond which 
there would be a decrease in similar 
relations. Now here, as the ultimate 
result of analysis, we reach the sense 
of mere equality, or rather the human 
delight in this sense; and it was an in- 
stinct, rather than a clear comprehen- 
sion, of this delight as a principle 


940 


which, in the first instance, lead the 
poet to attempt an increase of the 
effect arising from the mere similarity 
(that is to say equality) between two 
sounds—led him, I say, to attempt in- 
creasing this effect by making a sec- 
ondary equalisation, in placing the 
thymes at equal distances—that is, at 
the ends of lines of equal length. In 
this manner, rhyme and the termination 
of the line grew connected in men’s 
thoughts—grew into a _ conventional- 
ism—the principle being lost sight of 
altogether. And it was simply because 
Pindaric verses had before this epoch 
existed—z.e. verses of unequal length— 
that rhymes were subsequently found 
at unequal distances. It was for this 
reason solely, I say—for none more 
profound. Rhyme had come to be re- 
garded as of right appertaining to the 
end of verse—and here we complain 
that the matter has finally rested. But 
it is clear that there was much more 
to be considered. So far, the sense of 
equality alone entered the effect; or if 
this equality was slightly varied, it was 
varied only through an accident—the 
accident of the existence of Pindaric 
metres. It will be seen that the rhymes 
were always anticipated. The eye, 
catching the end of a verse, whether 
long or short, expected for the ear, a 
rhyme. The great element of unexpect- 
edness was not dreamed of—that is to 
say, of novelty—of originality. “But,” 
says Lord Bacon (how justly!) ‘there 
is no exquisite beauty without some 
strangeness in the proportions.” Take 
away this element of strangeness—of 
unexpectedness—of novelty—of  orig- 
inality—call it what we will—and all 
that is ethereal in loveliness is lost at 
once. We lose—we miss the uwnknown— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the vague—the uncomprehended be- 
cause offered before we have time to 
examine and comprehend. We lose, in 
short, all that assimilates the beauty of 
earth with what we dream of the beauty 
of Heaven. Perfection of rhyme is 
attainable only in the combination of 
the two elements, Equality and Unex- 
pectedness. But as evil cannot exist 
without good, so unexpectedness must 
arise from expectedness. We do not 
contend for mere arbitrariness of 
rhyme. In the first place, we must 
have equi-distant or regularly recur- 
ring rhymes to form the basis, expected- 
ness, out of which arises the element un- 
expectedness, by the introduction of 
rhymes, not arbitrarily, but with an 
eye to the greatest amount of unex- 
pectedness. We should not introduce 
them, for example, at such points that 
the entire line is a multiple of the 
syllables preceding the points. When, 
for instance, I write— 


And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling 
of each purple curtain, 


I produce more, to be sure, but not 
remarkably more than the ordinary 
effect of rhymes regularly recurring at 
the ends of lines; for the number of 
syllables in the whole verse is merely 
a multiple of the number of syllables 
preceding the rhyme introduced at the 
middle, and there is still left therefore 
a certain degree of expectedness. What 
there is of the element unexpectedness, 
is addressed, in fact, to the eye only— 
for the ear divides the verse into two 
ordinary lines, thus: 


And the silken, sad, uncertain 
Rustling of each purple curtain. 


I obtain, however, the whole effect of 
-unexpectedness when I write— 


Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic 
terrors never felt before. 


N.B—lIt is very commonly supposed 
that rhyme, as it now ordinarily exists, 
is of modern invention—but see the 
“Clouds of Aristophanes.” Hebrew 
verse, however, did mot include it—the 
terminations of the lines, where most 
distinct, never showing any thing of 
the kind. 





Paulus Jovius, living in those be- 
_nighted times when diamond-pointed 
styluses were as yet unknown, thought 
proper, nevertheless, to speak of his 
goosequill as “aliquando ferreus aureus 
aliquando”—intending, of course, a 
mere figure of speech; and from the 
class of modern authors who use really 
nothing to write with but steel and 
gold, some, no doubt, will let their 
pens, vice versa, descend to posterity 
under the designation of ‘“‘anserine’— 
of course intending always a mere fig- 
ure of speech. 


The Carlyle-ists should adopt as a 
motto the inscription on the old bell 
from whose metal was cast the great 
Tom of Oxford:—‘In Thome laude 
resono ‘Bim! Bom!’ sine fraude:”— 
and “Bim! Bom,” in such case, would 
be a marvellous echo of sound to sense. 


An infinity of error makes its way 
into our Philosophy through Man’s 
habit of considering himself a citizen 
of a world solely—of an individual 
planet—instead of at least occasionally 


MARGINALIA 


941° 


contemplating his position as cosmop- 
olite proper—as a denizen of the 
universe. 


Talking of puns:—‘Why do they not 
give us quail for dinner, as usual!” 
demanded Count Fessis, the other day, 
of H. , the classicist and sportsman. 

“Because at this season,’ replied 
H. , who was dozing —“qualis sopor 
fessis.’ (Quail is so poor, Fessis.) 








The German “Schwarmerei” not ex- 
actly “humbug,” but “sky-rocketing”— 
seems to be the only term by which 
we can conveniently designate that 
peculiar style of criticism which has 
lately come into fashion, through the 
influence of certain members of the 
Fabian family—people who live (upon 
beans) about Boston. 


Some Frenchman —possibly Mon- 
taigne—says: ‘‘People talk about think- 
ing, but for my part I never think 
except when I sit down to write.” It 
is this never thinking, unless when we 
sit down to write, which is the cause 
of so much indifferent composition. 
But perhaps there is something more 
involved in the Frenchman’s observa- 
tion than meets the eye. It is certain 
that the mere act of inditing tends, in 
a great degree, to the logicalisation of 
thought. Whenever, on account of its 
vagueness, I am dissatisfied with a con- 
ception of the brain, I resort forthwith 
to the pen, for the purpose of obtaining, 
through its aid, the necessary form, 
consequence, and precision. 

How very commonly we hear it re- 
marked that such and such thoughts 
are beyond the compass of words! I 
do not believe that any thought, prop- 


942 


erly so called, is out of the reach of 
language. I fancy, rather, that where 
difficulty in expression is experienced, 
there is, in the intellect which experi- 
ences it, a want either of deliberateness 
or of method. For my own part, I 
have never had a thought which I could 
not set down in words, with even more 
distinctness than that with which I 
conceived it; as I have before observed, 
the thought is logicalised by the effort 
at (written) expression. There is, how- 
ever, a class of fancies, of exquisite 
delicacy, which are not thoughts, and 
to which, as yet, I have found it abso- 
lutely impossible to adapt language. I 
use the word fancies at random, and 
merely because I must use some word; 
but the idea commonly attached to the 
term is not even remotely applicable 
to the shadows of shadows in question. 
They seem to me rather psychal than 
intellectual. They arise in the soul 
(alas, how rarely!) only at its epochs 
of most intense tranquillity—when the 
bodily and mental health are in per- 
fection—and at those mere points of 
time where the confines of the waking 
world blend with those of the world 
of dreams. I am aware of these “fan- 
cies” only when I am upon the very 
brink of sleep, with the consciousness 
that I am so. I have satisfied myself 
that this condition exists but for an 
inappreciable point of time—yet it Is 
crowded with these ‘“‘shadows of shad- 
ows”; and for absolute thought there 
is demanded time’s endurance. ‘These 
“fancies” have in them a pleasurable 
ecstasy, as far beyond the most pleas- 
urable of the world of wakefulness, or 
of dreams, as the heaven of the North- 
man theology is beyond its hell. I 
regard the visions, even as they arise, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with an awe which, in some measure, 
moderates or tranquillises the ecstasy— 
I so regard them, through a conviction 
(which seems a portion of the ecstasy 
itself) that this ecstasy, in itself, is of 
a character supernal to the human na- 
ture—is a glimpse of the spirit’s outer 
world; and I arrive at this conclusion— 
if this term is at all applicable to in- 
stantaneous intuition by a perception 
that the delight experienced has, as its 
element, but the absoluteness of nov- 
elty. I say the absoluteness—for in 
these fancies—let me now term them 
psychal impressions—there is really 
nothing even approximate in character 
to impressions ordinarily received. it 
is as if the five senses were supplanted 
by five myriad others alien to mortality. 

Now, so entire is my faith in the 
power of words,* that at times I have 
believed it possible to embody even 
the evanescence of fancies such as I 
have attempted to describe. In experi- 
ments with this end in view, I have 
proceeded so far as, first, to control 
(when the bodily and mental health are 
good), the existence of the condition— 
that is to say, I can now (unless when 
ill), be sure that the condition will 
supervene, if I so wish it, at the point 
of time already described—of its super- 
vention until lately I could never be 
certain even under the most favour- 
able circumstances. I mean to say, 
merely, that now I can be sure, when 
all circumstances are favourable, of the 
supervention of the condition, and feel 
even the capacity of inducing or com- 
pelling it—the favourable circum- 
stances, however, are not the less rare, 


* See, Contents, “The Power of 
Words.” —Ed. 





MARGINALIA 


else had I compelled already the heaven 
into the earth. 

I have proceeded so far, secondly, 
as to prevent the lapse from the point 
of which I speak—the point of blending 
between wakefulness and sleep—as to 
prevent at will, I say, the lapse from 
this border-ground into the dominion of 
sleep. Not that I can continue the 
condition—not that I can render the 
point more than a point—but that I 
can startle myself from the point into 
wakefulness; and thus transfer the 
point itself into the realm of Memory; 
convey its impressions, or more prop- 
erly their recollections, to a situation 
where (although still for a very brief 
period) I can survey them with the 
eye of analysis. For these reasons— 
that is to say, because I have been 
enabled to accomplish thus much—I do 
not altogether despair of embodying in 
words at least enough of the fancies 
in question to convey to certain classes 
of intellect, a shadowy conception of 
their character. In saying this I am 
not to be understood as supposing that 
the fancies or psychal impressions to 
which I allude are confined to my indi- 
vidual selfi—are not, in a word, com- 
mon to all mankind—for on this point 
it is quite impossible that I should form 
an opinion—but nothing can be more 
certain than that even a partial record 
of the impressions would startle the 
universal intellect of mankind, by the 
supremeness of the novelty of the ma- 
terial employed, and of its consequent 
suggestions. In a word—should I ever 
write a paper on this topic, the world 
will be compelled to acknowledge that, 
at last, I have done an original thing. 


In the way of original, striking, and 


943 


well-sustained metaphor, we can call to 
mind few finer things than this—to be 
found in James Puckle’s “Grey Cap 
for a Green Head’: “In speaking of 
the dead, so fold up your discourse 
that their virtues may be outwardly 
shown while their vices are wrapped 
up in silence.” 


Talking of inscriptions—how admira- 
ble was the one circulated at Paris, for 
the eqyestrian statue of Louis XV, done 
by Pigal and Bouchardon—“Statua 
Statue !”’ 


“This is right,’ says Epicurus, “pre- 
cisely because the people are displeased 
with it.” 

“Tl y a a parier,” says Chamfort— 
one of the Kamkars of Mirabeau—“que 
toute idee publique—toute convention 
recue—est une sottise car elle a con- 
venue au plus grand nombre.” 

“St proficere cupis,” says the great 
African bishop, “primo id verum puta 
quod sana mens omnium hominum 
attestatur.” Now, 


Who shall decide where Doctors dis- 
agree? 


To me it appears that, in all ages, 
the most preposterous falsities have 
been received as truths by at least the 
“mens omnium hominum.” As for the 
“sana mens”—how are we ever to deter- 
mine what that is? 


This book* could never have been 
popular out of Germany. ~ It is too 
simple—too direct—too obvious—too 


* “Thiodolf, the Icelander, and Aslau- 
ga’s Knight.” 


944 


bold—not sufficiently complex—to be 
relished by any people who have 
thoroughly passed the first (or impul- 
sive) epoch of literary civilisation. 
The Germans have not yet passed this 
first epoch. It must be remembered 
that during the whole of the Middle 
Ages they lived in utter ignorance of 
the art of writing. From so total a 
darkness, of so late a date, they could 
not, as a nation, have as yet fully 
emerged into the second or ritical 
epoch. Individual Germans have been 
critical in the best sense—but the 
masses are unleavened. Literary Ger- 
many thus presents the singular spec- 
tacle of the impulsive spirit surrounded 
by the critical, and, of course, in some 
measure influenced thereby. England, 
for example, has advanced far, and 
France much farther, into the critical 
epoch; and their effect on the German 
mind is seen in the wildly anomalous 
condition of the German literature at 
large. That this latter will be improved 
by age, however, should never be main- 
tained. As the impulsive spirit sub- 
sides, and the critical uprises, there 
will appear the polished insipidity of 
the later England, or that ultimate 
throe of taste which has found its best 
exemplification in Sue. At present the 
German literature resembles no other 
on the face of the earth—for it is the 
result of certain conditions which, be- 
fore this individual instance of their 
fulfilment, have never been fulfilled. 
And this anomalous state to which I 
refer is the source of our anomalous 
criticism upon what that state pro- 
duces—is the source of the grossly con- 
flicting opinions about German letters. 
For my own part, I admit the German 
vigour, the German directness. bold- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ness, imagination, and some other qual- 
ities of impulse, just as I am willing 
to admit and admire these qualities in 
the first (or impulsive) epochs of Brit- 
ish and French letters. At the German 
criticism, however, I cannot refrain 
from laughing all the more heartily the 
more seriously I hear it praised. Not 
that, in detail, it affects me as an ab- 
surdity—but in the adaptation of its 
details. It abounds in brilliant bubbles 
of suggestion, but these rise and sink 
and jostle each other until the whole 
vortex of thought in which they orig- 
inate is one distinguishing chaos of 
froth. The German criticism is wn- 
settled, and can only be settled by time. 
At present it suggests without demon- 
strating, or convincing, or effecting any 
definite purpose under the sun. We 
read it, rub our foreheads, and ask 
“What then?” I am not ashamed to 
say that I prefer even Voltaire to 
Goethe, and hold Macaulay to possess 
more of the true critical spirit than 
Augustus William and Frederick Schle- 
gel combined. “Thiodolf” is called by 
Fouque his “most successful work.” 
He would not have spoken thus had 
he considered it his best. It is admir- 
able of its kind—but its kind can never 
be appreciated by Americans. It will 
affect them much as would a grasp of 
the hand from a man of ice. Even the 
exquisite “Undine” is too chilly for our 
people, and, generally, for our epoch. 
We have less imagination and warmer 
sympathies than the age which pre- 
ceded us. It would have done Fouque 
more ready and fuller justice than ours. 
Has one remarked the striking similar- 
itv in tone between “Undine” and the 
“Libussa” of Muszeus? 


MARGINALIA 


What can be more soothing, at once 
to a man’s Pride, and to his Conscience, 
than the conviction that, in taking ven- 
geance on his enemies for zmjustice 
done him, he has simply to do them 
justice in return? 


Bielfeld, the author of “Les Premiers 
Traits de L’Erudition Universelle,”’ de- 
fines poetry as “V’art d’exprimer les 
pensees par la fiction.” The Germans 
have two words in full accordance with 
this definition, absurd as it is—the 
terms Dichtkunst, the art of fiction, 
and Dichten, to feign—which are gener- 
ally used for poetry and to make verses. 

Brown, in his “Amusements,” speaks 
of having transfused the blood of an 
ass into the veins of an astrological 
quack—and there can be no doubt that 
one of Hague’s progenitors was the 
man. 


The chief portion of Professor 
Espy’s theory* has been anticipated by 
Roger Bacon. 


Whatever may be the merits or de- 
merits, generally, of the Magazine 
Literature of America, there can be no 
question as to its extent or influence. 
The Topic—Magazine Literature—is 
therefore an important one. In a few 
years its importance will be found to 
have increased in geometrical ratio. 
The whole tendency of the age is Mag- 
azine-ward. The Quarterly Reviews 
have never been popular. Not only are 
they stilted (by way of keeping up a 
due dignity), but they make a point, 





* The Philosophy of Storms, J. P. 
Espy. 


945 


with the same end in view, of discuss- 
ing only topics which are caviare to the 
many, and which, for the most part, 
have only a conventional interest even 
with the few. Their issues, also, are 
at too long intervals; their subjects get 
cold before being served up. In a 
word, their ponderosity is quite out of 
keeping with the rush of the age. We 
now demand the light artillery of the 
intellect; we need the curt, the con- 
densed, the pointed, the readily dif- 
fused—in place of the verbose, the de- 
tailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible. 
On the other hand, the lightness of the 
artillery should not degenerate into pop- 
gunnery—by which term we may desig- 
nate the character of the greater por- 
tion of the newspaper press—their sole 
legitimate object being the discussion 
of ephemeral matters in an ephemeral 
manner. Whatever talent may be 
brought to bear upon our daily journals 
and in many cases this talent is very 
great, still the imperative necessity of 
catching, currente calamo, each topic ag 
it flits before the eye of the public 
must, of course, materially narrow the 
limits of their power. The bulk and 
the period of issue of the monthly mag- 
azines seem to be precisely adapted, 
if not to all the literary wants of the 
day, at least to the largest and most 
imperative, as well as the most conse- 
quential portion of them. 


My friend can never commence 
what he fancies a poem (he 7s a fanci- 
ful man, after all) without first elab- 
orately “invoking the Muses.” Like 
so many she-dogs of John of Nivelles, 
however, the more he invokes them, the 
more they decline obeying the invoca- 
tion. 





946 


The nose of a mob is its imagination. 
By this at any time, it can be quietly 
led. 


There lies a deep and sealed well 
Within yon leafy forest hid, 

Whose pent and lonely waters swell 
Its confines chill and drear amid. 


This putting the adjective after the 
noun is merely an inexcusable Gallic- 
ism; but the putting the preposition 
after the noun is alien to all language, 
and in opposition to all its principles. 
Such things, in general, serve only to 
betray the versifyer’s poverty of re- 
source; and when an inversion of this 
kind occurs, we say to ourselves, “Here 
the poet lacked the skill to make out 
his line without distorting the natural 
or colloquial order of the words.” Now 
and then, however, we must refer the 
error not to deficiency of skill, but to 
something far less defensible—to an 
idea that such things belong to the 
essence of poetry—that it needs them 
to distinguish it from prose—that we 
are poetical, in a word, very much in 
the ratio of our unprosaicalness at these 
points. Even when employing the 
phrase “‘poetic license”—a phrase which 
has to answer for an infinity of sins— 
people who think in this way seem to 
have an indistinct conviction that the 
license in question involves a necessity 
of being adopted. ‘The true artist will 
avail himself of no “license”? whatever. 
The very word will disgust him; for it 
says—“Since you seem unable to man- 
age without these  peccadillo ad- 
vantages, you must have them, I sup- 
pose; and the world, half shutting its 
eyes, will do its best not to see the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


awkwardness which they stamp upon 
your poem.” 

Few things have greater tendency 
than inversion to render verse feeble 
and ineffective. In most cases where 
a line is spoken of as “forcible,” the 
force may be referred to directness of 
expression. A vast majority of the 
passages which have become household 
through frequent quotation owe their 
popularity either to this directness, or, 
in general, to the scorn of “poetic 
license.” In short, as regards verbal 
construction, the more prosaic a poet- 
ical style is the better. Through this 
species of prosaicism, Cowper, with 
scarcely one of the higher poetical ele- 
ments, came very near making his age 
fancy him the equal of Pope; and to 
the same cause are attributable three- 
fourths of that unusual point and force 
for which Moore is distinguished. It 
is the prosaicism of these two writers 
to which is owing their especial quot- 
ability. 


The Rev. Arthur Coxe’s “Saul, a 
Mystery,” having been condemned in 
no measured terms by Poe of “The 
Broadway Journal,’ and Green of “The 
Emporium,” a writer in the ‘Hartford 
Columbian,” retorts as follows: 


An entertaining history, 
Entitled ‘Saul, a Mystery,” 
Has recently been published by the 
Reverend Arthur Coxe. 
The poem is dramatic, 
And the wit of it is Attic, 
And its teachings are emphatic of the 
doctrines orthodox. 
But Mr. Poe, the poet, 
Declares he cannot go it— 








MARGINALIA © 


| That the book is very stupid, or some- 
. thing of that sort: 
And Green, of “The Empori- 
Um,” tells a kindred story 
_ And swears like any tory, that it isn’t 
worth a groat. 
But maugre all the croaking 
Of the Raven, and the joking, 
Of the verdant little fellow of the used- 
to-be Review, 
The People, in derision 
Of their impudent decision, 
Have declared, without division, that 
the Mystery will do. 


The truth, of course, rather injures an 
epigram than otherwise; and nobody 
will think the worse of the one above 
when I say that, at the date of its first 
appearance, I had expressed no opinion 
whatever of the poem to which it re- 
fers. “Give a dog a bad name,” etc. 
Whenever a book is abused, people take 
it for granted that it is J who have 
been abusing it. 

Lately, I have read ‘‘Saul,’”’ and agree 
with the epigrammatist that it “will do” 
—whoever attempts to wade through it. 
It will do, also, for trunk-paper. The 
author is right in calling it “A Mys- 
tery’—for a most unfathomable mys- 
tery it is. When I got to the end of 
it, I found it more mysterious than ever 
—and it was really a mystery how I 
ever did get to the end—which I half- 
fancied that somebody had cut off, in 
a fit .of ill-will to the critics. I have 
heard not a syllable about the “Mys- 
tery” of late days. ‘The People” seem 
to have forgotten it; and Mr. Coxe’s 
friends should advertise it under the 
head of “Mysterious Disappearance” — 
that is to say, the disappearance of a 
Mystery. 


947 


The vox populi, so much talked about 
to so little purpose, is possibly, that 
very vox et preterea nihil which the 
countryman in “Catullus,” mistook for 
a nightingale. 


The pure Imagination chooses, from 
either Beauty or Deformity, only the 
most combinable things hitherto un- 
combined; the compound, as a general 
rule, partaking in character of beauty 
or sublimity in the ratio of the respec- 
tive beauty or sublimity of the things 
combined—which are themselves still 
to be considered as atomic—that is to 
say, aS previous combinations. But, as 
often analogously happens in physical 
chemistry, so not unfrequently does it 
occur in this chemistry of the intellect, 
that the admixture of two elements re- 
sults in something that has nothing of 
the qualities of one of them, or even 
nothing of the qualities of either. ... 
Thus, the range of Imagination is un- 
limited. Its materials extend through- 
out the universe. Even out of deform- 
ities it fabricates that Beauty which 
is at once its sole object and its in- 
evitable test. But, in general, the rich- 
ness or force of the matters combined; 
the facility of discovering combinable 
novelties worth combining; and espe- 
cially, the absolute ‘‘chemical combi- 
nation” of the completed mass—are the 
particulars to be regarded in our esti- 
mate of Imagination. It is this thor- 
ough harmony of an imaginative work 
which so often causes it to be under- 
valued by the thoughtless, through the 
character of obviousness which is su- 
perinduced. We are apt to find our- 
selves asking why it is that these com- 
binations have never been imagined 
before. 


948 


In examining trivial details we are 
apt to overlook essential generalities. 
Thus M , In making a to-do about 
the “typographical mistakes” in his 
book, has permitted the printer to es- 
cape a scolding which he did richly de- 
serve—a scolding for a ‘typographical 
mistake” of really vital importance— 
the mistake of having printed the book 
at all. 





It has been well said of the French 
orator Dupin that “he spoke, as nobody 
else, the language of everybody;” and 
thus his manner seems to be exactly 
conversed in that of the Frogpondian 
Euphuists, who, on account of the 
familiar tone in which they lisp their 
outre phrases, may be said to speak 
as everybody, the language of nobody— 
that is to say, a language emphatically 
their own. 


“He (Bulwer) is the most accom- 
plished writer of the most accomplished 
era of English Letters; practising all 
styles and classes of composition, and 
eminent in all—novelist, dramatist, 
poet, historian, moral philosopher, es- 
sayist, critic, political pamphleteer;— 
in each superior to all others, and only 
rivalled in each by himself—Ward— 
author of “Tremaine.” 


The “only rivalled in each by him- 
self,” here puts me in mind of 


None but himself can be his parallel. 


-But surely Mr. Ward (who, although 
he did write “De Vere,” is by no means 
a fool) could never have put to paper 
in his sober senses anything so absurd 
as the paragraph quoted above without 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


stopping at every third word to hold his 
sides or thrust his pocket-handkerchief 
into his mouth. If the serious inten- 
tion be insisted upon, however, I have 
to remark that the opinion is the mere 
opinion of a writer remarkable for no 
other good trait than his facility at 
putting his readers to sleep according 
to rules Addisonian, and with the least 
possible .loss of labour and time. But 
as the mere opinion of even a Jeffrey 
or a Macaulay, I have an inalienable 
right to meet it with another. 

As a novelist, then, Bulwer is far 
more than respectable, although gener- 
ally inferior to Scott, Godwin, D’Israeli, 
Miss Burney, Sue, Dumas, Dickens, the 
author of “Ellen Wareham,” the author 
of “Jane Eyre,” and several others. 
From the list of foreign novels I could 
select a hundred which he could neither 


have written nor conceived. As a 
dramatist, he deserves more credit 
although he receives less. His “Rich- 


elieu,” “Money,” and “Lady of Lyons” 
have done much in the way of opening 
the public eyes to the true value of 
what is superciliously termed “stage 
effect” in the hands of one able to 
manage it. But if commendable at this 
point, his dramas fail egregiously in 
points more important; so that upon 
the whole, he can be said to have writ- 
ten a good play, only when we think 
of him in connection with the still more 
contemptible ‘‘old dramatist’? imitators 
who are still contemporaries and 
friends. As historian, he is sufficiently 
dignified, sufficiently ornate, and more 
than sufficiently self-sufficient. His 
‘“‘Athens” would have received an Eton- 
ian prize, and has all the happy air of 
an Etonian prize-essay re-vamped. His 
political pamphlets are very good as 








MARGINALIA : 


political pamphlets and very disrep- 
-utable as anything else. His essays 
leave no doubt upon .any body’s mind 
that, with the writer, they have been 
essays indeed. His criticism is really 
beneath contempt. His moral philoso- 
phy is the most ridiculous of all the 
_moral philosophies that ever have been 
Imagined upon earth. 

“The men of sense,” says Helvetius, 
“those idols of the unthinking, are very 
far inferior to the men of passions. It 
is the strong passions which, rescuing us 
from sloth, can alone impart to us that 
continuous and earnest attention neces- 
sary to great intellectual efforts.” 

When the Swiss philosopher here 
speaks of “inferiority” he refers to in- 
feriority in worldly success; by ‘men 
of sense” he intends indolent men of 
genius. And Bulwer is, emphatically, 
one of the “men of passions” contem- 
plated in the apothegm. His passions, 
with opportunities, have. made him what 
he is. Urged by a rapid ambition to 
do much, in doing nothing he would 
merely have proved himself an idiot. 
Something he has done. In aiming at 
Crichton, he has hit the target an inch 
or two above Harrison Ainsworth. Not 
to such intellects belongs the honours 
of universality. His works bear about 
them the unmistakable indications of 
mere talent—talent, I grant of an un- 
usual order, and nurtured to its extreme 
of development with a very tender and 
elaborate care. Nevertheless, it is tal- 
ent still. Genius it is not. 

And the proof is, that while we often 
fancy ourselves about to be enkindled 
beneath its influence, fairly enkindled 
we never are. That Bulwer is no poet 
follows as a corollary from what has 
been already said:—for to speak of a 


949 


poet without genius, is merely to put 
forth a flat contradiction in terms. 


In the tale proper—where there is no 
space for development of character or 
for great profusion and variety of in- 
cident—mere construction is, of course 
far more imperatively demanded than 
in the novel. Defective plot, in this 
latter may escape observation, but in 
the tale, never. Most of our tale-writ- 
ers, however, neglect the distinction. 
They seem to begin their stories with- 
out knowing how they are to end, and 
their ends, generally—tlike so many 
governments of Trinculo—appear to 
have forgotten their beginnings. 


Mozart declared on his death-bed 
that he “began to see what may be 
done in Music;” and it is to be hoped 
that De Meyer and the rest of the spas- 
modists will eventually begin to under- 
stand what may mot be done in this 
particular branch of the Fine Arts. 


For my part I agree with Joshua 
Barnes: nobody but Solomon could 
have written the Iliad. The catalogue 
of ships was the work of Robins. 


In Colton’s ‘American Review” for 
October, 1845, a gentleman, well known 
for his scholarship, has a forcible paper 
on “The Scotch School of Philosophy 
and Criticism.” But although the 
paper is “forcible,” it presents the most 
singular admixture of error and truth— 
the one dovetailed into the other, after 
a fashion which is novel, to say the 
least of it. Were I to designate in a 
few words what the whole article dem- 


onstrated, I should: say “the folly of 


not beginning at the beginning—of neg- 


950 


lecting the giant Moulineau’s advice to 
his friend Ram.” Here is a passage 
from the essay in question: 


The Doctors [Campbell and John- 
son] both charge Pope with error and 
inconsistency—error in supposing that 
in English, of metrical lines unequal in 
the number of syllables and pronounced 
in equal times, the longer suggests 
celerity (this being the principle of the 
Alexandrine: )—inconsistency, in that 
Pope himself uses the same contrivance 
to convey the contrary ideas of slow- 
ness. But why in English? It is not 
and cannot be disputed that, in the 
hexameter verse of the Greeks and 
Latins—which is the model in this mat- 
ter—what is distinguished as the ‘“‘dac- 
tylic line’? was uniformly applied to ex- 
press velocity. How was it to do so? 
Simply from the fact of being pro- 
nounced in an equal time with, while 
containing a greater number of syllables 
or “bars” than the ordinary or aver- 
age measure; as, on the other hand, the 
spondaic line, composed of the min- 
imum number, was, upon the same 
principle, used to indicate slowness. 
So, too, of the Alexandrine in English 
versification. “No,” says Campbell, 
“there is a difference; the Alexandrine 
is not in fact, like the dactylic line, 
pronounced in the common time.” But 
does this alter the principle? What is 
the rationale of Metre, whether the 
classical hexameter or the English 
heroic? 


IT have written an essay on the “Ra- 
tionale of Verse,” in which the whole 
topic is surveyed ab initio, and with 
reference to general and immutable 
principles. To this essay I refer Mr. 


« WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Bristed. In the meantime, without 
troubling myself to ascertain whether 
Doctors Johnson. and Campbell are 
wrong, or whether Pope is wrong, or 
whether the reviewer is right or wrong, 
at this point or at that, let me succinctly 
state what is the truth on the topics at 
issue. And first, the same principles, 
in all cases, govern all verse. What is 
true in English is true in Greek. 
Secondly, in a series of lines, if one line 
contains more syllables than the law of 
the verse demands, and if nevertheless 
this line is pronounced in the same 
time, upon the whole, as the rest of the 
lines, then this line suggests celerity— 
on account of the increased rapidity of 
enunciation required. Thus in the 
Greek hexameter the dactylic lines— 
those most abounding in dactyls—serve 
best to convey the idea of rapid motion. 
The spondaic lines convey that of slow- 
ness. Thirdly, it is a gross mistake to 
suppose that the Greek dactylic line is 
“the model in this matter’—the mat- 
ter of the English Alexandrine. The 
Greek dactylic line is of the same num- 
ber of feet—bars—beats—pulsations— 
as the ordinary dactylic spondaic lines 
among which it occurs. But the Alex- 
andrine is longer by one foot—by one 
pulsation—than the pentameters among 
which it arises. For its pronunciation it 
demands more time, and _ therefore, 
ceteris paribus, it would well serve to 
convey the impression of length or du- 
ration, and thus indirectly of slowness, 
I say ceteris paribus. But by varying 
conditions we can effect a total change 
in the impression conveyed. When the 
idea of slowness is conveyed by the 
Alexandrine, it is not conveyed by any 


’ slower enunciation of syllables—that is 


to say, it is not directly conveyed—but 


MARGINALIA 


indirectly, through the idea of length 
in the whole line. Now if we wish to 
convey, by means of an Alexandrine, 
the impression of velocity, we readily 
do so by giving rapidity to our enun- 
ciation of the syllables composing the 
several feet. To effect this, however, 
we must have more syllables, or we 
shall get through the whole line too 
quickly for the intended time. To 
get more syllables, all we have to do is 
to use in place of iambuses what our 
prosodies call anapexsts.* Thus in the 
line, 


Flies o’er the unbending corn and skims 
along the main, 


the syllables “the unbend’’ form an ana- 
pest, and demanding unusual rapidity 
of enunciation, in order that we may 
get them in the ordinary time of an 
jambus, serve to suggest celerity. By 
the elision of e in the, as is customary, 
the whole of the intended effect is lost; 
for th’unbend is nothing more than the 
usual iambus. In a word, whenever an 
Alexandrine expresses celerity, we shall 
find it to contain one or more anapests 
—the more anapests, the more decided 


* T use the prosodial word “anapzst” 
merely because here I have no space to 
show what the reviewer will admit I 
have distinctly shown in the essay re- 
ferred to—viz.: that the additional syl- 
lable introduced, does not make the 
foot an anapest, or the equivalent of 
an anapest, and that if it did it would 
spoil the line. On this topic, and on 
all topics connected with verse, there 
is not a prosody in existence which is 
not a mere jumble of the grossest 
error.—E. A, P, 


951 


the impression. But the tendency of 
the Alexandrine, consisting merely of 
the usual iambuses, is to convey slow- 
ness—although it conveys this idea 
feebly, on account of conveying it indi- 
rectly. It follows, from what I have 
said, that the common pentameter, in- 
terspersed with anapzsts, would better 
convey celerity than the Alexandrine 
interspersed with them in a similar de- 
gree—and it unquestionably does. 


This “species of nothingness” is quite 
as reasonable at all events as any “kind 
of somethingness.” See Cowley’s 
“Creation,” where 


An unshaped kind of something first 
appeared. 


If any ambitious man have a fancy 
to revolutionise at one effort the uni- 
versal world of human thought, human 
opinion, and human sentiment, the op- 
portunity is his own—the road to im- 
mortal renown lies straight, open, and 
unencumbered before him. All that he 
has to do is to write and publish a 
very little book. Its title should be 
simple—a few plain words—‘My Heart 
Laid Bare.” But—this little book must 
be true to its title. 

Now, is it not very singular that, 
with the rabid thirst for notoriety which 
distinguishes so many of mankind—so 
many, too, who care not a fig what is 
thought of them after death, there 
should not be found one man having 
sufficient hardihood to write this little 
book? To write, I say. There are ten 
thousand men who, if the book were 
once written, would laugh at the notion 
of being. disturbed by its publication 
during their life, and who could not 


952 


even conceive why they should object 
to its being published after their death. 
But to write it—there is the rub. No 
man dare write it. No man ever will 
dare write it. No man could write it, 
even if he dared. The paper would 
shrivel and blaze at every touch of the 
fiery pen. 


All that man of genius demands for 
his exaltation is moral matter in motion. 
It makes no difference whither tends 
the motion—whether for him or against 
him—and it is absolutely of no conse- 
quence “what is the matter.” 


To converse well, we need the cool 
tact of talent—to talk well, the glow- 
ing abandon of genius. Men of very 
high genius, however, talk at one time 
very well, at another very ill:—well, 
when they have full time, full scope, 
and a sympathetic listener:— ill, when 
they fear interruption and are annoyed 
by the impossibility of exhausting the 
topic during that particular talk. The 
partial genius is flashy—scrappy. The 
true genius shudders at incomplete- 


ness—imperfection—and usually pre-— 


fers silence to saying the something 
which is not everything that should be 
said. He is so filled with his theme 
that he is dumb, first from not knowing 
how to begin, where there seems eter- 
nally beginning behind beginning, and 
secondly from perceiving his true end 
at so infinite a distance. Sometimes 
dashing into a subject, he blunders, 
hesitates, stops short, sticks fast, and 
because he has been overwhelmed by 
the rush and multiplicity of his 
thoughts, his hearers sneer at his in- 
ability to think. Such a man finds his 
proper element in those “great occa- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sions” which confound and prostrate 
the general intellect. 

Nevertheless, by his conversation, the 
influence of the conversationist upon 
mankind in general is more decided 
than that of the talker by his talk—the 
latter invariably talks to best purpose 
with his pen. And good conversation- 
ists are more rare than respectable 
talkers. I know many of the latter; 
and of the former only five or six. 
Most people, in conversing, force us to 
curse our stars that our lot was not 
cast among the African nation men- 
tioned by Eudoxus—the savages who 
having no mouth, never opened it, as 
a matter of course. And yet, if denied 
mouth, some persons whom I have in 
my eye would contrive to chatter on 
still—as they do now—through the nose. 


I cannot tell how it happens, but, 
unless now and then, ina case of por- 
trait-painting, very few of our artists 
can justly be held guilty of the crime 
imputed by Apelles to Protogenes—that 
of “being too natural.” 


It was a pile of the oyster which 
yielded the precious pearls of the 
South, and the artist had judiciously 
painted some with their lips parted, and 
showing within the large precious fruit 
in the attainment of which Spanish 
cupidity had already proved itself ca- 
pable of every peril, as well as every 
crime. At once true and poetical, no 
comment could have been more severe, 
etc-—Simms’ Damsel of Darien. 


Body of Bacchus!—only think of 
poetical beauty in the countenance of 
a gaping oyster. 





MARGINALIA 


And how natural, in an age so fan- 
ciful, to believe that the stars and 
starry groups beheld in the new world 
for the first time by the native of the 
old were especially assigned for its gov- 
ernment and protection. 


Now, if by the old world be meant 
the east, and by the new world the 
west, I am at a loss to know what are 
the stars seen in the one which cannot 
be equally seen in the other. Mr. 
Simms has abundant faults—or had;— 
among which inaccurate English, a 
proneness to revolting images, and pet 
phrases, are the most _ noticeable. 
Nevertheless, leaving out of the ques- 
tion Brockden Brown and Hawthorne 
(who are each a genus), he is immeas- 
urably the best writer of fiction in 
America. He has more vigour, more 
imagination, more movement, and more 
general capacity than all our novelists 
(save Cooper) combined. 


All in a hot and copper sky 
The bloody sun at noon 

Just up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 


Is it possible that the poet did not 
know the apparent diameter of the 
moon to be greater than that of the 
sun? 


Here is an edition,* which, so far as 
microscopical excellence and absolute 
accuracy of typography are concerned, 
might well be prefaced with the phrase 
of the Koran—‘There is uo error in 
this book.” We cannot call a single 
inverted 0 an error—can we? But I 


* “Camoens”—Genoa, 1798. 


953 


am really as glad of having found that 
inverted 0 as ever was a Columbus or 
an Archimedes. What, after all, are 
continents discovered, or silversmiths 
exposed? Give us a good o turned up- 
side-down, and a whole herd of biblio- 
maniac Arguses overlooking it for 
years. 


That sweet smile and serene—that 
smile never seen but upon the face of 
the dying and the dead—Ernest Mal- 
travers. 


Bulwer is not the man to look a stern 
fact in the face. He would rather sen- 
timentalise upon a vulgar although pic- 
turesque error. Who ever really saw 
anything but horror in the smile of the 
dead? We so desire to fancy it “sweet” 
—that is the source of the mistake, if, 
indeed, there ever was a mistake in the 
question. 


The misapplication of quotations is 
clever, and has a capital effect when 
well done; but Lord Brougham has 
not exactly. that kind of capacity which 
the thing requires. One of the best hits 
in this way is made by Tieck, and I 
have lately seen it appropriated with 
interesting complacency in an English 
magazine. The author of the “Journey 
into the Blue Distance,” is giving an 
account of some young ladies, not very 
beautiful, whom he caught zm mediis 
rebus, at their toilet. “They were curl- 
ing their monstrous heads,” says he, 
“as Shakespeare says of the waves in 
a storm.” 


Here are both Dickens. and Bulwer 
perpetually using the adverb “directly” 
in the sense of “as soon as.” ‘Directly 


954 

he came I did so and so.”—‘Directly 
I knew it I said this and that.” But 
observe !—‘‘Grammar is hardly taught,” 


[in the United States] “being thought 
an unnecessary basis for other learn- 
ing.” I quote “America and her Re- 
sources” by the British Counsellor-at- 
Law, John Bristed. 


At Ermenonville, too, there is a 
striking instance of the Gallic rhythm 
with which a Frenchman regards the 
English verse. There Gerardin has the 
following inscription to the memory of 
Shenstone: 


This plain stone 
To William Shenstone. 
In his writing he displayed 
A mind natural; 
At Leasowes he laid 
Arcadian greens rural. 


There are few Parisians, speaking Eng- 
fish, who would find anything partic- 
ularly the matter with this epitaph. 


Upon her was lavished -the enthu- 
siastic applause of the most correct 
taste and of the deepest sensibility. 
Human triumph, in all that is most 
exciting, and delicious, never went be- 
yond that which she experienced—or 
never but in the case of Taglioni. For 
what are the extorted adulations that 
fall to the lot of the conqueror ?—what 
even are the extensive honours of the 
popular author—his far-reaching fame 
—his high influence—or the most de- 
vout public appreciation of his works— 
to that rapturous approbation of the 
personal woman—that spontaneous, in- 
stant, present, and palpable applause— 
those irrepressible acclamations—those 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


eloquent sighs and tears which the idol- 
ised Malibran at once heard, and saw, 
and deeply felt that she deserved? Her 
brief career was one gorgeous dream— 
for even the many sad intervals of her 
grief were but dust in the balance of 
her glory. In this book* I read much 
about the causes which curtailed her 
existence; and there seems to hang 
around them, as here given, an indis- 
tinctness which the fair memorialist 
tries in vain to illumine. She seems 
never to approach the full truth. She 
seems never to reflect that the speedy 
decease was but a condition of the rap- 
turous life. No thinking person, hear- 
ing Malibran sing, could have doubted 
that she would die in the spring of her 
days. She crowded ages into hours. 
She left the world at twenty-five, hav- 
ing existed her thousands of years. 


“‘Accursed be the heart that does not 
wildly throb, and palsied be the eye 
that will not weep over the woes of 
‘The Wanderer of Switzerland.’ ”’— 
Monthly Register, 1807. 


This is “dealing damnation round the 
land” to some purpose;—upon the 
reader, and not: upon the author, as 
usual. For my part I shall be one of 
the damned; for I have in vain en- 
deavoured to see even a shadow of 
merit in anything ever written by 
either of the Montgomeries. 


Strange—that I should heret find 


* “Memoirs and Letters of Madame 
Malibran,” by the Countess de Merlin. 

+Forelaeseninger over det Danske 
Sprog, eller resonneret Dansk Gram- 
matik ved Jacob Buden. 


MARGINALIA 


the only non execrable barbarian at- 
tempts at imitation of the Greek and 
Roman measures! 


In my reply to the letter signed 
“Outis,” and defending Mr. Longfellow 
from certain charges supposed to have 
been made against him by myself, I 
took occasion to assert that “of the 
class of wilful plagiarists nine out of 
ten are authors of established reputa- 
tions who plunder recondite, neglected, 
or forgotten books.” I came to this 
conclusion. a priori; but experience has 
confirmed me in it. Here is a plagiar- 
ism from Channing; and as it is perpe- 
trated by an anonymous writer in a 
monthly maazine, the theft seems at 
war with my assertion—until it is seen 
that the magazine in question is Camp- 
bell’s “New Monthly” for August, 
1828. Channing at that time, was com- 
paratively unknown; and, besides, the 
plagiarism appeared in a foreign coun- 
try, where there was little probability 
of detection. Channing, in his essay 
on Buonaparte, says:— 


We would observe that military tal- 
ent, even of the highest order, is far 
from holding the first place among in- 
tellectual endowments. It is one of the 
lower forms of genius, for it is not 
conversant with the highest and richest 
objects of thought... . Still the chief 
work of a general is to apply physical 
force—to remove physical obstructions 
—to avail himself of physical aids and 
advantages—to act on matter—to over- 
come rivers, ramparts, mountains, and 
human muscles; and these are not the 
highest objects of mind, nor do they 
demand intelligence of the highest 
order:—and accordingly nothing is 


955 


more common than to find men, emi- 
nent in this department, who are almost 
wholly wanting in the noblest energies 
of the soul—in imagination and taste— 
in the capacity of enjoying works of 
genius—in large views of human nature 
—in the moral sciences—in the applica- 
tion of analysis and generalisation to 
the human mind and to society, and in 
original conceptions on the great sub- 
jects which have absorbed the most 
glorious understandings. 


The thief in “The New Monthly,” 
says:— 

Military talent, even of the highest 
grade, is very far from holding the first 
place among intellectual endowments. 
It is one of the lower forms of genius, 
for it is never made conversant with 
the more delicate and abstruse of men- 
tal operations. It is used to apply phy- 


‘sical force; to remove physical force; 


to remove physical obstructions; to 
avail itself of physical aids and advan- 
tages; and all these are not the highest 
objects of mind, nor do they demand 
intelligence of the highest and rarest 
order. Nothing is more common than 
to find men eminent in the science and 
practice of war, wholly wanting in the 
nobler energies of the soul; in imagina- 
tion, in taste, in enlarged views of 
human nature, in the moral sciences, 
in the application of analysis and gen- 
eralisation to the human mind and to 
society; or in original conceptions on 
the great subjects which have occupied 
and absorbed the most glorious of 
human understandings. 


The article in “The New Monthly” 
is on “The State of Parties.” The 
italics are mine. 


956 


Apparent plagiarisms frequently arise 
from an author’s self-repetition. He 
finds that something he has already pub- 
lished has fallen dead—been overlooked 
—or that it is peculiarly apropos to an- 
other subject now under discussion. He 
therefore introduces the passage; often 
without allusion to his having printed 
it before; and sometimes he introduces 
it into an anonymous article. An anon- 
ymous wviter is thus, now and then, 
unjustly accused of plagiarism—when 
the sin is merely that of self-repetition. 
In the present case, however, there has 
been a deliberate plagiarism of the sil- 
liest as well as meanest species. Trust- 
ing to the obscurity of his original the 
plagiarist has fallen upon the idea of 
killing two birds with one stone—of 
dispensing with all disguise but that of 
decoration. Channing says ‘“order’— 
the writer in “The New Monthly” says 
“orade.” The former says that this 
order is “far from holding,” etc.—the 
latter says it is “very far from hold- 
ing.” The one says that military talent 
is “not conversant,” and so on—the 
Other says “it 1s never made conver- 
sant.” The one speaks of “the highest 
and richest object”—the other of “the 
more delicate and abstruse.” Chan- 
ning speaks of “thought”—the thief of 
“mental operations.” Channing men- 
tions “intelligence of the highest order” 
—the thief will have it of “the highest 
and rarest.’ Channing observes that 
military talent is often “almost wholly 
wanting, etc.”—the thief maintains it 
to be “wholly wanting.” Channing 
alludes to “large views of human 
nature’—the thief .can be content with 
nothing less than “enlarged” ones. 
Finally, the American having been sat- 
isfied with a reference to “subjects 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


which have absorbed the most glorious 
understandings,’ the Cockney puts 
him to shame at once by discoursing 
about “subjects which have occupied 
and absorbed the most glorious of 
human  understandings’—as if one 
could be absorbed without being occu- 
pied by a subject—as if “of” were here 
anything more than two superfluous let- 
ters—and as if there were any chance 
of the reader’s supposing that the under- 
standings in question were the under- 
standings of frogs, or jackasses, or 
Johnny Bulls. 

By the way, in a case of this kind, 
whenever there is a question as to who 
is the original and who the plagiarist, 
the point may be determined, almost 
invariably, by observing which passage 
is amplified or exaggerated in tone. To 
disguise his stolen horse, the unedu- 
cated thief cuts off the tail; but the 
educated thief. prefers tying on a new 
tail at the end of the old one, and 
painting them both sky blue. 


When I consider the true talent— 
the real force of Mr. Emerson, I am 
lost in amazement at finding in him 
little more than a respectful imitation 
of Carlyle. Is it possible that Mr. E. 
has ever seen a copy of Seneca? 
Scarcely—or he would long ago have 
abandoned his model in utter confusion 
at the parallel between his own worship 
of the author of ‘Sartor Resartus” and 
the aping of Sallust by Aruntius, as de- 
scribed in the 114th Epistle. In the 
writer of the “History of the Punic 
Wars” Emerson is portrayed to the 
life. The parallel is close; for not only 
is the imitation of the same character, 
but the things imitated are identical. 
Undoubtedly it is to be said of Sallust, 


MARGINALIA 


far more plausibly than of Carlyle, that 
his obscurity, his unusuality of expres- 
sion, and his Laconism (which had the 
effect of diffuseness, since the time 
gained in the mere perusal of his pithi- 
nesses is trebly lost in the necessity of 
cogitating them out)—it may be said 
of Sallust, more truly than of Carlyle, 
that these qualities bore the impress of 
his genius, and were but a portion of 
his unaffected thought. If there is any 
difference between Aruntius and Emer- 
son, this difference is clearly in favour 
of the former, who was in some meas- 
ure excusable on the ground that he 
was as great a fool as the latter is 
not. 


I believe that odours have an alto- 
gether peculiar force in affecting us 
through association; a force differing 
essentially from that of objects address- 
ing the touch, the taste, the sight, or 
the hearing. 


It would have been becoming, I think, 
in Bulwer to have made at least a run- 
ning acknowledgement of that extensive 
indebtedness to Arnay’s “Private Life 
of the Romans,”’ which he had so little 
scruple about incurring during the com- 
position of “The Last Days of Pom- 
peii.” He acknowledges, I believe, what 
he owes to Sir William Gell’s ‘“Pom- 
peiana.” Why this? why not that? 


One of our truest poets is Thomas 
Buchanan Read. His most distinctive 
features are, first, “tenderness,” or sub- 
dued passion, and secondly, fancy. His 
sin is imitativeness. At present, al- 
though evincing high capacity, he is 
but a copyist of Longfellow—that is to 
say, but the echo of an echo. Here is 


957 


a beautiful thought which is mot the 
property of Mr. Read: 


And where the spring-time sun had 
longer shone, 

A violet looked up and found itself 
alone. 


Here again: a spirit 


Slowly through the lake descended, 

Till from her hidden form below 

The waters took a golden glow, 

As if the star which made her forehead 
bright 

Had burst and filled the lake with 
light. 


Lowell has some lines very similar, 
ending with 


As if a star had burst within his brain. 


I cannot say that I ever fairly coms 
prehended the force of the term 
“insult” until I was given to under- 
stand, one day, by a member of the 
“North American Review” clique that 
this journal was “not only willing but 
anxious to render me that justice which 
had been already rendered me by the 
‘Revue Francaise’ and the ‘Revue des 
Deux Mondes’”—but was “restrained 
from so doing” by my “invincible spirit 
of antagonism.” I wish the “North 
American Review” to express no opin- 
ion of me whatever—for I have none 
of it. In the meantime, as I see no 
motto on its title-page, let me recom- 
mend it one from Sterne’s “Letter from 
France.” Here it is:—‘“‘As we rode 
along the valley we saw a herd of asses 
on the top of one of the mountains— 
how they viewed and reviewed us!” 


958 


Von Raumer says that Enslen, a 
German optician, conceived the idea 
of throwing a shadowy figure, by opti- 
cal means, into the chair of Banquo; 
and that the thing was readily done. 
Intense effect was produced; and I do 
not doubt that an American audience 
might be electrified by the feat. But 
our managers not only have no inven- 
tion of their own, but no energy to 
avail themselves of that of others. 


A capital book, generally speaking,* 
but Mr. Grattan has a bad habit—that 
of loitering in the road—of dallying and 
toying with his subjects, as a kitten 
with a mouse—instead of grasping it 
firmly at once and eating it up without 
more ado. He takes up too much time 
in the ante-room. He has never done 
with his introductions. Occasionally, 
one introduction is but the vestibule 
to another; so that by the time he 
arrives at his main incidents there is 
nothing more to tell. He seems afflicted 
with that curious yet common perver- 
sity observed in garrulous old women— 
the desire of tantalising by circumlo- 
cution. Mr. G.’s circumlocution, how- 
ever, is by no means like that which 
Albany Fonblanque describes as “a 
style of about and about and all the 
way round to nothing and _non- 
sense.” ... If the  greasy-looking 
lithograph here given as a frontispiece 
be meant for Mr. Grattan, then is Mr. 
Grattan like nobody else—for the fact 
is, I never yet knew an individual with 
a wire wig, or the countenance of an 
under-done apple dumpling. ... As a 
general rule, no man should put his 
own face in his own book. In looking 


* Highways and Byeways. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


at the author’s countenance the reader 
is seldom in condition to keep his own. 


Here is a good idea for a Magazine 
Paper—let somebody “work it up:’— 
A flippant pretender to universal ac- 
quirement—a would-be Crichton—en- 


grosses for an hour or two, perhaps, the 


attention of a large company—most of 
whom are profoundly impressed by his 
knowledge. He is very witty, in 
especial, at the expense of a modest 
young gentleman, who ventures to 
make no reply, and who finally leaves 
the room as if overwhelmed with con- 
fusion—the Crichton greeting his exit 
with a laugh. Presently he returns, 
followed by a footman carrying an arm- 
ful of books. These are deposited on 
the table. The young gentleman now 
referring to some pencilled notes, which 
he had been secretly taking during the 
Crichton’s display of erudition, pins the 
latter to his statements, each by each, 
and refutes them all in turn, by refer- 
ence to the very authorities cited by 
the egotist himselfi—whose ignorance 
at all points is thus made apparent. 


A long time ago—twenty-three or four 
years at least—Edward C. Pinckney, of 
Baltimore, published an exquisite poem 
entitled “A Health.” It was  pro- 
foundly admired by the critical few, 
but had little circulation—this for no 
better reason than that the author was 
born too far South. I quote a few 
lines: 


Affections are as thoughts to her, 
The measures of her hours— 

Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
The freshness of young flowers. 














MARGINALIA 


To her the better elements 
And kindlier stars have given 
A form, so fair, that, like the air, 
’Tis less of Earth than Heaven. 


Now in 1842, Mr. George Hill pub- 
lished “The Ruins of Athens and Other 
Poems,’—and from one of the “Other 
Poems” I quote what follows: 


And thoughts go sporting through her 
mind 
Like children among flowers, 
And deeds of gentle goodness are 
The measures of her hours, 
In soul or face she bears no trace 
Of one from Eden driven, 
But like the rainbow seems, though 
born 
Of Earth a part of Heaven. 


Is this plagiarism or is it not?—I 
merely ask for information. 


Had the “George Balcombe” of Pro- 
fessor Beverley Tucker been the work 
of any one born North of Mason and 
Dixon’s line, it would have been long 
ago recognised as one of the very 
noblest fictions ever written by an 
American. It is almost as good as 
“Caleb Williams.” The manner in 
which the cabal of the ‘North Ameri- 
can Review” first write all our books 
and then review them, puts me in mind 
of the fable about the Lion and the 
Painter. It is high time that the liter- 
ary South took its own interests into 
its own charge. 


Here is a plot which, with all its 
complexity, has no adaption—no de- 
pendency:—it is involute and nothing 
more—having all the air of G——’s 


959 


wig, or the cycles and epicycles in 
Ptolemy’s “Almagest.”’ 


We might give two plausible deriva- 
tions of the epithet “weeping” as ap- 
plied to the willow. We might say that 
the word has its origin in the pendu- 
lous character of the long branches, 
which suggest the idea of water drip- 
ping; or we might assert that the term 
comes from a fact in the natural his- 
tory of the tree. It has a vast insensi- 
ble perspiration, which, upon sudden 
cold, condenses, and sometimes is pre- 
cipitated in a shower. Now, one might 
very accurately determine the bias and 
value of a man’s powers of causality 
by observing which of these two deriva- 
tions he would adopt. The former is, 
beyond question, the true; and for this 
reason—that common or vulgar epithets 
are universally suggested by common 
or immediately obvious things, without 
strict regard of any exactitude in appli- 
cation:—but the latter would be greed- 
ily seized by nine philologists out of 
ten, for no better cause than its epi- 
grammatism—than the pointedness with 
which the singular fact seems to touch 
the occasion. Here, then, is a subtle 
source of error which Lord Bacon has 
neglected. It is an Idol of the Wit. 


In a “Hymn for Christmas,” by Mrs. 
Hemans, we find the following stanza: 


Oh, lovely voices of the sky 
Which hymned the Saviour’s birth, 
Are ye not singing still on high, 
Ye that sang “Peace on Earth?” 
To us yet speak the strains 
Wherewith, in times gone by, 
Ye blessed the Syrian swains, 
Oh, voices of the sky! 


960 


And at page 305 of “The Christian 
Keepsake and Missionary Annual for 
1840”—a Philadelphia Annual—we find 
*A Christmas Carol,’ by Richard W. 
Dodson:—the first stanza running thus: 


Angel voices of the sky! 
Ye that hymned Messiah’s birth, 
Sweetly singing from on high 
“Peace, Goodwill to all on earth!” 
Oh, to us impart those strains! 
Bid our doubts and fears to cease! 
Ye that cheered the Syrian swains, 
Cheer us with that song of peace! 


The more there are great excellences 
in a work, the less am I surprised at 
finding great demerits. When a Book 
is said to have many faults, nothing 
is decided, and I cannot tell by this 
whether it is excellent or execrable. It 
is said of another that it is without 
fault; if the account be just, the work 
tannot be excellent—Trublet. 


The “cannot” here is much too posi- 
tive. The opinions of’ Trublet are won- 
derfully prevalent, but they are none 
the less demonstrably false. It is 
merely the indolence of genius which 
has given them currency. The truth 
seems to be that genius of the highest 
order lives in a state of perpetual vacil- 
lation between ambition and the scorn 
of it. The ambition of a great intellect 
is at best negative. It struggles—it 
labours—it creates—not because excel- 
lence is desirable, but because to be 
excelled where there exists a sense of 
the power to excel is unendurable. In- 
deed I cannot help thinking that the 
greatest intellects (since these most 
clearly perceive the laughable absurdity 
of human ambition) remain contentedly 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“mute and inglorious.” At all events, 
the vacillation of which I speak is the 
prominent feature of genius. Alter- 
nately inspired and depressed, its in- 
equalities of mood are stamped upon 
its labours. This is the truth, gen- 
erally—but it is a truth very different 
from the assertion involved in the 
“cannot” of Trublet. Give to genius 
a sufficiently enduring motive, and the 
result will be harmony, proportion, 
beauty, perfection—all, in this case, 
synonymous terms. Its supposed “in- 
evitable” irregularities shall not be 
found—for it is clear that the suscepti- 
bility to impressions of beauty—that 
susceptibility which is the most impor- 
tant element of genius—implies an 
equally exquisite sensitiveness and aver- 
sion to deformity. The motive—the 
enduring motive—has indeed, hitherto, 
fallen rarely to the lot of genius; but 
I could point to several compositions 
which, ‘“‘without any fault,’ are yet 
“excellent”—extremely so. The world, 
too, is on the threshold of an epoch, 
wherein, with the aid of a calm philoso- 
phy, such compositions shall be ordi- 
narily the work of that genius which 
is true. One of the first and most 
essential steps, in overpassing this 
threshold, will serve to kick out of the 
world’s way this very idea of ‘Trublet— 
this untenable and paradoxical idea of 
the incompatibility of genius with art. 


A man of genius, if not permitted 
to choose his own subject, will do worse 
in letters than if he had talents none at 
all. And here how imperatively is he 
controlled! To be sure, he can write 
to suit himself—but in the same man- 
ner his publishers print. From the 
nature of our copyright laws, he has no 





MARGINALIA 


individual powers. As for his free 
agency, it is about equal to that of the 
dean and chapter of the see-cathedral 
in a British election of Bishops—an 
election held by virtue of the king’s 


writ of conge d’elire—specifying the 


person to be elected. 


To sée distinctly the machinery—the 
wheels and pinions—of any work of 
Art is, unquestionably, of itself, a 
pleasure, but one which we are able to 
enjoy, only just in proportion as we do 
not enjoy the legitimate effect designed 
by the artist; and, in fact, it too often 
happens that to reflect analytically upon 
Art is to reflect after the fashion of 
the mirrors in the Temple of Smyrna, 
which represent the fairest images as 
deformed. 


With the aid of a lantern, I have 
been looking again at ‘“‘Niagara and 
Other Poems” (Lord only knows if that 
be the true title)—but ‘“‘there’s nothing 
in it”’—at least nothing of Mr. Lord’s 
own—nothing which is not stolen—or 
(more delicately) transfused—trans- 
mitted. By the way, Newton says a 
great deal about “fits of easy transmis- 
sion and reflection,’ and I have no 
doubt that ‘Niagara’? was put together 
in one of these identical fits. 


A remarkable work, and one which 
I find much difficulty in admitting to 
be the composition of a woman. Not 
that many good and glorious things 
have not been the composition of 
women—but, because, here, the severe 
precision of style, the thorouginess, and 
the luminousness are points never ob- 
servable in even the most admirable of 
their writings. Who is Lady Georgiana 


961 


Fullerton? Who is that Countess of 
Dacre, who edited “Ellen Wareham,’— 
the most passionate of fictions—ap- 
proached only in some particulars of 
passion by this? The great defect of 
“Ellen Middleton” lies in the disgusting 
sternness, captiousness, and __ bullet- 
headedness of her husband. We cannot 
sympathise with her love for him. And 
the intense selfishness of the rejected 
lover precludes that compassion which 
is designed. Alice is a creation of true 
genius. The imagination throughout is 
of a lofty order, and the snatches of 
original verse would do honour to any 
poet living. But the chief merit, after 
all, is that of the style—about which it 
is difficult to say too much in the way 
of praise, although it has now and then 
an odd Gallicism—such as “she lost 
her head,” meaning she grew crazy. 
There is much in the whole manner 
of this book which puts me in mind 
of “Caleb Williams.” 


The God-abstractions of the modern 
polytheism are nearly in as sad a state 
of perplexity and promiscuity as were 
the more substantial deities of the 
Greeks. Not a quality named that does 
not impinge upon some one other; and 
Porphyry admits that Vesta, Rhea, 
Ceres, Themis, Proserpina, Bacchus,. 
Attis, Adonis, Silenus, Priapus, and the 
Satyrs, were merely different terms for 
the same thing. Even gender was 
never precisely settled. Servius on 
Virgil mentions a Venus with a beard. 
In Macrobius, too, Calvus talks of her 
as if she were a man; while Valerius 
Soranus expressly calls Jupiter “The 
mother of the Gods.” 


The next work of Carlyle will be 


962 


entitled “Bow-Wow,” and the title- 
page will have a motto from the open- 
ing chapter of the Koran: ‘There is 
no error in this Book.” 





Surely M cannot complain of 
the manner in which his book has been 
received; for the public, in regard to 
it, has given him just such an assur- 
ance as Polyphemus pacified Ulysses 
with, while his companions were being 
eaten up before his eyes. ‘Your book, 
Mr. M ,’ says the public, “shall 
be—I pledge you my word—the very 
last that I devour.” 





The modern reformist Philosophy, 
which annihilates the individual by way 
of aiding the mass, and the late reform- 
ist Legislation, which prohibits pleasure 
with the view of advancing happiness, 
seem to be chips of that old block of 
a French feudal law which, to prevent 
young partridges from being disturbed, 
imposed penalties upon hoeing and 
weeding. 


That Demosthenes “turned out very 
badly” appears beyond dispute from a 
passage, in Meker De vet. et rect. Pron. 
Ling. Grece, where we read “Nec illi 
(Demostheni) turpe videbatur, optimis 
relictis magistris, ad canes se conferre, 
etc., etc.”—that is to say, Demosthenes 
was not ashamed to quit good society 
and “go to the dogs.” 


I cannot help thinking that romance- 
writers in general might now and then 
find their account in taking a hint from 
the Chinese, who, in spite of building 
their houses downwards, have still 
sense enough to begin their books at 
the end. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


La Harpe, who was no critic, has, 
nevertheless, done little more than strict 
justice to the fine taste and precise 
finish of Racine in all that regards the 
minor morals of Literature. In these 
he as far excels Pope, as Pope the 
veriest dolt in his own ‘“Dunciad.” 


I have sometimes amused myself by 
endeavouring to fancy what would be 
the fate of an individual gifted, or 
rather accursed, with an intellect very 
far superior to that of his race. Of 
course he would be conscious of his 
superiority; nor could he (if otherwise 
constituted as man is) help manifesting 
his consciousness. Thus he would 
make himself enemies at all points. 
And since his opinions and speculations 
would widely differ from those of all 
mankind—that he would be considered 
a madman is evident. How horribly 
painful such a condition! Hell could 
invent no greater torture than that of 
being charged with abnormal weakness 
on account of being abnormally strong. 

In like manner, nothing can be clearer 
than that a very generous spirit—truly 
feeling what all merely profess—must 
inevitably find itself misconceived in 
every direction—its motives misinter- 
preted. Just as extremeness of intel- 
ligence would be thought fatuity, so 
excess .of chivalry could not fail of 
being looked upon as meanness in its 
last degree—and so on with other vir- 
tues. This subject is a painful one 
indeed. That individuals have so soared 
above the plane of their race is scarcely 
to be questioned; but, in looking back 
through history for traces of their ex- 
istence, we should pass over all biogra- 
phies of “the good and the great,” 
while we search carefully the slight 





MARGINALIA 


_ records of wretches who died in prison, 
in Bedlam, or upon the gallows. 


Samuel Butler, of Hudibrastic mem- 
ory, must have had a prophetic eye to 
the American Congress when he defined 
a rabble as—‘“‘A congregation or assem- 
bly of the States-General—every one 
being of a several judgment concerning 
whatever business be under considera- 
tion. . . . They meet only to quarrel,” 
he adds, “and then return home full 
of satisfaction and narrative.” 


I have now before me a book in 
which the most noticeable thing is the 
pertinacity with which ‘‘Monarch” and 
“King” are printed with a capital M 
and a capital K. The author, it seems, 
has been lately presented at Court. He 
will employ a small g in future, I pre- 
sume, whenever he is so unlucky as to 
speak of his God. 


Were I called on to define, very 
briefly, the term ‘‘Art,” I should call 
it “the reproduction of what the Senses 
perceive in Nature through the veil of 
the soul.’”’ The mere imitation, how- 
ever accurate, of what zs in Nature 
entitles no man to the sacred name of 
“Artist.” Denner was no artist. The 
grapes of Zeuxis were imartistic—unless 
in a bird’s-eye view; and not even the 
curtain of Parrhasius could conceal his 
deficiency in point of genius. I have 
mentioned “the veil of the soul.” 
Something of the kind appears indis- 
pensable in Art. We can, at any time, 
double the true beauty of an actual 
landscape by half-closing our eyes as 
we look at it. The naked Senses some- 
times see too little—but then always 
they see too much. 


963 


With how unaccountable an obstinacy 
even our best writers persist in talking 
about ‘‘moral courage,” as if there could 
be any courage that was not moral. 
The adjective is improperly applied to 
the subject instead of the object. The 
energy which overcomes fear, whether 
fear of evil threatening the person or 
threatening the impersonal circum- 
stances amid which we exist, is of 
course simply a mental energy—is of 
course simply “moral.” But in speak- 
ing of “moral courage’ we imply the 
existence of physical. Quite as reason- 
able an expression would be that of 
“bodily thought,’ or of ‘muscular 
imagination.” 


I have great faith in fools—self- 
confidence my friends will call it: 


Si demain, oubliant d’eclore, 

Le jour manquait, eh bien! demain 
Quelque fou trouverait encore 

Un flambeau pour le genre humain. 


By the way, what with the new elec- 
tric light and other matters, De Beran- 
ger’s idea is not so very extravagant. 


“He that is born to be a man,” says 
Wieland in his “Peregrinus Proteus,” 
“neither should nor can be anything 
nobler, greater, or better than a man.” 
The fact is, that in efforts to soar 
above our nature we invariably fall 
below it. Your reformist demigods are 
merely devils turned inside out. 


Not long ago, to call a man “a great 
wizard” was to invoke for him fire and 
fagot; but now, when we wish to run 
our protege for President, we just dub 
him “a little magician.” The fact is, 


964 


that, on account of the curious modern 
bouleversement of old opinion, one 
cannot be too cautious of the grounds 
on which he lauds a friend or vituper- 
ates a foe. 


“Philosophy,” says Hegel, “is utterly 
useless and fruitless, and for this very 
reason is the sublimest of all pursuits, 
the most deserving attention, and the 
most worthy of our zeal.” This jargon 
was suggested, no doubt, by Tertul- 
lian’s “Mortuus est Dei filius; credible 
est quia ineptum—et sepultus resur- 
rexit; certum est quia impossibile.” 


A clever French writer of “Memoirs” 
is quite right in saying that “if the 
Universities had been willing to permit 
it the disgusting old debauche of Teos, 
with his eternal Bathyllus, would long 
ago have been buried in the darkness 
of oblivion.” 


It is by no means an irrational fancy 
that in a future existence we shall look 
upon what we think our present exist- 
ence as a dream. 


“The artist belongs to his work, not 
the work to the artist.”—Novalis. 

In nine cases out of ten it is pure 
waste of time to attempt extorting 
sense from a German apothegm; or, 
rather, any sense and every sense may 
be extorted from all of them. If, in 
the sentence above quoted, the inten- 
tion is to assert that the artist is the 
slave of his theme, and must conform 
his thoughts to it, I have no faith in 
the idea, which appears to me that of 
an essentially prosaic intellect. In the 
hands of the true artist the theme, or 
“work,” is but a mass of clay, of which 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


anything (within the compass of the 
mass and quality of the clay) may be 
fashioned at will, or according to the 
skill of the workman. The clay is, in 
fact, the slave of the artist. It belongs 
to him. His genius, to be sure, is mani- 
fested, very distinctly, in the choice of 
the clay. It should be neither fine nor 
coarse, abstractly—but just so fine or 
so coarse—just so plastic or so rigid— 
as may best serve the purposes of the 
thing to be wrought—of the idea to 
be made out, or, more exactly, of the 
impression to be conveyed. ‘There are 
artists, however, who fancy only the 
finest material, and who, consequently, 
produce only the fimest ware. It is 
generally very transparent and exces- 
sively brittle. 


Tell a scoundrel three or four times 
a day that he is the pink of probity 
and you make him at least “the per- 
fection of respectability” in good 
earnest. On the other hand, accuse 
an honourable man too pertinaciously 
of being a villian and you fill him with 
a perverse ambition to show you that 
you are not altogether in the wrong. 


The Romans worshipped their stand- 
ards; and the Roman standard hap- 
nened to be an eagle. Our standard is 
only one-tenth of an Eagle—a Dollar— 
but we make all even by adoring it 
with tenfold devotion. 


A pumpkin has more angles than 
J , and is altogether a clever thing. 
He is remarkable at one point only—at 
that of being remarkable for nothing. 





“That evil predominates over good 
becomes evident when we consider that 


MARGINALIA 


there can be found no aged person who 
would be willing to re-live the life he 
has already lived.”—Volney. 


The idea here is not distinctly made 
out, for, unless through the context, we 
cannot be sure whether the author 
means merely this—that every aged 
person fancies he might, in a different 
course of life, have been happier than 
in the one actually lived, and for this 
reason would not be willing to live his 
life over again, but some other life; or 
whether the sentiment intended is this 
—that if, upon the grave’s brink, the 
choice between the expected death and 
the re-living the old life were offered 
any aged person that person would 
prefer to die. The first proposition is 
perhaps true, but the last (which is 
the one designed) is not only doubtful 
in point of mere fact, but is of no 
effect, even if granted to be true, in 
sustaining the original proposition that 
evil predominates over good. It is 
assumed that the aged person will not 
re-live his life, because he knows that 
its evil predominated over its good. 
The source of error lies in the word 
“knows’—in the assumption that we 
can ever be really in possession of the 
whole knowledge to which allusion is 
cloudily made. But there is a seeming, 
a fictitious knowledge, and this very 
seeming knowledge it is, of what the 
life has been, which incapacitates the 
aged person from deciding the question 
on its merits. He blindly deduces a 
notion of the happiness of the original 
real life, a notion of its preponderating 
evil or good, from a consideration of 
the secondary or supposititious one. In 
his estimate he merely strikes a bal- 
ance between events, and leaves quite 


965 


out of the account that elastic Hope 
which is the Eos of all. Man’s real 
life is happy, chiefly because he is ever 
expecting that it soon will be so. In 
regarding the supposititious life, how- 
ever, we paint to ourselves chill cer- 
tainties for warm expectations, and 
grievances quadrupled in being fore- 
seen. But because we cannot avoid 
doing this, strain our imaginative facul- 
ties as we will, because it is so very 
difficult, so nearly impossible a_ task, 
to fancy the known unknown, the done 
unaccomplished, and because (through 
our inability to fancy all this) we pre- 
fer death to a secondary life, does it, 
in any manner, follow that the evil 
of the properly-considered real exist- 
ence does predominate over the good? 

In order that a just estimate be 
made by Mr. Volney’s ‘‘aged person;” 
and from this estimate a judicious 
choice;—in order, again, that from this 
estimate and choice we deduce any 
clear comparison of good with evil in 
human existence, it will be necessary 
that we obtain the opinion or “choice,” 
upon this point from an aged person, 
who shall be in condition to appreciate 
with precision the hopes he is naturally 
led to leave out of question, but which 
reason tells us he would as strongly 
experience as ever in the absolute 
re-living of the life. On the other hand, 
too, he must be in condition to dismiss 
from the estimate the fears which he 


. actually feels, and which show him 


bodily the ills that are to happen, but 
which fears, again, reason assures us 
he would not in the absolute secondary 
life encounter. Now what mortal was 
ever in condition to make these allow- 
ances?—to perform impossibilities in 
giving these considerations their due 


966 


weight? What mortal, then, was ever 
in condition to make a well-grounded 
choice? How, from an_ ill-grounded 
one, are we to make deductions which 
shall guide us aright? How out of error 
shall we fabricate truth? 


This reasoning is about as convincing 
as would be that of a traveller who, 
going from Maryland to New York 
without entering Pennsylvania, should 
advance this feat as an argument 
against Leibnitz’s Law of Continuity, 
according to which nothing passes from 
one state to another without passing 
through all the intermediate states. 


Macaulay, in his just admiration of 
Addison, overrates Tickell, and does not 
seem to be aware how much the author 
of the “Elegy” is indebted to French 
models. Boileau, especially, he robbed 
without mercy and without measure. A 
flagrant example is here. Boileau has 
the lines: 


En vain contre “Le Cid” un ministre 
se ligue; 

Tout Paris pour Chimene a les yeux de 
Rodrigue. 


Tickell thus appropriates them: 


While the charm’d reader with thy 
thought complies, 

And views thy Rosamond with Henry’s 
eyes. 


Stolen, body .and soul (and spoilt in 
the stealing) from a paper of the same 
title in the “European Magazine” for 
December, 1817. Blunderingly done 
throughout, and must have cost more 
trouble than an original thing. This 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


makes paragraph 33 of my “Chapter on 
American Cribbage.” The beauty of 
these exposes must lie in the precision 
and unanswerability with which they 
are given—in day and date—in chapter 
and verse—and, above all, in an un- 
veiling of the minute trickeries by 
which the thieves hope to disguise their 
stolen wares. I must soon a tale un- 
fold, and an astonishing tale it will be. 
The C bears away the bell. The 
ladies, however, should positively not 
be guilty of these tricks—for one has 
never the heart to unmask or deplume 
them. After all, there is this advantage 
in purloining one’s magazine papers— 
we are never forced to dispose of them 
under prime cost. 





Amare et sapere vix Deo conceditur, 
as the acute Seneca well observes. 


However acute might be Seneca, still 
he was not sufficiently acute to say 
this. The sentence is often attributed 
to him, but is not to be found in his 
works. “Semel insanavimus omnes,” a 
phrase often quoted, is invariably 
placed to the account of Horace, and 
with equal error. It is from the “De 
Honesto Amore” of the Italian Man- 
tuanus, who has 


Id commune malum ; semel insanavimus 
omnes. 


In the title “De Honesto Amore,’ by 
the way, Mantuanus misconceives the 
force of honestus—just as Dryden does 
in his translation of Virgil’s 


Et quocunque Deus circum caput exit 
honestum ; 


MARGINALIA 


which he renders, 


On whate’er side he turns his honest 
face. 


No;—he fell by his own fame. Like 
Richmann, he was blasted by the fires 
himself had sought, and obtained, from 
the heavens. 


How overpowering a style is that of 
Curran! I use “overpowering” in the 
sense of the English exquisite. I can 
imagine nothing more distressing than 
the extent of his eloquence. 


How radically has “Undine” been 
misunderstood! Beneath its obvious 
“meaning there runs an_ undercurrent, 
simple, quite intelligible, artistically 
managed, and richly philosophical. 

From internal evidence afforded by 
the book itself, I gather that the author 
suffered from the ills of a mal-arranged 
marriage—the bitter reflections thus 
engendered inducing the fable. 

In the contrast between the artless, 
thoughtless, and careless character of 
Undine before possessing a soul, and 
her serious, enwrapt, and anxious yet 
happy condition after possessing it, a 
condition which, with all its multiform 
disquietudes, she still feels to be prefer- 
able to her original state, Fouque has 
beautifully painted the difference be- 
tween the heart unused to love, and 
the heart which has received its inspira- 
tion. 

The jealousies which follow the mar- 
riage, arising from the conduct of Bert- 
alda, are but the natural troubles of 
love, but the persecutions of Kuhleborn 
and the other water spirits who take 
umbrage at Huldbrand’s treatment of 


967 


his wife, are meant to picture certain 
difficulties from the interference of re- 
lations in conjugal matters—difficulties 
which the author has himself experi- 
enced. The warning of Undine to 
Huldbrand, “Reproach me not upon the 
waters, or we part for ever,” is in- 
tended to embody the truth that quar- 
rels between man and wife are seldom 
Or never irremediable unless when 
taking place in the presence of third 
parties. The second wedding of the 
knight, with his gradual forgetfulness 
of Undine, and Undine’s intense grief 
beneath the waters, are dwelt upon so 
pathetically, so passionately, that there 
can be no doubt of the author’s per- 
sonal opinions on the subject .of second 
marriages—no doubt of his deep per- 
sonal interest in the question. How 
thrillingly are these few and simple 
words made to convey his belief that 
the mere death of a beloved wife does 
not imply a separation so final or so 
complete as to justify a union with 
another! 


The fisherman had loved Undine 
with exceeding tenderness, and it. was 
a doubtful conclusion to his mind that 
the mere disappearance of his beloved 
child could be properly viewed as her 
death. 


This is where the old man is endeav- 
ouring to dissuade the knight from 
wedding Bertalda. 

I cannot say whether the novelty of 
the conception of “Undine,’ or the 
loftiness and purity of its ideality, or 
the intensity of its pathos, or the rigour 
of its simplicity, or the high artistical 
ability with which all are combined into 
a well-kept, a well-motivirt whole of 


968 


absolute unity of effect, is the particular 
chiefly to be admired. 

How delicate and graceful are the 
transitions from subject to subject!— 
a point severely testing the autorial 
power—as, when, for the purposes of 
the story, it becomes necessary that 
the knight, with Undine and Bertalda, 
shall proceed down the Danube. An 
ordinary novelist would have here tor- 
mented both himself and his readers 
in his search for a sufficient motive 
for the voyage. But in a fable such 
as “Undine,” how all-sufficient, how 
well in keeping, appears the simple 
motive assigned! 


In this. grateful union of friendship 
and affection, winter came and passed 
away; and spring, with its foliage of 
tender green and its heaven of softest 
blue, succeeded to gladden the hearts 
of the three inmates of the castle. 
What wonder, then, that its storks and 
swallows inspired them also with a dis- 
position to travel? 


I have at length attained the last 
page, which is a thing. to thank God 
for, and all this may be logic, but I 
am sure it is nothing more. Until I 
get the means of refutation, however, 
I must be content to say, with the 
Jesuits Le Sueur and Jacquier, that “I 
acknowledged myself obedient to the 
decrees of the Pope against the motion 
of the earth.” | 


Not so:—The first number of the 
“Gentleman’s Magazine” was published 
on the first of January, 1731; but long 
before this—in 1681—there appeared 
the “Monthly Recorder,” with all the 
magazine features. I have a number 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the ‘London Magazine,” dated 1760; 
—commenced 1732, at least, but I have 
reason to think much earlier. 


“Rhododaphne” (who wrote it?) is 
brimful of music:—e.g. 


By living streams, in sylvan shades, 
Where wind and wave symphonious 
make 
Rich melody, the youths and maids 
No more with choral music wake 
Lone Echo from her tangled brake. 


I have just finished the “Mysteries 
of Paris’—a work of unquestionable 
power—a museum of novel and ingen- 
ious incident—a paradox of childish 
folly and consummate skill. It has 
this point in common with all the “‘con- 
vulsive” fictions—that the incidents are 
consequential from the premises, while 
the premises themselves are laughably 
incredible. Admitting, for instance, 
the possibility of such a man as Ro- 
dolphe, and of such a state of society 
as would tolerate his perpetual inter- 
ference, we have no difficulty in agree- 
ing to admit the possibility of his 
accomplishing all that is accomplished. 
Another point which distinguishes the 
Sue school is the total want of the ars 
celare artem. In effect the writer is 
always saying to the reader, ‘“Now—in 
one moment—you shall see what you 
shall see. I am about to produce on 
you a remarkable impression. Prepare 
to have your imagination, or your pity, 
greatly excited.” The wires are not 
only not concealed, but displayed as 
things to be admired, equally with the 
puppets they set in motion. The result 
is, that in perusing, for example, a 
pathetic chapter in the “Mysteries of 


MARGINALIA 


Paris’ we say to ourselves, without 
shedding a tear—‘‘Now, here is some- 
thing which will be sure to move every 
reader to tears.” The philosophical 
motives attributed to Sue are absurd 
in the extreme. His first, and in fact 
his sole object, is to make an exciting, 
and therefore saleable book. The cant 
(implied or direct), about the ameliora- 
tion of society, etc., is but a very usual 
trick among authors, whereby they 
hope to add such a tone of dignity 
or utilitarianism to their pages as shall 
gild the pill of their licentiousness. The 
ruse is even more generally employed 
by way of engrafting a meaning upon 
the otherwise unintelligible. In the lat- 
ter case, however, this ruse is an after- 
thought, manifested in the shape of a 
moral, either appended (as in sop) 
or dovetailed into the body of the 
work, piece by piece, with great care, 
but never without leaving evidence of 
its after-insertion. 

The translation (by C. H. Town) 
is very imperfect, and, by a too literal 
rendering of idioms, contrives to de- 
stroy the whole tone of the original. 
Or perhaps, I should say a too literal 
rendering of local peculiarities of 
phrase. There is one point (never yet, 
I believe, noticed) which, obviously, 
should be considered in translation. We 
should so render the original that the 
version should impress the people for 
whom it is intended, just as the original 
impresses the people for whom it (the 
original) is intended. Now, if we rig- 
orously translate mere local idiosyncra- 
sies of phrase (to say nothing of 
idioms) we inevitably distort thé au- 
thor’s designed impression. We are 
sure to produce a whimsical, at least, 
if not always a ludicrous effect—for 


969 


novelties, in a case of this kind, are 
incongruities—oddities. A distinction 
of course should be observed between 
those peculiarities of phrase which 
appertain to the nation and those which 
belong to the author himself—for these 
latter will have a similar effect upon 
all nations, and should be literally trans- 
lated. It is merely the general inatten- 
tion to the principle here proposed 
which has given rise to so much inter- 
national depreciation, if not positive 
contempt, as regards literature. The 
English reviews, for example, have 
abundant allusions to what they cal 
the “frivolousness” of French letters— 
an idea chiefly derived from the im- 
pression made by the French manner 
merely—this manner, again, having in 
it nothing essentially frivolous, but 
affecting all foreigners as such (the 
English especially) through that oddity 
of which I have already assigned the 
origin. The French return the com- 
pliment, complaining of the British 
gaucherie in style. The phraseology of 
every nation has a taint of drollery 
about it in the ears of every other 
nation speaking a different tongue. 
Now, to convey the true spirit of an 
author, this taint should be corrected 
in translation. We should pride our- 
selves less upon literality and more 
upon dexterity at paraphrase. Is it 
not clear that, by such dexterity, a 
translation may be made to convey to 
a foreigner a juster conception of an 
original than could the original itself? 

The distinction I have made between 
mere idioms (which, of course, should 
never be literally rendered) and “local 
idiosyncrasies of phrase,’ may be exeim- 
plified by a passage at page 291 of Mr. 
Town’s translation. 


970 


You 
You 


“Never mind! Go in there! 
will take the cloak of Calebasse. 
will wrap yourself in it, etc., etc.” 


These are the words of a lover to 
his mistress, and are meant kindly, 
although imperatively. They embody 
a local peculiarity—a French peculiar- 
ity of phrase, and (to French ears) 
convey nothing dictatorial. To our 
own, nevertheless, they sound like the 
command of a military officer to his 
subordinate, and thus produce an effect 
quite different from that intended. The 
translation, in such case, should be a 
bold paraphrase. For example:—“I 
must insist upon your wrapping your- 
self in the cloak of Calebasse.” 

Mr. Town’s version of “The Mys- 
teries of Paris,’ however, is not ob- 
jectionable on the score of excessive 
literality alone, but abounds in misap- 
prehensions of the author’s meaning. 
One of the strangest errors occurs at 
page 368, where we read: 


“From a wicked, brutal savage, and 
riotous rascal, he has made me a kind 
sf honest man by saying only two 
words to me; but these words, ‘voyez 
vous,’ were like magic.” 


Here ‘‘voyez vous” are made to be 
the two magical words spoken; but 
the translation should run—‘these 
words, do you see? were like magic.” 
The actual words described as produc- 
ing the magical effect are “heart” and 
“honour.” 

Of similar character 
mistake at page 245. 


is a curious 


“He is a gueux fini, and an attack 
will not save him,” added Nicholas. 
“A—yes,” said the widow. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Many readers of Mr. Town’s trans- 
lation have no doubt been puzzled to 
perceive the force of relevancy of the 
widow’s ‘““A—yes” in this case. I have 
not the original before me, but take it 
for granted that it runs thus, or nearly 
so:—“al est un gueux fim et un assaut 
ne Vintimidera pas. Un—oui! dit la 
veuve.” 

It must be observed that, in vivacious 
French colloquy, the oui seldom implies 
assent to the letter, but generally, to 
the spirit, of a proposition. Thus a 
Frenchman usually says ‘‘yes” where an 
Englishman would say “no.” The lat- 
ter’s reply for example, to the sentence 
“An attack will not intimidate him,” 
would be “‘No”’—that is to say, “I 
grant you that it would not.” The 
Frenchman, however, answers ‘“‘Yes’”— 
meaning, “I agree with what you say— 
it would not.’ Both replies, of course, 
reaching the same point, although by 
opposite routes. With this understand- 
ing it will be seen that the true version 
of the widow’s “Un—oui!” should be, 
“One attack, I grant you, might not,” 
and that this zs the version becomes 
apparent when we read the words im- 
mediately following—‘‘but every day— 
every day it is hell!” 

An instance of another class of even 
more reprehensible blunders, is to be 
found on page 297, where Bras-Rouge 
is made to say to a police officer—‘“No 
matter; it is not of that I complain; 
every trade has its disagreements.” 
Here no doubt the French is desagre- 
mens—inconveniences—disadvantages— 
unpleasantness. Desagremens conveys 
disagreements not even so nearly as, 
in Latin, religio implies religion. 

I was not a little surprised, in turn- 
ing over these pages, to come upon the 


MARGINALIA 971 


admirable, thrice admirable story, called 
“Gringalet et Coupe en Deux,’ which 
is related by Pigue-Vinaigre to his com- 
panions in La Force. Rarely have I 
read anything of which the exquisite 
skill so delighted me. For my soul I 
could not suggest a fault in it—except, 
perhaps, that the intention of telling a 
very pathetic story is a little too trans- 
parent. 

But I say that I was surprised in 
coming upon this story—and I was so, 
because one of its points has been sug- 
gested to M. Sue by a tale of my own. 
Coupe en Deux has an ape remarkable 
for its size, strength, ferocity, and pro- 
pensity to imitation. Wishing to com- 
mit a murder so cunningly that dis- 
covery would be impossible, the master 
of this animal teaches it to imitate 
the functions of a barber, and incites 
it to cut the throat of a child, under 
the idea that, when the murder is dis- 
covered, it will be considered the unin- 
stigated deed of the ape. 

On first seeing this, I felt apprehen- 
sive that some of my friends would 
accuse me of plagiarising from it my 
“Murders in the Rue Morgue.” But 
I soon called to mind that this latter 
was first published in “Graham’s Maga- 
zine” for April, 1841. Some years ago 
“The Paris Charivari” copied my story 
with complimentary comments; object- 
ing, however, to the Rue Morgue on 
the ground that no such street (to the 
Charivari’s knowledge) existed in Paris. 
I do not wish of course to look upon 
M. Sue’s adaptation of my property 
in any other light than that of a com- 
pliment. The similarity may have been 
entirely accidental. 


Has any one observed the excessively 


close resemblance in subject, thought, 
general manner, and particular point 
which this clever composition (the 
“Satyre Menipee”) bears to the “Hudi- 
bras” of Butler? 


The a priori reasoners upon govern- 
ment are, of all plausible people, the 
most preposterous. They only argue 
too cleverly to permit my thinking 
them silly enough to be themselves 
deceived by their own arguments. Yet 
even this is possible; for there is some- 
thing in the vanity of logic which ad- 
dles a man’s brains. Your true logiciar 
gets in time to be logicalised, and then, 
so far as regards himself, the universe 
is one word. A thing for him no longet 
exists. He deposits upon a sheet of 
paper a certain assemblage of syllables, 
and fancies that their meaning is riv- 
eted by the act of deposition. I am 
serious in the opinion that some such 
process of thought passes through the 
mind of the “practised” logician as he 
makes note of the thesis proposed. He 
is not aware that he thinks in this 
way—but, unwittingly, he so thinks. 
The syllables deposited acquire in his 
view a new character. While afloat 
in his brain, he might have been 
brought to admit the possibility that 
these syllables were variable exponents 
of various phases of thought; but he 
will not admit this if he once gets 
them upon the paper. 

In a single page of “Mill” I find the 
word ‘force’ employed four times; and 
each employment varies the idea. The 
fact is that @ priori argument is much 
worse than useless except in the math- 
ematical sciences, where it is possible 
to obtain precise meanings. If there 
is any one subject in the world to which 


972 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


it is utterly and radically inapplicable, 
that subject is Government. The iden- 
tical arguments used to sustain Mr. 
Bentham’s positions might, with little 
exercise of ingenuity, be made to over- 
throw them; and, by ringing small 
chenges on the words ‘“‘leg-of-mutton” 
and “turnip” (changes so gradual as to 
escape detection), I could “demon- 
strate” that a turnip was, is, and of 
right ought to be a leg-of-mutton. 


The concord of  sound-and-sense 
principle was never better exemplified 
than in these lines:— 


Ast amans chare thalamum puelle 

Deserit flens, et tibi verba dicit 

Aspera, amplexu tener cupito a— 
—vulsus amice. 


Miss Gould has much in common 
with Mary Howitt—the characteristic 
trait of each being a sportive, quaint, 
epigrammatic grace that keeps clear of 
the absurd by never employing itself 
upon very exalted topics. ‘The verbal 
style of the two ladies is identical. 
Miss Gould has the more talent of the 
two, but is somewhat the less original. 
She has occasional flashes of a far 
higher order of merit than appertains 
to her ordinary manner. Her “Dying 
Storm” might have been written by 
Campbell. 


Cornelius Webbe is one of the best 
of that numerous school of extrava- 
ganzists who sprang from the ruins of 
Lamb. We must be in perfect good- 
humour, however, with ourselves and 
all the world, to be much pleased with 
such works as “The Man about Town,” 
in which the harumscarum, hyper- 


excursive mannerism is carried to an 
excess which is frequently fatiguing. 


Nearly, if not quite the best ‘Essay 
on a Future State.” The arguments 
called “Deductions from our Reason” 
are rightly enough addressed more to 
the feelings (a vulgar term not to be 
done without) than to our reason. The 
arguments deduced from Revelation are 
(also rightly enough) brief. The pam- 
phlet proves nothing of course; its 
theorem is not to be proved. 


The style is so involute that one can- 
not help fancying it must be falsely 
constructed. If the use of language is 
to convey ideas, then it is nearly as 
much a demerit that our words seem 
to be, as that they are, indefensible. A 
man’s grammar, like Cesar’s wife, must 
not only be pure, but above suspicion 
of impurity. 


It is the curse of a certain order of 
mind that it can never rest satisfied 
with the consciousness of its ability to 
do a thing. Not even is it content 
with doing it. It must both know and 
show it was done. 

Not so:—a gentleman with a pug 
nose is a contradiction in terms—‘‘Who 
can live idly and without manual la- 
bour, and will bear the port, charge, 
and countenance of a gentleman, he 
alone should be called master and be 
taken for a gentleman.”—Sir Thomas 
Smith’s “Commonwealth of England.” 


Here is something at which IT find it 
impossible not to laugh;* and yet, I 


* Translation of the Book of Jonah 
into German Hexameters. 


MARGINALIA 


laugh without knowing why. That 
incongruity is the principle of all non- 
convulsive laughter, is to my mind as 
clearly demonstrated as any problem in 
the ‘Principia Mathematica;” but here 
I cannot trace the incongruous. It is 
there, I know. Still I do not see it. 
In the meantime let me laugh. 


“So violent was. the state of parties 
in England, that I was assured by sev- 
eral that the Duke of Marlborough was 
a coward and Pope a fool.”—Voltaire. 


Both propositions have since been 
very seriously entertained, quite inde- 
pendently of all party-feeling. That 
Pope was a fool, indeed, seems to be 
an established point at present with 
the Crazyites—what else shall I call 
them? 


Imitators are not, necessarily, unorig- 
inal—except at the exact points of the 
imitation. Mr. Longfellow, decidedly 
the most audacious imitator in Amer- 
ica, is markedly original, or, in other 
words, imaginative upon the whole; and 
many persons have, from the latter 
branch of the fact, been at a loss to 
comprehend and therefore to believe, 
the former. Keen sensibility of appre- 
ciation—that is to say, the poetic sentz- 
ment (in distinction from the poetic 
power) leads almost inevitably to imi- 
tation. Thus all great poets have been 
gross imitators. It is, however, a mere 
non distributio medii hence to infer 
that all great imitators are poets. 


With all his faults, however, this 
author is a man of respectable powers. 


Thus discourses, of William Godwin, 


books—the positively and the nega- 


973 


the “London Monthly Magazine,” May, 
1818. 


As a descriptive poet, Mr. Street is 
to be highly commended. He not only 
describes with force and fidelity—giv- 
ing us a clear conception of the thing 
described—but never describes what to 
the poet should be nondescript. He 
appears, however, not at any time to 
have been aware that mere description 
is not poetry at all. We demand 
creation—poiaesis. (Gr.) About Mr, 
Street there seems to be no spirit. He 
is all matter—substance—what _ the 
chemists would call “simple substance’ 
—and exceedingly simple it is. 


I never read a personally abusive 
paragraph in the newspapers without 
calling to mind the pertinent query 
propounded by Johnson to Goldsmith: 
—‘My dear Doctor, what harm does 
it do a man to call him Holofernes?” 


Were I to consign these volumes 
(Voltaire’s works), altogether, to the 
hands of any very young friend of 
mine, I could not, in conscience, de- 
scribe them otherwise, than as “tam 
multi, tam grandes, tam pretiosi codi- 
ces”; and it would grieve me much to 
add the “incendite omnes dias mem- 
branas.” 


In reading some books we occupy 
ourselves chiefly with the thoughts of 
the author; in perusing others, exclu- 
sively with our own. And this is one 
of the “others’”*—a suggestive book. 
But there are two classes of suggestive 


* St. Austin de libris Manichaeis. 


974 


tively suggestive. The former suggest 
by what they say; the latter by what 
they might and should have said. It 
makes little difference, after all. In 
either case the true book-purpose is 
answered. 


It is observable that, in his brief 
account of the Creation, Moses employs 
the words Bara Elohim (the Gods 
created) no less than thirty times; 
using the noun in the plural with the 
verb in the singular. Elsewhere, how- 
ever—in Deuteronomy, for example— 
he employs the singular.—Eloah. 


It is a thousand pities that the puny 
witticisms of a few professional ob- 
jectors should have power to prevent, 
even for a year, the adoption of a 
name for our country. At present we 
have clearly none. ‘There should be 
no hesitation about “Appalachia.” In 
the first place, it is distinctive. ‘Amer- 
ica’”* is not and can never be made so. 


‘We may legislate as much as we please, 
and assume for our country whatever 
name we think right—but to us it will 
be no name, to any purpose for which 
a name is needed, unless we can take 
it away from the regions which employ 
it at present. South America is ‘““Amer- 
ica,” and will insist upon remaining so. 
In the second place, “Appalachia” is 
indigenous, springing from one of the 
most magnificent and distinctive fea- 
tures of the country itself. Thirdly, 


*Mr. Field, in a meeting of “The 
New York Historical Society,” proposed 
that we take the name of “America,” 
and bestow “Columbia” upon the Con- 
tinent. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in employing this word we do honour 
to the Aborigines, whom, hitherto, we 
have at all points unmercifully de- 
spoiled, assassinated, and dishonoured. 
Fourthly, the name is the suggestion of, 
perhaps, the most deservedly eminent 
among all the pioneers of American 
literature. It is but just that Mr. 
Irving should name the land for which, 
in letters, he first established a name. 
The last, and by far the most truly 
important consideration of all, however, 
is the music of “Appalachia” itself; 
nothing could be more sonorous, more 
liquid, or of fuller volume, while its 
length is just sufficient for dignity. 
How the gutteral ‘“Alleghania” could 
ever have been preferred for a moment 
is difficult to conceive. I yet hope to 
find “Appalachia” assumed. 





M , as a matter of course, would 
rather be abused by the critics than not 
be noticed by them at all, but he is 
hardly to be blamed for growling a 
little now and then over their criticisms, 
just as a dog might do if pelted with 
bones. 


About the “Antigone,” as about all 
the ancient plays, there seems to me 
a certain baldness, the result of inex- 
perience in art, but which pendantry 
would force us to believe the result. 
of a studied and supremely artistic 
simplicity. Simplicity, indeed, is a 
very important feature in all true art— 
but zot the simplicity which we see 
in the Greek drama. That of the Greek 
sculpture is everything that can be 
desired, because here the art itself is 
simplicity in itself and in its elements. 
The Greek sculptor chiselled his forms 
from what he saw before him every 


MARGINALIA 


day, in a beauty nearer to perfection 
than any work of any Cleomenes in the 
world. But in the drama, the direct, 
straight-forward, un-German Greek had 
no Nature so immediately presented 
from which to make copy. He did 
what he could—but I do not hesitate 
to say that that was exceedingly little 
worth. The profound sense of one or 
two tragic, or rather melodramatic ele- 
ments (such as the idea of inexorable 
Destiny )—this sense gleaming at inter- 
vals from out the darkness of the 
ancient stage, serves, in the very im- 
perfection of its development, to show, 
not the dramatic ability, but the 
dramatic inability of the ancients. In 
a word, the simple arts spring into per- 
fection at their origin: the complex as 
inevitably demand the long and pain- 
fully progressive experience of ages. To 
the Greeks, beyond doubt, their drama 
seemed perfection—it fully answered, 
to them, the dramatic end, excitement, 
and this fact is urged as proof of their 
drama’s perfection in itself. It need 
only be said, in reply, that their art 
and their sense of art were necessarily 
on a level. 


That man is not truly brave who is 
afraid either to seem or to be, when 
it suits him, a coward. 


A corrupt and impious heart*—a 
merely prurient fancy—a Saturnian 
brain in which invention has only the 
phosphorescent glimmer of rottenness. 
Worthless, body and soul—a foul re- 
proach to the nation that engendered 
and endures him—a fetid battener upon 
the garbage of thought—no man—a 
beast—a pig—less scrupulous than a 

* Michael Masson. 


975 


carrion-crow, and not very much less 
filthy than a Wilmer. 


It is not proper (to use a gentle 
word), nor does it seem courageous, to 
attack our foe by name in spirit and 
in effect, so that all the world shall 
know whom we mean, while we say to 
ourselves, “I have not attacked this 
man by name in the eye, and according 
to the letter, of the law’—yet how 
often are men who call themselves gen- 
tlemen guilty of this meanness! We 
need reform at this point of our Lit- 
erary Morality, very sorely too at 
another—the system of anonymous 
reviewing. Not one respectable word 
can be said in defence of this most 
unfair—this most despicable and cow. 
ardly practice. 


To vilify a great man is the readiest 
way in which a little man can himself 
obtain greatness. The Crab might 
never have become a Constellation but 
for the courage it evinced in nibbling 
Hercules on the heel. 


I hardly know how to account for 
the repeated failures of John Neal as 
regards the construction of his works. 
His art is great and of a high charac- 
ter—but it is massive and undetailed. 
He seems to be either deficient in a 
sense of completeness, or unstable in 
temperament; so that he becomes 
wearied with his work before getting 
it done. He always begins well—vig- 
orously—startlingly—proceeds by fits— 
much at random—now prosing, now 
gossiping, now running away with his 
subject, now exciting vivid interest; but — 
his conclusions are sure to be hurried 


976 


and indistinct; so that the reader, per- 
ceiving a falling-off where he expects a 
climax, is pained, and, closing the book 
with dissatisfaction, is in no mood to 
give the author credit for the vivid 
sensations which have been aroused 
during the progress of perusal. Of all 
literary foibles the most fatal, perhaps, 
is that of defective climax. Neverthe- 
less, I should be inclined to rank John 
Neal first, or at all events second, 
among our men of indisputable genius. 
Is it, or is it not a fact, that the air 
of a Democracy agrees better with 
mere Talent than with Genius? 


Among the moralists who keep them- 
selves erect by the perpetual swallow- 
ing of pokers, it is the fashion to decry 
the “fashionable” novels. These works 
have their demerits; but a vast in- 
fluence which they exert for an un- 
deniable good has never yet been duly 
considered. “Ingenuos didicisse fidel- 
iter libros, emollit mores nec sinit esse 
feros.”’ Now, the fashionable novels 
are just the books which most do cir- 
culate among the class wnfashionable; 
and their effect in softening the worst 
callosities—in smoothing the most dis- 
gusting asperities of vulgarism, is pro- 
digious. With the herd, to admire and 
to attempt imitation are the same thing. 
What if, in this case, the manners imi- 
tated are frippery; better frippery than 
brutality—and, after all, there is little 
danger that the intrinsic value of the 
sturdiest iron will be impaired by a 
coating of even the most diaphanous 
gilt. 


The ancients had at least half an 
idea that we travelled on horseback to 
heaven. See a passage of Passeri, “de 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


anime transvectione”—quoted by Cay- 
lus. See, also, many old tombs. 


_ 


The author of “Cromwell,”’* does 
better as a writer of ballads than of 
prose. He has fancy, and a fine con- 
ception of rhythm. But his romantico- 
histories have all the effervescence of 
his verse, without its flavour. Nothing 
worse than his tone can be invented:— 
turgid sententiousness, involute, spas- 
modically straining after effect. And to 
render matters worse, he is as thorough 
an unistylist as Cardinal Chigi, who 
boasted that he wrote with the same 
pen for half a century. 


Our “blues” are increasing in number 
at a great rate, and should be decimated 
at the very least. Have we no critic 
with nerve enough to hang a dozen or 
two of them, im terrorem? He must 
use a silk-cord of course—as they do 
in Spain with all grandees of the blue 
blood—of the “sangre azula.” 


For all the rhetorician’s rules 
Teach nothing but to name the tools. 
—Hudibras. 


What these oft-quoted lines go to 
show is that a falsity in verse will travel 
faster and endure longer than a falsity 
in prose. The man who would sneer 
or stare at a silly proposition nakedly 
put, will admit that “there is a good 
deal in that,” when “that” is the point 
of an epigram shot into the ear. The 
rhetorician’s rules—if they are rules— 
teach him not only to name his tools, 
but to use his tools—the capacity of 





* Henry Wm. Herbert. 


MARGINALIA 


his tools-—their extent—their limit; and 
from an examination of the nature of 
the tools—(an examination forced on 
him by their constant presence)—force 
him also into scrutiny and comprehen- 
sion of the material on which the tools 
are employed, and thus, finally, suggest 
and give birth to new material for new 
tools. 


Among his eidola of the den, the 
tribe, the forum, the theatre, etc., 
Bacon might well have placed the great 
eidolon of the parlour (or of the wit, 
as I have termed it in one of these 
Marginalia), the idol whose worship 
blinds man to truth by dazzling him 
with the apposite. But what title could 
have been invented for that idol which 
has propagated, perhaps, more of gross 
error than all combined?—the one, I 
mean, which demands from its votaries 
that they reciprocate cause and effect— 
reason in a circle—lift themselves from 
the ground by pulling up their panta- 
loons—and carry themselves on their 
own heads, in hand-baskets, from Beer- 
sheba to Dan. 

All—absolutely all the argumenta- 
tion which I have seen on the nature of 
the soul, or of the Deity, seems to me 
nothing but worship of this unamiable 
idol. Pour savior ce quest Dieu, says 
Bielfeld, although nobody listens to the 
solemn truth, i faut etre Dieu meme— 
and to reason about the reason is of all 
things the most unreasonable. At least, 
he alone is fit to discuss the topic who 
perceives at a glance the insanity of 
its discussion. 


I believe it is Montaigne who says— 
“People talk about thinking, but for my 
part I never begin to think until I sit 


977 


down to write.” <A better plan for him 
would have been never to sit down to 
write until he had made an end of think- 
ing. 


No doubt the association. of idea is 
somewhat singular, but I never can 
hear a crowd of people singing and 
gesticulating altogether at an Italian 
opera without fancying myself at 
Athens, listening to that particular 
tragedy by Sophocles in which he in- 
troduces a full chorus of turkeys who 
set about bewailing the death of Mele- 
ager. It is noticeable in this connec- 
tion, by the way, that there is not a 
goose in the world who, in point of 
sagacity, would not feel itself insulted 
in being compared with a turkey. The 
French seem to feel this. In Paris, I 
am sure, no one would think of saying 
to Mr. F , “What a goose you are!” 
—‘Quel dindon tu es!” would be the 
phrase employed as equivalent. 





Alas! how many American critics 
neglect the happy suggestion of M, 
Timon—“que le ministre de L’Instruc- 
tion Publique doit Ilui-meime  savivr 
parler Francais.” 


It is folly to assert, as some at pres- 
ent are fond of asserting, that the Lit- 
erature of any nation or age was ever 
injured by plain speaking on the part 
of the Critics. As for American Let- 
ters, plain speaking about them is sim- 
ply the one thing needed. They are in 
a condition of absolute quagmire—a 
quagmire, to use the words of Victor 
Hugo, d’ou on ne peut se tirer pas des 
periphrases—pas des quemadmodums et 
des verumenimveros. 


978 


It is certainly very remarkable that 
although destiny is the ruling idea of 
the Greek drama, the word Tuchae 
(Fortune) does not appear once in the 
whole Iliad. 


Had John Bernouilli lived to have 
the experience of Fuller’s occiput and 
sinciput, he would have abandoned in 
dismay his theory of the non-existence 
of hard bodies. 


They have ascertained in China that 
the abdomen is the seat of the soul; 
and the acute Greeks considered it a 
waste of words to employ more than a 
single term, phrenes, for the expression 
both of the mind and of the diaphragm. 


“What does a man learn by trav- 
elling?”’ demanded Doctor Johnson one 
day in a great rage—‘“‘What did Lord 
Charlemont learn in his travels, except 
that there was a snake in one of the 
pyramids of Egypt?”—but had Doctor 
Johnson lived in the days of the Silk 
Buckinghams, he would have seen that, 
so far from thinking anything of find- 
ing a snake in a pyramid, your traveller 
would take his oath at a moment’s no- 
tice of having found a pyramid in a 
snake. 


The author of “Miserrimus” might 
have been W. G. Simms (whose ‘‘Mar- 
tin Faber” is just such a work)—but 
is G. W. M. Reynolds, an Englishman, 
who wrote also, “Albert de Rosanne,” 
and “Pickwick Abroad”—both excellent 
things in their way. 


L—— is busy in attempting to prove 
that his play was not fairly d d; 
that it is only “scotched, not killed;” 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


but if the poor play could speak from 
the tomb, I fancy it would sing with — 
the opera heroine: 


The flattering error cease to preve. 
Oh Jet me be deceased! 


We may safely grant that the effects 
of the oratory of Demosthenes were 
vaster than those wrought by the elo- 
quence of any modern, and yet contro- 
vert the idea that the modern elo- 
quence itself is superior to that of 
the Greek. The Greeks were an excit- 
able, wnread race, for they had no 
printed books. Viva voce exhortations 
carried with them, to their quick ap- 
prehensions, all the gigantic force of 
the new. They had much of that vivid 
interest which the first fable has upon 
the dawning intellect of the child—an 
interest which is worn away by the fre- 
quent perusal of similar things—by 
the frequent inception of similar fan- 
cies. The suggestions, the arguments, 
the incitements of the ancient rhetori- 
cian were, when compared with those 
of the modern, absolutely novel; pos- 
sessing thus an immense adventitious 
force—a force which has been, oddly 
enough, left out of sight in all estimates 
of the eloquence of the two eras. 

The finest philippic of the Greeks 
would have been hooted at in the Brit- 
ish House of Peers, while an impromptu 
of Sheridan, or of Brougham, would 
have carried by storm all the hearts 
and all the intellects of Athens. 


Much has been said of late about 
the necessity of maintaining a proper 
nationality in American Letters, but 
what this nationality is, or what is to 
be gained by it, has never been dis- 


| 
| 


should confine himself to American 


: 


| 
: 
: 


MARGINALIA 


tinctly understood. That an American 


themes, or even prefer them, is rather 
a political than a literary idea—and at 
best is a questionable point. We could 
do well to bear in mind that “distance 


lends enchantment to the view.” Ceteris 


paribus, a foreign theme is, in a strictly 


literary sense, to be preferred. After 


all, the world at large is the only legiti- 


mate, stage for the autorial histrio. 

But of the need of that nationality 
which defends our own literature, sus- 
tains our own men of letters, upholds 
our own dignity, and depends upon our 
own resources, there cannot be the 
shadow of a doubt. Yet here is the 
very point at which we are most supine. 
We complain of our want of an Inter- 
national Copyright on the ground that 
this want justifies our publishers in 
inundating us with British opinion in 
British books; and yet when these very 
publishers, at their own obvious risk, 
and even obvious loss, do publish an 
American book, we turn up our noses 
at it with supreme contempt (this as a 
general thing) until it (the American 
book) has been dubbed “readable” by 
some illiterate Cockney critic. Is it too 
much to say that, with us, the opinion 
of Washington Irving—of Prescott— 
of Bryant—is a mere nullity in com- 
parison with that of any anonymous 
sub-sub-editor of the “Spectator,” the 
“Atheneum,” or the London ‘‘Punch?” 
It is mot saying too much to say this. 
It is a solemn—an absolutely awful 
fact. Every publisher in the country 
will admit it to be a fact. There is 
not a more disgusting spectacle under 
the sun that our subserviency to Brit- 
ish criticism. It is disgusting, first, 
because it is truckling, servile, pusil- 


979 


lanimous; secondly, because of its 
gross irrationality. We know the Brit- 
ish to bear us little but ill-will; we 
know that, in no case, do they utter 
unbiassed opinions of American books; 
we know that in the few instances in 
which our writers have been treated 
with common decency in England, these 
writers have either openly paid homage 
to English institutions, or have had 
lurking at the bottom of their hearts a 
secret principle at war with Democracy 
—we know all this, and yet, day after 
day, submit our necks to the degrading 
yoke of the crudest opinion that 
emanates from the fatherland. Now 
if we must have nationality, let it be a 
nationality that will throw off this yoke. 
The chief of the rhapsodists who have 
ridden us to death like the Old Man 
of the Mountain is the ignorant and 
egotistical Wilson. We use the term 
rhapsodists with perfect deliberation; 
for Macaulay and Dilke and one or 
two others excepted, there is not in 
Great Britain a critic who can be fairly 
considered worthy the name. The Ger- 
mans, and even the French, are in- 
finitely superior. As regards Wilson, 
no man ever penned worse criticism 
or better rhodomontade. That he is 
“egotistical” his works show to all men, 
running as they read. That he is “‘igno- 
rant” let his absurd and_ continuous 
school-boy blunders about Homer bear 
witness. Not long ago we ourselves 
pointed out a series of similar inanities 
in his review of Miss Barrett’s poems 
—a series we say, of gross blunders, 
arising from sheer ignorance—and we 
defy him or any one to answer a single 
syllable of what we then advanced. 
And yet this is the man whose sim- 
ple dictum (to our shame be it spoken) 


980 


has the power to make or to mar any 
American reputation! In the last num- 
ber of “Blackwood,” he has a continua- 
tion of the dull “Specimens of the Brit- 
ish Critics,’ and makes occasion wan- 
tonly to insult one of the noblest of 
our poets, Mr. Lowell. The point of 
the whole attack consists in the use of 
slang epithets and phrases of the most 
ineffably vulgar description. “Squab- 
ashes” is the pet term. ‘‘Faugh!”’ is 
another. ‘We are Scotsmen to the 
spine!” says Sawney—as if the thing 
were not more than self-evident. Mr. 
Lowell is called a “magpie,” and “ape,” 
a “Yankee cockney,” and his name is 
intentionally miswritten John Russell 
Lowell. Now were these indecencies 
perpetrated by an American critic, that 
critic would be sent to Coventry by 
the whole press of the country, but 
since it is Wilson who insults, we, as in 
duty bound, not only submit to the 
insult, but echo it, as an excellent jest, 
throughout the length and breadth of 
the land. Quamdiu Catilina? We do 
indeed demand the nationality of self- 
respect. In Letters as in Government 
we require a Declaration of Independ- 
ence. A better thing still would be a 
declaration of War—and that war 
should be carried forthwith “into 
Africa.” 


The “Doctor” has excited great at- 
tention in America as well as in Eng- 
land, and has given rise to every variety 
of conjecture and opinion, not only 
concerning the author’s individuality, 
but in relation to the meaning, purpose, 
and character of the book itself. It 
is now said to be the work of one 
author—now of two, three, four, five 
—as far even as nine or ten. These 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


writers are sometimes thought to have 
composed the “Doctor” conjointly— 
sometimes to have written each a por- — 
tion. These individual portions have 
even been pointed out by the supremely 
acute, and the names of their respective 
fathers assigned. Supposed discrepan- 
cies of taste and manner, together with 
the prodigal introduction of mottoes, 
and other scraps of erudition (appar- 
ently beyond the compass of a single 
individual’s reading) have given rise 
to this idea of a multiplicity of writers 
—among whom are mentioned in turn 
all the most witty, all the most eccen- 
tric, and especially all the most learned 
of Great Britain.. Again—in regard 
to the nature of the book. It has been 
called an imitation of Sterne—an august 
and most profound exemplification, 
under the garb of eccentricity, of some 
all-important moral law—a true, under 
guise of a fictitious, biography—a sim- 
ple jeu d’esprit—a mad farrago by a 
Bedlamite, and a great multiplicity of 
other equally fine names and _ hard. 
Undoubtedly, the best method of arriv- 
ing at a decision in relation to a work 
of this nature, is to read it through with 
attention, and thus see what can be 
made of it. We have done so, and can 
make nothing of it, and are therefore 
clearly of opinion that the ‘Doctor’ is 
precisely—nothing. We mean to say 
that it is nothing better than a hoax. 

That any serious truth is meant to 
be inculcated by a tissue of bizarre and 
disjointed rhapsodies, whose general 
meaning no person can fathom, is a no- 
tion altogether untenable, unless we 
suppose the author a madman. But 
there are none of the proper evidences 
of madness in the book—while of mere 
banter there are instances innumerable, 


MARGINALIA 


One-half at least, of the entire publica- 
tion is taken up with palpable quizzes, 
reasonings in a circle sentences, like the 
nonsense verses of Du Bartas, evi- 
dently framed to mean nothing, while 
wearing an air of profound thought, and 
grotesque speculations in regard to the 
probable excitement to be created by 
the book. 

It appears to have been written with 
a sole view (or nearly with the sole 
view) of exciting inquiry and comment. 
That this object should be fully ac- 
complished cannot be thought very 
wonderful when we consider the ex- 
cessive trouble taken to accomplish it 
by vivid and powerful intellect. That 
the “Doctor” is the offspring of such 
intellect is proved sufficiently by many 
passages of the book, where the writer 
appears to have been led off from his 
main design. That it is written by 
more than one man should not be de- 
duced either from the apparent im- 
mensity of its erudition, or from dis- 
crepancies of style. That man is a 
desperate mannerist who cannot vary 
his style ad infinitum; and although the 
book may have been written by a num- 
ber of learned bibliophagi, still there 
is, we think, nothing to be found in the 
book itself at variance with the pos- 
sibility of its being written by any one 
individual of even mediocre reading. 
Erudition is only certainly known in its 
total results. ‘The mere grouping to- 
gether of mottoes from the greatest 
multiplicity of the rarest works, or even 
the apparently natural inweaving into 
any composition, of the sentiments and 
manner of these works, are attainments 
within the reach of any well-informed, 
ingenious, and industrious man having 
access to the great libraries of London, 


981 


Moreover, while a single individual pos- 
sessing these requisites and opportuni- 
ties might, through a rabid desire of 
creating a sensation, have written, with 
some trouble, the “Doctor,” it is by 
no means easy to imagine that a plu- 
rality of sensible persons could be found 
willing to embark in such absurdity from 
a similar, or indeed from any imaginable 
inducement. 

The present edition of the Harpers 
consists of two volumes in one. Vol- 
ume one commences with a Prelude of 
Mottoes occupying two pages. Then 
follows a Postscript—then a Table of 
Contents to the first volume, occupying 
eighteen pages. Volume two has a 
similar Prelude of Mottoes and Table 
of Contents. The whole is subdivided 
into Chapters. Ante-Initial, Initial, and 
Post Initial, with Inter-Chapters. The 
pages have now and then a typograph- 
ical queerity—a monogram, a scrap of 
grotesque music, old English, etc. Some 
characters of this latter kind are printed 
with coloured ink in the British edi- 
tion, which is gotten up with great care. 
All these oddities are in the manner 
of Sterne, and some of them are exceed- 
ingly well conceived. The work pro- 
fesses to be a Life of one Doctor 
Daniel Dove and his horse Nobs—but 
we should put no very great faith in this 
biography. On the back of the book is 
a monogram—which appears again once 
or twice in the text, and whose solution 
is a fertile source of trouble with all 
readers. This monogram is a triangular 
pyramid; and as, in geometry, the solid- 
ity of every polyhedral body may be 
computed by dividing the body into 
pyramids, the pyramid is thus consid- 
ered as the base or essence of every 
polyhedron. The author, then, after 


082 


his own fashion, may mean to imply 
that his book is the basis of all solidity 
or wisdom—or perhaps, since the poly- 
hedron is not only a solid, but a solid 
terminated by plane faces, that the 
“Doctor” is the very essence of all that 
spurious wisdom which will terminate 
in just nothing at all—in a hoax, and a 
consequent multiplicity of blank visages. 
The wit and humour of the “Doctor” 
have seldom been equalled. We can- 
not think Southey wrote it, but have 
no idea who did. 


These twelve Letters are occupied, 
in part, with minute details of such 
atrocities on the part of the British, 
during their sojourn in Charleston, as 
the quizzing of Mrs. Wilkinson and the 
pilfering of her shoe-buckles—the re- 
mainder being made up of the indignant 
comments of Mrs. Wilkinson herself. 

It is very true, as the Preface as- 
sures us, that “few records exist of 
American women either before or dur- 
ing the war of the Revolution, and that 
those perpetuated by History want the 
charm of personal narration’”—but then 
we are well delivered from such charms 
of personal narration as we find here. 
The only supposable merit in the com- 
pilation is that dogged air of truth with 
which the fair authoress relates the 
lamentable story of her misadventures. 
I look in vain for that ‘“‘useful informa- 
tion” about which I have heard—unless, 
indeed, it is in the passage where we 
are told that the letter-writer “was a 
young and beautiful widow; that her 
handwriting is clear and feminine; and 
that the letters were copied by herself 
into a blank quarto book, on which the 
extravagant sale-price marks one of 
the features of the times’—there are 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


other extravagant sale-prices, however, 
besides that—it was seventy-five cents 
that I paid for these “Letters.” Be- 
sides, they are silly, and I cannot con- 
ceive why Mrs. Gilman thought the 
public wished to read them. It is really 
too bad for her to talk at a body, in 
this style, about “gathering relics of 
past history,’ and “floating down 
streams of time.” 

As for Mrs. Wilkinson, I am rejoiced 
that she lost her shoe-buckles. 


Advancing briskly with a rapier, he 
did the business for him at a blow.— 
Smollett. 

This vulgar colloquialism had its type 
among the Romans, Et ferro subitus 
grassatus, agit rem.—Juvenal. _ 


As to this last term (“high-binder”) 
which is so confidently quoted as mod- 
ern (‘not in use, certainly, before 
1819”), I can refute all that is said by 
referring to a journal in my own pos- 
session—‘“The Weekly Inspector,” for 
December 27, 1806—published in New 
York: . 


On Christmas Eve a party of banditti, 
amounting, it is stated, to forty or fifty 
members of an association calling them. 
selves “High-Binders,”’ assembled in 
front of St. Peter’s Church, in Barclay 
Street, expecting that the Catholic ritual 
would be performed with a degree of 
pomp and splendour which has usually 
been omitted in this city. These cere- 
monies, however, not taking place, the 
High-Binders manifested great displeas- 
ure. 

In a subsequent number, the asso- 
ciation are called ‘‘Hide-Binders.” They 
were Irish, 


MARGINALIA 


Perhaps Mr. Barrow* is right after 
all, and the dearth of genius in America 
is owing to the continual teasing of the 
mosquitoes. 


The title of this book deceives us.t 
It is by no means “talk,” as men under- 
stand it—not that true talk of which 
Boswell has been the best _historiog- 
rapher. In a word, it is not gossip, 
which has been never better defined 
than by Basil, who calls it “talk for 
talk’s sake,’ nor more thoroughly com- 
prehended than by Horace Walpole and 
Mary Wortley Montague, who made it 
a profession and a purpose. Embrac- 
ing all things, it has neither beginning, 
middle, nor end. Thus of the gossipper 
it was not properly said that “he com- 
mences his discourse by jumping in 
medias res.’ For, clearly, your gos- 
sipper commences not at all. He is be- 
gun. He is already begun. He is al- 
ways begun. In the matter of end he 
is indeterminate. And by these ex- 
tremes shall ye know him to be of the 
Cesars—porphyrogenitus—of the right 
vein—of the true blood—of the blue 
blood—of the sangre azula. As for 
laws, he is cognizant of but one, the 
invariable absence of all. And for his 
road, were it as straight as the Appia 
and as broad as that “which leadeth to 
destruction,’ nevertheless would he be 
malcontent without a frequent hop-skip- 
and-jump, over the hedges, into the 
tempting pastures of digression beyond. 
Such is the gossipper, and of such alone 
is the true ¢alk. But when Coleridge 
asked Lamb if he had ever heard him 
preach, the answer was quite happy— 





* “Voyage to Cochin-China.” 
+ Coleridge’s ‘“Table-Talk.” 


983 


“I have never heard you do anything 
else.” The truth is that “Table Dis- 
course” might have answered as a title 
to this book; but its character can be 
fully conveyed only in ‘“Post-Prandian 
Sub-Sermons,” or ‘“Three Bottle Ser- 
monoids.” 


A rather bold and quite unnecessary 
plagiarism—from a book too well 
known to promise impunity: 


It is now full time to begin to brush 
away the insects of literature, whether 
creeping or fluttering, which have too 
long crawled over and soiled the intel- 
lectual ground of this country. It is 
high time to shake the little sickly 
stems of many a puny plant, and make 
its fading flowerets fall—‘‘Monthly Reg- 
ister,’ p. 243, vol. 2, New York, 1807. 


On the other hand— 


I have brushed away the insects of 
literature, whether fluttering or creep- 
ing; I have shaken the little stems of 
many a puny plant, and the flowerets 
have fallen—Preface to D/’Israeli’s 
“Pursuits of Literature.” 


Men of genius are far more abun- 
dant than is supposed. In fact, to appre- 
ciate thoroughly the work of what we 
call genius is to possess all the genius by 
which the work was produced. But the 
person appreciating may be utterly in- 
competent to reproduce the work, or 
anything similar, and this solely through 
lack of what may be termed the con- 
structive ability—a matter quite inde- 
pendent of what we agree to under- 
stand in the term “genius” itself. This 
ability is based, to be sure, in great part 


984 


upon the faculty of analysis, enabling 
the artist to get full view of the ma- 
chinery of his proposed effect, and 
thus work it and regulate it at will, but 
a great deal depends also upon proper- 
ties strictly moral—for example, upon 
patience, upon concentrativeness, or the 
power of holding the attention steadily 
to the one purpose, upon self-depend- 
ence and contempt for all opinion which 
is opinion and no more—in especial, 
upon energy or industry. So vitally 
important is this last that it may well 
be doubted if anything to which we 
have been accustomed to give the title 
of a ‘work of genius” was ever accom- 
plished without it; and it is chiefly 
because this quality and genius are 
nearly incompatible that “works of 
genius” are few, while mere men of 
genius are, as I say, abundant. The 
Romans, who excelled us in acuteness 
of observation, while falling below us 
in induction from facts observed, seem 
to have been so fully aware of the in- 
separable connection between industry 
and a “work of genius” as to have 
adopted the error that industry, in 
great measure, was genius itself. The 
highest compliment is intended by a 
Roman when of an epic, or anything 
similar, he says that it is written in- 
dustria mirabili or incredibili industria. 


The merely mechanical style of 
*“‘Athens” is far better than that of any 
of Bulwer’s previous books. In gen- 
eral he is atrociously involute; this is 
his main defect. He wraps one sen- 
tence in another ad infinitum, very 
much in the fashion of those “nests 
of boxes” sold in our wooden-ware 
shops, or like the islands within lakes, 
within islands within lakes, within 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


islands within lakes, of which we read 
so much in the “Periplus” of Hanno. 


All true men must rejoice to per- 
ceive the decline of the miserable rant 
and cant against originality, which was 
so much in vogue a few years ago 
among a class of microscopical critics, 
and which at one period threatened to 
degrade all American literature to the 
level of Flemish art. 

Of puns it has been said that those 
most dislike who are least able to 
utter them; but with far more of truth 
may it be asserted that invectives 
against originality proceed only from 
persons at once hypocritical and com- 
monplace. I say hypocritical—for the 
love of novelty is an indisputable ele- 
ment of the moral nature of man; and 
since to be original is merely to be 
novel, the dolt who professes a distaste 
for originality, in letters or elsewhere, 
proves in no degree his aversion for the 
thing in itself, but merely that uncom- 
fortable hatred which ever arises in the 
heart of an envious man for an excel- 
lence he cannot hope to attain. 


When I call to mind the preposterous 
“asides” and soliloquies of the drama 
among civilized nations, the shifts em- 
ployed by the Chinese playwrights ap- 
pear altogether respectable. If a gen- 
eral on a Pekin or Canton stage is 
ordered on an expedition “he brand- 
ishes a whip,” says Davis, “or takes in 
his hands the reins of a bridle, and 
striding three or four times around a 
platform, in the midst of a tremendous 
crash of gongs, drums, and trumpets, 
finally stops short and tells the audience 
where he has arrived.” It would some- 
times puzzle a European stage hero in 


MARGINALIA 


no little degree to “tell an audience 
where he has arrived.” Most of them 
seem to have a very imperfect concep- 
tion of their whereabouts. In the 
“Mort De Cesar,’ for example, Vol- 
taire makes his populace rush to and 
fro exclaiming, “Courons au _ Capi- 
tole!’ Poor fellows—they are in the 
capitol all the time; in his scruples 
about unity of place the author has 
never once let them out of it. 


Sailust, too. He had much the same 
free-and-easy idea, and Metternich him- 
self could not have quarrelled with his 
“Impune que libet facere id est esse 
regem.” 


A ballad entitled “Indian Serenade,” 
and put into the mouth of the hero, 
Vesco Nunez, is perhaps the most really 
_meritorious portion of Mr. Simms’ 
“Damsel of Darien.” This stanza is 
full of music: 


And their wild and mellow voices 
Still to hear along the deep, 

Every brooding star rejoices, 
While the billow, on its pillow, 

Lulled to silence seems to sleep. 


And also this: 


’Tis the wail for life they waken 
By Samana’s yielding shore— 

With the tempest it is shaken; 
The wild ocean is in motion, 

And the song is heard no more. 


Here is a man who is a scholar and 
an artist, who knows precisely how 
every effect has been produced by every 
great writer, and who is resolved to 
reproduce them. But the heart passes 


985 


by his pitfalls and traps, and carefully- 
planned springs, to be taken captive 
by some simple fellow who expected 
the event as little as did his prisoner— 
Lowell’s “Conversations.” 


Perhaps I err in quoting these words 
as the author’s own—they are in the 
mouth of one of his interlocutors—but 
whoever claims them, they are poetical 
and no more. The error is exactly that 
common one of separating practice from 
the theory which includes it. In all 
cases, if the practice fail, it is because 
the theory is imperfect. If Mr. Lowell’s 
heart be not caught in the pitfall or 
trap, then the pitfall is ill-concealed 
and the ‘trap is not properly baited or 
set. One who has some artistical ability. 
may know how to do a thing, and even 
show how to do it, and yet fail in 
doing it after all; but the artist and 


the man of some artistic ability 
must not be confounded. He only 
is the former who can carry his 


most shadowy precepts into successful 
application. To say that a critic could 
not have written the work which he 
criticises is to put forth a contradiction 
in terms. 


Talking of conundrums—Why will a 
geologist put no faith in the fable of 
the fox that lost his tail? Because 
he knows that no animal remains have 
ever been found in a trap. 


We have long learned to reverence 
the fine intellect of Bulwer. We take 
up any production of his pen with a 
positive certainty that, in reading it, 
the wildest passions of our nature, the 
most profound of our thoughts, the 
brightest visions of our fancy, and the 


986 


most ennobling and lofty of our aspira- 
tions will, in due turn, be enkindled 
within us. We feel sure of rising from 
the perusal a wiser if not a better man. 
In no instance are we deceived. From 
the brief tale—from the “‘Monos and 
Daimonos” of the author—to his most 
ponderous and laboured novels—all is 
richly and glowingly intellectual—all is 
energetic, or astute, or brilliant, or 
profound. There may be men now liv- 
ing who possess the power of Bulwer— 
but it is quite evident that very few 
have made that power so _ palpably 
manifest. Indeed we know of none. 
Viewing him as a novelist—a point of 
view exceedingly unfavourable (if we 
hold to the common acceptation of “the 
novel”) for a proper contemplation of 
his genius—he is unsurpassed by any 
writer living or dead. Why should we 
hesitate to say this, feeling, as we do, 
thoroughly persuaded of its truth. Scott 
has excelled him in many points, and 
“The Bride of Lammermoor” is a better 
book than any individual work by the 
author of Pelham—‘Ivanhoe”’ is, per- 
haps, equal to any. Descending to 
particulars, D’Israeli has a more bril- 
liant, a more lofty, and a more delicate 
(we do not say a wilder) imagination. 
Lady Dacre has written “Ellen Ware- 
ham,” a more forcible tale of passion. 
In some species of wit Theodore Hook 
rivals, and in broad humour our own 
Paulding surpasses him. The writer of 
“Godolphin” equals him in energy. 
Banim is a better sketcher of character. 
Hope is a richer colourist. Captain 
Trelawney is as original, Moore is as 
fanciful, and Horace Smith is as learned. 
But who is there uniting in one person 
the imagination, the passion, the hu- 
mour, the energy, the knowledge of the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, 
the fancy, and the learning of Edward 
Lytton Bulwer? In a vivid wit—in 
profundity and a Gothic massiveness 
of thought—in style—in a calm cer- 
tainty and definitiveness of purpose—in 
industry—and above all, in the power 
of controlling and regulating by volition 
his illimitable faculties of mind, he is 
unequalled—he is unapproached. 

The author of ‘Richelieu” and 
“Darnley” is lauded, by a great major- 
ity of those who laud him, from mere 
motives of duty, not of inclination— 
duty erroneously conceived. He is 
looked upon as the head and repre- 
sentative of those novelists who, in his- 
torical romance, attempt to blend in- 
terest with instruction. His sentiments 
are found to be pure—his morals un- 
questionable, and pointedly shown forth 
—his language indisputably correct... 
And for all this, praise assuredly, but 
then only a certain degree of praise, 
should be awarded him. To be pure in 
his expressed opinions is a duty; and 
were his language as correct as any 
spoken, he would speak only as every 
gentleman should speak. In regard to 
his historical information, were it much 
more accurate, and twice as extensive 
as, from any visible indications, we 
have reason to believe it, it should still 
be remembered that similar attainments 
are possessed by many thousands of 
well-educated men of all countries, who 
look upon their knowledge with no more 
than ordinary complacency; and that 
a far higher reach of erudition 
is within the grasp of any general 
reader having access to the great li- 
braries of Paris or the Vatican. Some- 
thing more than we have mentioned is 





MARGINALIA 


necessary to place our author upon a 
level with the best of the English 
novelists—for here his admirers would 
desire us to place him. Had Sir Walter 
Scott never existed, and Waverly never 
been written, we would not, of course, 
award Mr. J. the merit of being the 
first to blend history, even successfully, 
with fiction. But as an indifferent imi- 
tator of the Scotch novelist in this re- 
spect, it is unnecessary to speak of the 
author of “Richelieu” any farther. To 
genius of any kind, it seems to us, that 
he has little pretension. In the solemn 
tranquillity of his pages we seldom 
stumble across a novel emotion, and if 
any matter of deep interest arises in 
the path, we are pretty sure to find 
it an interest appertaining to some his- 
torical fact equally vivid or more so 
in the original chronicles. 


Jack Birkenhead, apud Bishop Sprat, 
says that “a great wit’s great work is 
to refuse.” The apophthegm must be 
swallowed cum grano salis. His great- 
est work is to originate no matter that 
shall require refusal. 


There is an old German chronicle 
about Reynard the Fox when crossed 
in love, about how he desired to turn 
hermit, but could find no spot in which 
he could be “thoroughly alone,” until 
he came upon the desolate fortress of 
Malspart. He should have taken to 
reading the ‘American Drama” of 
“Witchcraft.” I fancy he would have 
found himself “thoroughly alone” in 
that. 





Since it has become fashionable to 
trundle houses about the streets, should 
there not be some remodelling of the 


987 


legal definition of reality, as ‘“‘that 
which is permanent, fixed, and immov- 
able, that cannot be carried out of its 
place?” According to this, a house is 
by no means real estate. 


The enormous multiplication of 
books in every branch of knowledge is 
one of the greatest evils of this age; 
since it presents one of the most seri- 
ous obstacles to the acquisition of cor- 
rect information, by throwing in the 
reader’s way piles of lumber, in which 
he must painfully grope for the scraps 
of useful matter peradventure inter- 
spersed. 


That Professor Wilson is one of the 
most gifted and altogether one of the 
most remarkable men of his day, few 
persons will be weak enough to deny. 
His ideality—his enthusiastic apprecia- 
tion of the beautiful conjoined with a 
temperament compelling him into ac- 
tion and expression, has been the root 
of his pre-eminent success. Much of 
it, undoubtedly, must be referred to 
that so-called moral courage which is 
but the consequence of the tempera- 
ment in its physical elements. In a 
word, Professor Wilson is what he is, 
because he possesses ideality, energy, 
and audacity, each in a very unusual 
degree. The first, almost unaided by 
the two latter, has enabled him to 
produce much impression as a_ poet 
upon the secondary or tertiary grades 
of the poetic comprehension. His “Isle 
of Palms” appeals effectively to all 
those poetic intellects in which the 
poetic predominates greatly over the 
intellectual element. It is a composi- 
tion which delights through the glow 
of its imagination, but which repels 


088 


(comparatively, of course) through the 
niaiseries of its general conduct and 
construction. As a critic Professor 
Wilson has derived, as might easily be 
supposed, the greatest aid from the 
qualities for which we have given him 
credit—and it is in criticism especially, 
that it becomes very difficult to say 
which of these qualities has assisted 
him the most. It is sheer audacity, 
however, to which, perhaps, after all, 
he is the most particularly indebted. 
How little he owes to intellectual pre- 
eminence, and how much to the mere 
overbearing impetuosity of his opin- 
ions, would be a singular subject for 
speculation. Nevertheless it is true, 
that this rash spirit of domination 
would have served, without his rich 
ideality, but to hurry him into con- 
tempt. Be this as it may, in the first 
requisite of a critic the Scotch Aris- 
tarchus is grossly deficient. Of one who 
instructs we demand, in the first in- 
stance, a certain knowledge of the prin- 
ciples which regulate the instruction. 
Professor Wilson’s capability is limited 
to a keen appreciation of the beautiful, 
and a fastidious sense of the deformed. 
Why or how either is either, he never 
dreams of pretending to inquire, be- 
‘ cause he sees clearly his own inability 
to comprehend. He is no analyst. He 
is ignorant of the machinery of his own 
thoughts and the thoughts of other 
men. His criticism is emphatically on 
the surface—superficial. His opinions 
are mere dicta—unsupported verba 
magistri—and are just or unjust at the 
variable taste of the individual who 
reads them. He persuades—he bewil- 
ders—he overwhelms—at times he even 
argues—but there has been no period at 
which he ever demonstrated anything 





WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


beyond his own utter incapacity for 
demonstration. 


One of the most singular styles in the 
world, certainly one of the most loose, 
is that of the elder D’Israeli. For ex- 
ample, he thus begins his Chapter on 
Bibliomania: “The preceding article 
[that on Libraries] is honourable to lit- 
terature.” Here no self-praise is in- 
tended. The writer means to say merely 
that the facts narrated in the preceding 
article are honourable, etc. Three- 
fourths of his sentences are constructed 
in a similar manner. The blunders evi- 
dently arise, however, from the author’s 
pre-occupation with his subject. His 
thought, or rather, matter, outruns his 
pen, and drives him upon condensation 
at the expense of luminousness. The 
manner of D/’Israeli has many of the 
traits of Gibbon, although little of the 
latter’s precision. 


Words—printed ones especially—are 
murderous things. Keats did (or did 
not) die of a criticism, Cromwell of 
Titus’s pamphlet “Killing no Murder,” 
and Montfleury perished of the “Andro- 
mache.” The author of the ‘‘Parnasse 
Reforme’”’ makes him thus speak in 
Hades—“L’homme donc qui voudrait 
savoir ce dont ie suis mort qwil ne 
demande pas s’il fut de fievre ou de 
podagre ou d’autre chose, mais qwil 
entende que se fut de L’Andromache.” 
As for myself, I am fast dying of the 
“Sartor Resartus.” 


Captain Hall is one of the most 
agreeable of writers. We like him for 
the same reason that we like a good 
drawing-room conversationist—there is 
such a pleasure in listening to his ele- 


MARGINALIA 


gant nothings. Not that the captain is 
unable to be profound. He has, on the 
contrary, some reputation for science. 
But in his hands even the most trifling 
personal adventures become interesting 


from the very piquancy with which 


they are told. 


We are not among those who regard 
the genius of Petrarch as a subject for 
enthusiastic admiration. The character- 
istics of his poetry are not traits of the 
highest, or even of a high order, and in 
accounting for his fame the discriminat- 
ing critic will look rather to the cir- 
cumstances which surround the man 
than to the literary merits of the perti- 
nacious sonneteer. Grace and tender- 
ness we grant him, but these qualities 
are surely insufficient to establish his 
poetical apotheosis. 

In other respects he is entitled to 
high consideration. As a patriot, not- 
withstanding some accusations which 
have been rather urged than established, 
we can only regard him with approval. 
In his republican principles, in his 
support of Rienzi at the risk of the 
displeasure of the Colonna family, in 
his whole political conduct, in short, 
he seems to have been nobly and dis- 
interestedly zealous for the welfare of 
his country. But Petrarch is most im- 
portant when we look upon him as the 
bridge by which over the dark gulf 
of the Middle Ages, the knowledge of 
the old world made its passage into the 
new. His influence on what is termed 
the revival of letters was perhaps greater 
than that of any man who ever lived— 
certainly far greater than that of any 
of his immediate contemporaries. His 
ardent zeal in recovering and transcrib- 
ing the lost treasures of antique lore 


989 


cannot be too highly appreciated. But 
for him many of our most valued 
classics might have been numbered with 
Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics. He 
devoted days and nights to this labour 
of love, snatching numerous precious 
books from the very brink of oblivion. 
His judgment in these things was strik- 
ingly correct, while his erudition, for 
the age in which he lived, and for the 
opportunities he enjoyed, has always 
been a subject of surprise. 


One of the most singular pieces of 
literary Mosaic is Mr. Longfellow’s 
“Midnight Mass for the Dying Year.” 
The general idea and manner are from 
Tennyson’s “Death of the Old Year,” 
several of the most prominent points 
are from the death scene of Cordelia 
in “Lear,” and the line about the “hooded 
friars” is from the “Comus” of Milton, 
Some approach to this patchwork may 
be found in these lines from Tasso. 


Giace l’alta Cartago; a pena i segni 

De le’alte sui ruine il lido serba: 

Muoino le citta, muoino i regni; 

Copre i fasti e le pompe arena et herba: 

E Vhuom d’esser mortal per che si 
sdegni. 


This is entirely made up from Lucan 
and Sulpicius. The former says of 
Troy: 


Iam tota teguntur 
Pergama dumetis: etiam periere ruine. 


Sulpicius, in a letter to Cicero, says of 
Megara, A‘gina, and Corinth—“Hem! 
nos homunculi indignamur si quis nos- 
trum interiit, quorum vita brevior esse 


990 


debet, cum uno loco tot oppidorum 
cadavera projecta jaceant.” 

The ordinary pickpocket filches a 
purse, and the matter is at an end. 
He neither takes honour to himself, 
openly, on the score of the purloined 
purse, nor does he subject the indi- 
vidual robbed to the charge of pick- 
pocketism in his own person—by so 
much the less odious is he, then, than 
the filcher of literary property. It is 
impossible, we should think, to imagine 
a more sickening spectacle than that of 
the plagiarist, who walks among man- 
kind with an erecter step, and who feels 
his heart beat with a prouder impulse 
on account of plaudits which he is con- 
scious are the due of another. It is the 
purity, the nobility, the ethereality of 
just fame, it is the contrast between 
this ethereality and the grossness: of the 
crime of theft which places the sin of 
plagiarism in so detestable a light. We 
are horror-stricken to find existing in 
the same bosom the soul-uplifting thirst 
for fame and the debasing propensity 
to pilfer. It is the anomaly, the dis- 
cord, which so grossly offends. 


“Les anges,” says Madame Dudevant, 
a woman who intersperses many an 
admirable sentiment amid a chaos of 
the most shameless and altogether ob- 
jectionable fiction—“Les anges ne sont 
plus pures que le caur d’un jeune 
homme qui aime en verite.” The angels 
are not more pure than the heart of a 
young man who loves with fervour. 
The hyperbole is scarcely less than true. 
It would be truth itself were it averred 
of the love of him who is at the same 
time young and a poet. The boyish 
poet-love is indisputably that one of 
the human sentiments which most 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nearly realizes our dreams of the 
chastened voluptuousness of heaven. 

In every allusion made by the author 
of ‘Childe Harold” to his passion for 
Mary Chaworth there runs a vein of 


_almost spiritual tenderness and purity, 


strongly in contrast with the gross 
earthliness pervading and disfiguring his 
ordinary love-poems. ‘The Dream,” 
in which the incidents of his parting 
with her when about to travel are said 
to be delineated, or at least paralleled, 
has never been excelled (certainly never 
excelled by him) in the blended fervour, 
delicacy, truthfulness, and ethereality 
which sublimate and adorn it. For 
this reason it may well be doubted if 
he has written anything so universally 
popular. That his attachment for this 
“Mary” (in whose very name there in- 
deed seemed to exist for him an “en- 
chantment”’) was earnest and _long- 
abiding, we have every reason to believe 
There are a hundred evidences of this 
fact scattered not only through his own 
poems and letters, but in the memoirs 
of his relatives and contemporaries in 
general. But that it was thus earnest 
and enduring does not controvert, in 
any degree, the opinion that it was a 
passion (if passion it can properly be 
termed) of the most thoroughly ro- 
mantic, shadowy, and imaginative char- 
acter. It was born of the hour, and 
of the youthful necessity to love, while 
it was nurtured by the waters, and the 
hills, and the flowers, and the stars. 
It had no peculiar regard to the person, 
or to the character, or to the recipro- 
cating affection of Mary Chaworth. 
Any maiden, not immediately and posi- 
tively repulsive, he would have loved, 
under the same circumstances of hourly 
and unrestricted communion, such as 





MARGINALIA 


the engravings of the subject shadow 
forth. They met without restraint and 
without reserve. As mere children they 
sported together; in boyhood and girl- 
hood they read from the same books, 
sang the same songs, or roamed hand 
in hand through the grounds of the 
conjoining estates. The result was not 
merely natural or merely probable, it 
was as inevitable as destiny itself. 

In view of a passion thus engendered, 
Miss Chaworth (who is represented as 
possessed of no little personal beauty 
and some accomplishments), could not 
have failed to serve sufficiently well as 
the incarnation of the ideal that haunted 
the fancy of the poet. It is perhaps 
better, nevertheless, for the mere ro- 
mance of the love-passages between the 
two that their intercourse was broken 
up in early life and never uninterrupt- 
edly resumed in after years. Whatever 
of warmth, whatever of soul-passion, 
whatever of the truer share and essen- 
tiality of romance was elicited during 
the youthful association is to be attrib- 
uted altogether to the poet. If she felt 
at all, it was only while the magnetism 
of his actual presence compelled her 
to feel. If she responded at all, it was 
merely because the necromancy of his 
words of fire could not do otherwise 
than extort a response. In absence 
the bard bore easily with him all the 
fancies which were the basis of his 
flame—a flame which absence itself but 
served to keep in vigour—while the less 
ideal but at the same time the less 
really substantial affection of his lady- 
love, perished utterly and forthwith, 
through simple lack of the element 
which had fanned it into being. He 
to her, in brief, was a not unhandsome, 
and not ignoble, but somewhat portion- 


991 


less, somewhat eccentric, and rather 
lame young man. She to him was the 
Egeria of his dreams—the Venus Aphro- 
dite that sprang, in full and supernal 
loveliness, from the bright foam upon 
the storm-tormented ocean of_ his 
thoughts. 


Mill says that he has “demonstrated” 
his propositions. Just in the same way 
Anaxagoras demonstrated snow to be 
black (which perhaps it is if we could 
see the thing in the proper light), and 
just in the same way the French advo- 
cate Linguet, with Hippocrates in his 
hand, demonstrated bread to be a slow 
poison. The worst of the matter is that 
propositions such as these seldom stay 
demonstrated long enough to be thor- 
oughly understood. 


We have read Mr. Paulding’s “Life 
of Washington” with a degree of 
interest seldom excited in us by the 
perusal of any book whatever. We are 
convinced by a deliberate examination 
of the design, manner, and rich mate- 
rial of the work, that as it grows in 
age, it will grow in the estimation of 
our countrymen, and, finally, will not 
fail to take a deeper hold upon the 
public mind, and upon the public affec- 
tions, than any work upon the same 
subject, or of a similar nature, which 
has been yet written—or, possibly, 
which may be written hereafter. In- 
deed, we cannot perceive the necessity 
of anything farther upon the great 
theme of Washington. Mr. Paulding 
has completely and most beautifully 
filled the vacuum which the works of 
Marshall and Sparks have left open. 
He has painted the boy, the man, the 
husband, and the Christian. He has 


992 


introduced us to the private affections, 
aspirations, and charities of that hero 
whose affections of all affections were 
the most serene, whose aspirations the 
most God-like, and whose charities the 
most gentle and pure. He has taken 
us abroad with the patriot-farmer in 
his rambles about his homestead. He 
has seated us in in his study and shown 
us the warrior-christian in unobtrusive 
communion with his God. He has done 
all this too, and more, in a simple and 
quiet manner, in a manner peculiarly 
his own, and which, mainly because it 
is his own, cannot fail to be exceed- 
ingly effective. Yet it is very possible 
that the public may, for many years to 
come, overlook the rare merits of a 
work whose want of arrogant assump- 
tion is so little in keeping with the 
usage of the day, and whose striking 
simplicity and naivete of manner give, 
to a cursory examination, so little evi- 
dence of the labour of composition. 
We have no fears, however, for the 
future. Such books as these before us, 
go down to posterity like rich wines, 
with a certainty of being more valued 
as they go. They force themselves 
with the gradual but rapidly accumulat- 
ing power of strong wedges into the 
hearts and understandings of a com- 
munity. 

In regard to the style of Mr. Pauld- 
ing’s “Washington,” it would scarcely 
be doing justice to speak of it merely 
as well adapted to its subject and to 
its immediate design. Perhaps a rigor- 
ous examination would detect an occa- 
sional want of euphony, and some inac- 
curacies of syntactical arrangement. 
But nothing could be more out of place 
than any such examination in respect 
to a book whose forcible, rich, vivid, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and comprehensive English might ad- 
vantageously be held up as a model for 
the young writers of the land. There is 
no better literary manner than the 
manner of Mr. Paulding. Certainly no 
American, and possibly no living writer 
of England, has more of those numer- 
ous peculiarities which go to the forma- 
tion of a happy style. It is question- 
able, we think, whether any writer of 
any country combines as many of these 
peculiarities with as much of that essen- 
tial negative virtue, the absence of af- 
fectation. We repeat, as our confident 
opinion, that it would be difficult, even 
with great care and labour, to im- 
prove upon the general manner of the 
volumes now before us, and that they 
contain many long individual passages. 
of a force and beauty not to be sur- 
passed by the finest passages of the 
finest writers in any time or country. 
It is this striking character in the 
“Washington” of Mr. Paulding—strik- 
ing and peculiar indeed at a season 
when we are so culpably inattentive to 
all matters of this nature, as to mis- 
take for style the fine airs at second 
hand of the silliest romances—it is this 
character, we say, which should insure 
the fulfilment of the writer’s principal 
design, in the immediate introduction of 
his book into every respectable academy 
in the land. 


Scott, in his ‘Presbyterian Elo- 
quence,” speaks of “that ancient fable, 
not: much known,” in which a trial of 
skill in singing being agreed upon be- 
tween the cuckoo and the nightingale, 
the ass was chosen umpire. When each 
bird had done his best the umpire de- 
clared that the nightingale sang ex- 
tremely well, but that “for a good plain 





‘Isong give him the cuckoo.” The judge 
with the long ears, in this case, is a 
‘ifine type of the tribe of critics who 
‘finsist upon what they call “quietude” 
as the supreme literary excellence— 
}gentlemen who rail at Tennyson and 
elevate Addison into apotheosis. 


A hundred criticisms to the contrary 


notwithstanding, I must regard “The. 


Lady of Lyons” as one of the most 
successful dramatic efforts of modern 
times. It is popular, and justly so. It 
could not fail to be popular so long as 
the people have a heart. It abounds 
in sentiments which stir the soul as the 
sound of a trumpet. It proceeds rap- 
idly and consequently, the interest 
not for one moment being permitted to 
flag. Its incidents are admirably con- 
ceived and skilfully wrought into execu- 
tion. Its dramatis persone, through- 
out, have the high merit of being nat- 
ural, although, except in the case of 
Pauline, there is no marked individual- 
ity. She is a creation which would 
have done no dishonour to Shakespeare. 
She excites profound emotion. It has 
been sillily objected to her that she is 
weak, mercenary, and at points ignoble. 
She is, and what then? We are not 
dealing with Clarissa Harlowe. Bulwer 
has painted a woman. The chief defect 
of the play lies in the heroine’s con- 
senting to wed Beauseant while aware 
of the existence and even the continued 
love of Claud. As the plot runs there 
is a question in Pauline’s soul between 
a comparatively trivial (because merely 
worldly) injury to her husband. Here 
there should not have been an instant’s 
hesitation. The audience have no sym- 
pathy with any. Nothing on earth 
should have induced the wife to give 


MARGINALIA 


993 


up the living Melnotte. Only the as: 
surance of his death could have justified 
her in sacrificing herself to Beauseant. 
As it is, we hate her for the sacrifice. 
The effect is repulsive, but I must be 
understood as calling this effect objec- 
tionable solely on the ground of its 
being at war with the whole genius 
of the play. 


“Contempt,” says an eastern proverb, 
“pierces even through the shell of the 
tortoise;” but the skull of a Fuller 
would feel itself insulted by a com- 
parison, in point of impermeability, 
with the shell of a Gallipago turtle. 


How thoroughly comprehensive is the 
account of Adam as given at the bottom 
of the old picture in the Vatican!— 
“Adam, divinitus edoctus, primus Ssci- 
entiarum et literarum inventor.” 


If need were, I should have little dif- 
ficulty perhaps in defending a certain 
apparent dogmatism to which I am 
prone on the topic of versification. 

“What is Poetry?” notwithstanding 
Leigh Hunt’s rigmarolic attempt at an- 
swering it, is a query that, with great 
care and deliberate agreement before- 
hand on the exact value of certain lead- 
ing words, may possibly be settled to 
the partial satisfaction of a few ana- 
lytical intellects, but which, in the 
existing condition of metaphysics, never 
can be settled to the satisfaction of the 
majority; for the question is purely 
metaphysical, and the whole science of 
metaphysics is at present a _ chaos, 
through the impossibility of fixing the 
meanings of the words which its very 
nature compels it to employ. But as 
regards versification, this difficulty is 


994 


only partial; for although one-third 
of the topic may be considered meta- 
physical, and thus may be mooted at 
the fancy of this individual or of that, 
still the remaining two-thirds belong, 
undeniably, to the mathematics. The 
questions ordinarily discussed with so 
much gravity in regard to rhythm, 
metre, etc., are susceptible of positive 
adjustment by demonstration. Their 
laws are merely a portion of the Me- 
dian laws of form and quantity—of 
relation. In respect then to any of 
these ordinary questions—these  sillily 
moot points which so often arise in 
common criticism—the prosodist would 
speak as weakly in saying “this or that 
proposition is probably so and so, or 
possibly so and so,” as would the mathe- 
matician in admitting that, in his hum- 
ble opinion, or if he were not greatly 
mistaken, any two sides of a triangle 
were, together, greater than the third 
side. I must add, however, as some 
palliation of the discussions referred to, 
and of the objections so often urged 
with a sneer to “particular theories of 
versification binding no one but their 
inventor’—that there is really extant no 
such work as a Prosody Raisonnee. The 
Prosodies of the schools are merely 
collections of vague Jaws, with their 
more vague exceptions, based upon no 
principles whatever, but extorted in the 
most speculative manner from the 
usages of the ancients, who had no 
laws beyond those of -their ears and 
fingers. “And these were. sufficient,” 
it will be said, “since “The Iliad’ is 
melodious and harmonious beyond any- 
thing of modern times.” Admit this— 
but neither do we write in Greek, nor 
has the invention of modern times been 
as yet exhausted. An analysis based 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


on the natural laws of which the bard 
of Scio was ignorant, would suggest 
multitudinous improvements to the best 
passages of even ‘“The Iliad’”—nor does 
it in any manner follow from the sup- — 
posititious fact that Homer found in 
his ears and fingers a satisfactory sys- 
tem of rules (the point which I have 
just denied)—nor does it follow, I say, 
from this that the rules which we de- 
duce from the Homeric effects are to 
supersede those immutable principles 
of time, quantity, etc-—the mathemat- 
ics, in short of music—which must have 
stood to these Homeric effects in the 
relation of causes—the mediate causes 
of which these “ears and fingers” are 
simply the intermedia: 


Of Berryer, somebody says ‘“‘he is the 
man in whose description is the great- 
est possible consumption of antithesis.” 
For “description” read “lectures,” and 
the sentence would apply well to Hud- 
son, the lecturer on Shakespeare. An- 
tithesis in his end—he has no other. He 
does not employ it to enforce thought, 
but he gathers thought from all quar- © 
ters with the sole view to its capacity 
for antithetical expression. His essays 
have thus only paragraphical effect; .as 
wholes, they produce not the slightest 
impression. No man living could say 
what it is Mr. Hudson proposes to 
demonstrate; and if the question were 
propounded to Mr. H. himself we can 
fancy how particularly embarrassed he 
would be for a reply. In the end, were 
he to answer honestly, he would say— 
“antithesis,” 

As for his reading, Julius Cesar 
would have said of him that he sang ill, 
and undoubtedly he must have “gone to 
the dogs” for his experience in pro- 





MARGINALIA 


-nouncing the y as if his throat were 
bored like a rifle-barrel. 


It is James Montgomery who thinks 
proper to style M’Pherson’s “Ossian” a 
collection of halting, dancing, lumber- 
ing, grating, nondescript paragraphs. 


A book* which puzzles me beyond 
measure, since, while agreeing with its 
- general conclusions (except where it dis- 
cusses prevision), I invariably find 
fault with the reasoning through which 
the conclusions are attained. I think 
the treatise grossly illogical throughout. 
For example—the origin of the work 
is thus stated in an introductory chap- 
TCL: 


About twelve months since I was 
asked by some friends to write a paper 
against Mesmerism—and I was fur- 
nished with materials by a highly es- 
teemed quondam pupil, which proved 
incontestably that under some circum- 
stances the operator might be duped— 
that hundreds of enlightened persons 
might equally be deceived—and cer- 
tainly went far to show that the pre- 
tended science was wholly a delusion— 
a system of fraud and jugglery by 
which the imaginations of the credulous 
were held in thraldom through the arts 
of the designing. Perhaps in an evil 
hour I assented to the proposition thus 
made—but on reflection, I found that 
the facts before me only led to the 
direct proof that certain phenomena 
might be counterfeited; and the exist- 
ence of counterfeit coin is rather a 





* Human Magnetism, by W. Newn- 
ham. 


995 


proof that there is somewhere the gen- 
uine standard gold to be imitated. 


The fallacy here lies in a mere varia- 
tion of what is called ‘begging the 
question.” Counterfeit coin is said to 
prove the existence of genuine—this, of 
course, is no more than the truism that 
there can be no counterfeit where there 
is no genuine—just as there can be no 
badness where there is no goodness— 
the terms being purely relative. But 
because there can be no counterfeit 
where there is no original, does it in 
any manner follow that any undemon- 
strated original exists? In seeing a 
spurious coin we know it to be such 
by comparison with coins admitted to 
be genuine; but where zo coin admitted 
to be genuine, how should we establish 
the counterfeit, and what right should 
we have to talk of counterfeits at all? 
Now, in the case of Mesmerism, our 
author is merely begging the admission. 
In saying that the existence of counter- 
feit proves the existence of real Mes- 
merism, he demands that the real be 
admitted. Either he demands this, or 
there is no shadow of force in his prop- 
osition—for it is clear that we can pre- 
tend to be that which is not. A man, 
for instance, may feign himself a 
sphynx or a griffin, but it would never 
do to regard as thus demonstrated the 
actual existence of either griffins or 
sphynxes. A word alone—the word 
“counterfeit”—has been sufficient to 
lead Mr. Newnham astray. People can- 


not be properly said to ‘‘counterfeit” 


prevision, etc., but to feign these phe- 
nomena. Dr. Newnham’s argument of 
course is by no means original with 
him, although he seems to pride himself 
on it as if it were. Dr. More says: 


996 


“That there should be so universal a 
fame and fear of that which never was, 
nor is, nor can be ever in the world, is 
to me the greatest miracle of all. If 
there had not been at some time or 
other true miracles, it had not been so 
easy to impose on the people by false. 
The alchemist would never go about to 
sophisticate metals, to pass them off for 
true gold and silver, unless that such 
a thing was acknowledged as true gold 
and silver in the world.” This is pre- 
cisely the same idea as that of Dr. 
Newnham, and belongs to that exten- 
sive class of argumentation which is 
all point—deriving its whole effect from 
epigrammatism. That the belief in 
ghosts, or in a Deity, or in a future 
state, or in anythng else credible or 
incredible—that any such belief is uni- 
versal, demonstrates nothing more than 
that which needs no demonstration— 
the human unanimity—the identity of 
construction in the human brain—an 
identity of which the inevitable result 
must be, upon the whole, similar deduc- 
tions from similar data. Most espe- 
cially do we disagree with the author of 
this book in his (implied) disparage- 
ment of the work of Chauncey Hare 
Townshend—a work to be _ valued 
properly only in a day to come. 


The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in its flight. 
Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif.” 


The single feather here is imper- 
fectly illustrative of the omniprevalent 
darkness, but a more especial objection 
is the likening of one feather to the 
falling of another. Night is person- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ified as a bird, and darkness, the feather 
of this bird, falls from it, how? as 
another feather falls from another bird. 
Why, it does this, of course. The illus- 
tration is identical—that is to say, null. 
It has no more force than an identical 
proposition in logic. 


The question of international copy- 
right has been overloaded with words. 
The right of property in a literary work 
is disputed merely for the sake of dis- 
putation, and no man should be at the 
trouble of arguing the point. Those 
who deny it have made up their minds 
to deny everything tending to further 
the law in contemplation. Nor is the 
question of expediency in any respect 
relevant. Expediency is only to be dis- 
cussed where no rights interfere. It 
would no doubt be very expedient in 
any poor man to pick the pocket of his 
wealthy neighbour (as the poor are the 
majority the case is precisely parallel to 
the copyright case), but what would 
the rich think if expediency were per- 


mitted to overrule their right. But 
even the expediency is _ untenable, 
grossly so. The immediate advantage 


arising to the pockets of our people, 
in the existing condition of things, is 
no doubt sufficiently plain. We get 
more reading for less money than if 
the international law existed, but the 
remoter disadvantages are of infinitely 
greater weight. In brief, they are these: 
First, we have injury to our national 
literature by repressing the efforts of 
our men of genius, for genius as a 
general rule is poor in worldly goods 
and cannot write for nothing. Our 
genius being thus repressed, we are 
written at only by our “‘gentlemen of 
elegant leisure,” and mere gentlemen 


| 


- productions. 








MARGINALIA 


of elegant leisure have been noted, time 
out of mind, for the insipidity of their 
In general, too, they are 


_obstinately conservative, and this feel- 
ing leads them into imitation of foreign, 
more especially of British models. This 


is the one main source of the imitative- 


ness with which, as a people, we have 


been justly charged, although the first 
cause is to be found in our position as 


a colony. Colonies have always natur- 
ally aped the mother land. In the sec- 
ond place, irreparable ill is wrought 


by the almost exclusive dissemination 


among us of foreign—that is to say, 
of monarchical or aristocratical senti- 
ment in foreign books, nor is this sen- 
timent less fatal to democracy because 
it reaches the people themselves di- 
rectly in the gilded pill of the poem or 
the novel. We have next to consider 
the impolicy of our committing in the 
national character, an open and contin- 
uous wrong on the frivolous pretext of 
its benefiting ourselves. The last and 
by far the most important consider- 
ation of all, however, is that sense of 
insult and injury aroused in the whole 
active intellect of the world, the bitter 
and fatal resentment excited in the uni- 
versal heart of literature—a resentment 
which will not and which cannot make 
nice distinctions between the tempo- 
rary perpetrators of the wrong and that 
democracy in general which permits its 
perpetration. The autorial body is the 
most autocratic on the face of the 
earth. How, then, can those institu- 
tions even hope to be safe which syste- 
matically persist in trampling it under 
foot? 


The drama, as the chief of the imi- 
tative arts, has a tendency to beget and 


997 


keep alive in its votaries the imitative 
propensity. This might be supposed a 
priori, and experience confirms the sup- 
position. Of all imitators, dramatists 
are the most perverse, the most uncon- 
scionable, or the most unconscious, and 
have been so time out of mind. Euri- 
pides and Sophocles were merely echoes 
of A‘schylus, and not only was Ter- 
rence Menander and nothing beyond, 
but of the sole Roman tragedies extant 
(the ten attributed to Seneca), nine are 
on Greek subjects. Here, then, is cause 
enough for the “decline of the drama,” 
if we are to believe that the drama has 
declined. But it has not; on the con- 
trary, during the last fifty years it has 
materially advanced. All other arts, 
however, have in the same interval ad- 
vanced at a far greater rate—each very 
nearly in the direct ratio of its non- 
imitativeness—painting, for example, 
least of all—and the effect on the drama 
is, of course, that of apparent retro- 
gradation. 


The Swedenborgians inform me that 
they have discovered all that I said in 
a magazine article entitled “Mesmeric 
Revelation” to be absolutely true, 
although at first they were very strongly 
inclined to doubt my veracity, a thing 
which, in that particular instance, I 
never dreamed of not doubting myself. 
The story is a pure fiction from begin- 
ning to end. 


Here is a book of “amusing travels,” 
which is full enough of statistics to have 
been the joint composition of Mes- 
sieurs Busching, Hassel, Cannabitch, 
Gaspari, Gutsmuth, and company. 


I have never yet seen an English 


998 


heroic verse on the proper model of 
the Greek, although there have been in- 
numerable attempts, among which those 
of Coleridge are perhaps the most ab- 
surd, next to those of Sir Philip Sidney 
and Longfellow. The author of “‘The 
Vision of Rubeta” has done better, and 
Percival better yet, but no one has 
seemed to suspect that the natural pre- 
ponderance of spondaic words in the 
Latin and Greek must in the English 
be supplied by art—that is to say, by 
a careful culling of the few spondaic 
words which the language affords, as, 
for example, here: 


Man is a | complex, | compound, | 
compost, | yet is he | God-born. 


This, to all intents, is a Greek hex- 
ameter, but then its spondees are spon- 
dees, and not mere trochees. The 
verses of Coleridge and others are dis- 
sonant, for the simple reason that there 
is no equality in time between a trochee 
and a dactyl. When Sir Philip Sidney 
writes 


So to the | woods Love | runnes as | 
well as | rides to the | palace, 


he makes an heroic verse only to the 
eye, for “woods Love” is the only true 
spondee, “runs as,” “well as,” and 
“palace,” have each the first syllable 
long and the second short—that is to 
say, they are all trochees, and occupy 
less time than the dactyls or spondee— 
hence the halting. Now all this seems 
to be the simplest thing in the world, 
and the only wonder is how men pro- 
fessing to be scholars should attempt 
to engraft a verse, of which the spon- 
dee is an element, upon a stock whick 
repels the spondee as antagonistical. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


In the sweet “Lily of Nithsdale” we 
read— 


She’s gane to dwell in heaven, my las- 
sie— 
She’s gane to dwell in heaven; 
Ye’re ow’er pure, quo’ the voice of God, 
For dwelling out o’ heaven. 


The ow’er and the o’ of the two last 
verses should be Anglicised. The Deity 
at least should be supposed to speak so 
as to be understood, although I am 
aware that a folio has been written to 
demonstrate broad Scotch as the lan- 
guage of Adam and Eve in Paradise. 


We might contrive a very poetical 
and very suggestive, although, perhaps 
no very tenable philosophy, by sup- 
posing that the virtuous live while the 
wicked suffer annihilation hereafter; 
and the danger of the annihilation 
(which danger would be in the ratio of 
the sin) might be indicated nightly by 
slumber, and occasionally, with more 
distinctness, by a swoon. In proportion 
to the dreamlessness of the sleep, for 
example, would be the degree of the 
soul’s liability to annihilation. In the 
same way, to swoon and awake in utter 
unconsciousness of any lapse of time 
during the syncope would demonstrate 
the soul to have been then in such con- 
dition that, had death occurred, annihil- 
ation would have followed. On the 
other hand, when the revival is attended 
with remembrance of visions (as is now 
and then the case, in fact), then the 
soul would be considered in such ,con- 
dition as would insure its existence after 
the bodily death—the bliss or wretched- 


MARGINALIA 


ness of the existence to be indicated 
by the character of the visions. 


When we attend less to “authority” 
and more to principles, when we look 
less at merit and more at demerit (in- 
stead of the converse, as some persons 
suggest), we shall then be better critics 
than we are. We must neglect our 
models and study our capabilities. The 
mad eulogies on what occasionally has 
in letters been well done spring from 
our imperfect comprehension of what it 
is possible for us to do better. “A 
man who has never seen the sun,” says 
Calderon, “cannot be blamed for think- 
ing that no glory can exceed that of the 
moon; a man who has seen neither 
moon nor sun cannot be blamed for ex- 
patiating on the incomparable efful- 
gence of the morning star.” Now, it is 
the business of the critic so to soar that 
he shall see the sun, even although its 
orb be far below the ordinary horizon. 


The United States’ motto, E pluribus 
unum, may possibly have a sly allusion 
to Pythagoras’ definition of beauty— 
the reduction of many into one. 


The great feature of the “Curiosity 
Shop” is its chaste, vigorous, and glor- 
ious imagination. This is the one 
charm, all potent, which alone would 
suffice to compensate for a world more 
of error than Mr. Dickens ever com- 
mitted. It is not only seen in the con- 
ception and general handling of the 
story or in the invention of character, 
but it pervades every sentence of the 
book. We recognise its prodigious influ- 
ence in every inspired word. It is this 
which induces the reader who is at all 
ideal to pause frequently, to re-read the 


999 


occasionally quaint phrases, to muse in 
uncontrollable delight over thoughts 
which, while he wonders he has never 
hit upon them before, he yet admits 
that he never has encountered. In fact 
it is the wand of the enchanter. 

Had we room to particularise, we 
would mention as points evincing most 
distinctly the ideality of the “Curiosity 
Shop”—the picture of the shop itself— 
the newly born desire of the worldly 
old man for the peace of green fields— 
his whole character and conduct, in 
short—the school-master with his des- 
olate fortunes, seeking affection in little 
children—the haunts of Quilp among 
the wharf-rats—the tinkering of the 
Punch-men among the tombs—the glor- 
ious scene where the man of the forge 
sits poring, at deep midnight, into that 
dread fire—again the whole conception 
of this character; and, last and great- 
est, the stealthy approach of Nell to 
her death—her gradual sinking away 
on the journey to the village, so skil- 
fully indicated rather than described— 
her pensive and prescient meditation— 
the fit of strange musing which came 
over her when the house im which she 
was to die first broke upon her sight— 
the description of this house, of the old 
church, and of the churchyard—every- 
thing in rigid consonance with the one 
impression to be conveyed—that deep 
meaningless well—the comments of the 
Sexton upon death, and upon his own 
secure life—this whole world of mourn- 
ful yet peaceful idea merging at length 
into the decease of the child Nelly, and 
the uncomprehending despair of the 
grandfather. These concluding scenes 
are so drawn that human language, 
urged by human thought, could go no 
further in the excitement of human 


1000 


feelings. And the pathos is of that best 
order which is relieved, in great meas- 
ure, by ideality. Here the book. has 
never been equalled—never approached 
except in one instance, and that is in 
the case of the “Undine” of De La 
Motte Fouque. The imagination is 
perhaps as great in the latter work, but 
the pathos, although truly beautiful and 
deep, fails of much of its effect through 
the material from which it is wrought. 
The chief character being endowed with 
purely fanciful attributes cannot de- 
mand our full sympathies, as can a sim- 
ple denizen of earth. In saying that 
the death of the child left too painful 
an impression, and should therefore 
have been avoided, we must of course 
be understood as referring to the work 
as a whole, and in respect to its general 
appreciation and popularity. The death, 
as recorded, is, we repeat, of the high- 
est order of literary excellence—yet, 
while none can deny this fact, there are 
few who will be willing to read the con- 
cluding passages a second time. 

Upon the whole we think the “Curi- 
osity Shop” very much the best of the 
works of Mr. Dickens. It is scarcely 
possible to speak of it too well. It is 
in all respects a tele which will secure 
for its author the enthusiastic admir- 
ation of every man of genius. 


It is not every one who can put “a 
good thing” properly together, although, 
perhaps when thus properly put to- 
gether, every tenth person you meet 
with may be capable of both conceiving 
and appreciating it. We cannot bring 
ourselves to believe that less actual abil- 
ity is required in the composition of a 
really good “brief article,” than in a 
fashionable novel of the usual dimen- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sions. The novel certainly requires what 
is denominated a sustained effort—but 
this is a matter of mere perseverance, 
and has but a collateral relation to tal- 
ent. On the other hand—unity of ef- 
fect, a quality not easily appreciated or 
indeed comprehended by an ordinary 
mind, and a desideratum difficult of at- 
tainment, even by those who can con- 
ceive it—is indispensable in the “brief 
article,’ and not so in the common 
novel. The latter if admired by all, is 
admired for its detached passages, with- 
out reference to the work as a whole— 
or without reference to any general de- 
sign—which, if it even exist in some 
measure, will be found to have occupied 
but little of the writer’s attention, and 
cannot, from the length of the narra- 
tive, be taken in at one view by the 
reader. 


I am not sure that Tennyson is not 
the greatest of poets. The uncertainty 
attending the public conception of the 
term ‘‘poet” alone prevents me from 
demonstrating that he zs. Other bards 
produce effects which are, now and 
then, otherwise produced than by what 
we call poems; but Tennyson an effect 
which only a poem does. His alone are 
idiosyncratic poems. By the enjoyment 
or non-enjoyment of the “Morte D’Ar- 
thur” or of the “Oenone,” I would test 
any one’s ideal sense. There are pas- 
sages in his works which rivet a con- 
viction I had long entertained, that the 
indefinite is an element in the true poiae- 
sis (Gr.) Why do some persons fatigue 
themselves in attempts to unravel such 
fantasy-pieces as the ‘Lady of Shalott?” 
As well unweave the “ventus textilis.” 
If the author did not deliberately pro- 
pose to himself a suggestive indefinitive- 





MARGINALIA 


ness of meaning with the view of bring- 
ing about a definitiveness of vague and 
therefore of spiritual effect—this at 
least arose from the silent analytical 
promptings of that poetic genius which, 
in its supreme development, embodies 
ali orders of intellectual capacity. I 
know that indefinitiveness is an element 
of the true music—I mean of the true 
musical expression. Give to it any un- 
due decision—imbue it with any very 
determinate tone—and you deprive it 
at once of its ethereal, its ideal, its in- 
trinsic and essential character. You 
dispel its luxury of dream. You dis- 
solve the atmosphere of the mystic 
upon which it floats. You exhaust it 
_ of its breath of faery. It now becomes 
a tangible and easily appreciable idea— 
a thing of the earth, earthly. It has 
not, indeed, lost its power to please, but 

all which I consider the distinctiveness 
of that power. And to the uncultivated 
talent, or to the unimaginative appre- 
hension, this deprivation of its most 
_ delicate air will be, not unfrequently, a 
recommendation. A determinateness of 
expression is sought—and often by com- 
posers who should know better—is 
sought as a beauty rather than rejected 
as a blemish. Thus we have, even from 
high authorities, attempts at absolute 
imitation in music. Who can forget the 
silliness of the “Battle of Prague?” 
What man of taste but must laugh at 
the interminable drums, trumpets, blun- 
derbusses, and thunder? “Vocal music,” 
says L’Abbate Gravina, who would 
have said the same thing of instrumen- 
tal, “ought to imitate the natural lan- 
guage of the human feelings and pas- 
sions, rather than the warblings of ca- 
nary birds, which our singers, now-a- 
days, affect so vastly to mimic with their 


1001 


quaverings and boasted cadences.” 
This is true only so far as the “rather” 
is concerned. If any music must imi- 
tate anything, it were assuredly better 
to limit the imitation as Gravina sug- 
gests. Tennyson’s shorter pieces 
abound in minute rhythmical lapses suf- 
ficient to assure me that—in common 
with all poets living or dead—he has 
neglected to make precise investigation 
of the principles of metre; but, on the 
other hand, so. perfect is his rhythmical 
instinct in general that, like the present 
Viscount Canterbury, he seems fo see 
with his ear. 


There are some facts in the physical 
world which have a really wonderful 
analogy with others in the world of 
thought, and seem thus to give some 
colour of truth to the (false) rhetorical 
dogma, that metaphor or simile may be 
made to strengthen an argument, as 
well as to embellish a description. The 
principle of the vis inertie, for example, 
with the amount of momentum propor- 
tionate with it and consequent upon it, 
seems to be identical in physics and 
metaphysics. It is not more true, in 
the former, that a large body is with 
more difficulty set in motion than a 
smaller one, and that its subsequent 1m- 
petus is commensurate with this diffi- 
culty, than it is, in the latter, that in- 
tellects of the vaster capacity, while 
more forcible, more constant, and more 
extensive in their movements than those 
of inferior grade, are yet the less read- 
ily moved, and are more embarrassed 
and more full of hesitation in the first 
few steps of their progress. 


Thomas Moore—the most skilfull lit- 
erary artist of his day—perhaps of any 


1002 


day—a man who stands in the singular 
and really wonderful predicament of 
being undervalued on account of the 
profusion with which he has scattered 
about him his good things. The bril- 
liancy on any one page of Lalla Rookh 
would have sufficed to establish that 
very reputation which has been in a 
great measure self-dimmed by the gal- 
axied lustre of the entire book. It 
seems that the horrid laws of political 
economy cannot be evaded even by the 
inspired, and that a perfect versification, 
a vigorous style, and a_never-tiring 
fancy, may, like the water we drink and 
die without, yet despise, be so plentifully 
set forth as to be absolutely of no value 
at all. 


This is a queer little book,* which its 
author regards as “not only necessary, 
but urgently called for,’ because not 
only “the mass of the people are ig- 
norant of English Grammar, but be- 
cause those who profess great knowledge 
of it, and even those who make the 
teaching of it their business, will be 
found, upon examination, to be very 
far from understanding its principles.” 

Whether Mr. P. proceeds upon the 
safe old plan of Probo meliora, deter- 
zora sequor—whether he is one of “the 
mass,’ and ‘means to include himself 
among the ignoramuses, or whether he is 
only a desperate quiz—we shall not t ke 
it upon ourselves to say; but the fact 
is clear that, in a Preface of less than 
two small duodecimo pages (the l.ad- 
ing object of which seems to be an 
eulogy upon one William Cobbett), he 
has given us some half dozen distinct 
instances of bad grammar. 


*A Grammar of the English Language. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“For these purposes,’ says he—that — 
is to say—the purposes of instructing 
mankind and enlightening “every Amer- 
ican youth’ without exception—“for 
these purposes, I have written my les- 
sons in a series of letters. A mode that 
affords more opportunity for plainness, 
familiarity, instruction, and entertain- 
ment, than any other. A mode that was 
adopted by Chesterfield in his celebrated 


instructions on politeness. A mode that 


was adopted by Smollet in many of his 
novels, which, even at this day, hold a 
distinguished place in the world of fic- 
tion. A mode that was adopted by Wil- 
liam Cobbett, not only.in his admirable 
treatise on English Gramiuar, but in 
nearly every work that he wrote.” “To | 
Mr. Cobbett,” adds the instructor of 
every American youth—‘to Mr. Cob- 
bett I acknowledge myself indebted for 
the greater part of the grammatical 
knowledge which I possess.” 

Of the fact stated there can be no 
question. Nobody but Cobbett could 
have been the grammatical Mentor of 
Mr. Pue, whose book (which is all Cob- 
bett), speaks plainly upon the point— 
nothing but the ghost of William Cob- 
bett, looking over the shoulder of 
Hugh A. Pue, could have inspired the 
latter gentleman with the bright idea of 
stringing together four consecutive sen- 
tences, in each of which the leading 
nominative noun ‘< destitute of a verb. 

Mr. Pue may attempt to justify his 
phraseology here by saying that the sev- 
eral sentences quoted above, commenc- 
ing with the words “A mode,” are 
merely continuations of the one begin- 
ning “For these purposes;” but this is 
no justification at all. By the use of 
the period, he has rendered each sen- 
tence distinct, and each must be exam- 


MARGINALIA 


ined as such in respect to its grammar. 
We are only taking the liberty of con- 
demning Mr. P. by the words of his own 
mouth. Turning to the page where he 
treats of punctuation, we read as fol- 
lows:—‘‘The full point is used at the 
end of every complete sentence; and 
a complete sentence is a collection of 
words making a complete sense, without 
being dependent upon another collection 
of words to convey the full meaning in- 
tended.” Now, what kind of a meaning 
can we give to such a sentence as “A 
mode that was adopted by Chesterfield 
in his celebrated instructions on polite- 
ness,’ if we are to have “no dependence 
upon” the sentences that precede it? 
But, even in the supposition that these 
five sentences had been run into one, as 
they should have been, they would still 
be ungrammatical. For example—‘‘For 
these purposes I have written my les- 
sons in a series of letters—a mode that 
affords more opportunity for plainness, 
familiarity, instruction, and _ entertain- 
ment than any other—a mode, etc.” 
This would have been the _ proper 
method of punctuation. “A mode” is 
placed in apposition with “a series of 
letters.” But it is evident that it is 
not the “‘series of letters” which is the 
“mode.” It is the writing the lessons 
in a series which is so. Yet, in order 
that the noun “mode” can be prop- 
erly placed in apposition with what pre- 
cedes it, this latter must be either a 
noun, or a sentence, which, taken col- 
lectively, can serve as one. Thus, in 
any shape, all that we have quoted is 
bad grammar. 

We say “bad grammar,’ and say it 
through sheer obstinacy, because Mr. 
Pue says he should not. “Why, what 
is grammar?” asks he _ indignantly. 


1003 


“Nearly all grammarians tell us that 
grammar is the writing and speaking of 
the English language correctly. What 
then is bad grammar? Why bad gram- 
mar must be the bad writing and speak- 
ing of the English language correct- 
ly! !” We give the two admiration 
notes and all. 

In the first place, if grammar be 
only the writing and speaking the Eng- 
lish language correctly, then the French, 
or the Dutch, or the Kickapoos are 
miserable, ungrammatical races of peo- 
ple, and have no hopes of being any- 
thing else, unless Mr. Pue proceeds to 
their assistance—but let us say noth- 
ing of this for the present. What we 
wish to assert is that the usual definition 
of grammar, as “‘the writing and speak- 
ing correctly,” is an error which should 
have been long ago exploded. Gram- 
mar is an analysis of language, and this 
analysis will be good or bad, just as the 
capacity employed upon it be weak or 
strong—just as the grammarian be a 
Horne Tooke or a Hugh A. Pue. But 
perhaps, after all, we are treating this 
gentleman discourteously. His book 
may be merely intended as a good joke. 
By-the-bye, he says in his preface, that, 
“while he informs the student, he shall 
take particular care to entertain him.” 
Now, the truth is, we have been ex- 
ceedingly entertained. In such passages 
as the following, however, which we 
find upon the second page of the Intro- 
duction, we are really at a loss to de- 
termine whether it is the wtile or the 
dulce which prevails. We give the italics 
of Mr. Pue; without which indeed, the 
singular force and beauty of the para- 
graph cannot be duly appreciated:— 

“The proper study of English gram- 
mar, so far from being dry, is one of 


1004 


the most rational enjoyments known to 
us; one that is highly calculated to 
rouse the dormant energies of the stu- 
dent; it requiring continual mental ef- 
fort; unceasing exercise of mind. It is, 
in fact, the spreading of a thought-pro- 
ducing plaster of Paris upon the exten- 
sive grounds of intellect! It is the par- 
ent of idea, and great causation of re- 
flection; the mighty instigator of insur- 
rection in the intersor; and, above all, 
the unflinching champion of internal im- 
provement !” 

We know nothing about plaster of 
Paris; but the analogy which subsists 
between ipecac and grammar—at least 
between ipecac and the grammar of Mr. 
Pue—never, certainly, struck us in so 
clear a point of view as it does now. 

But, after all, whether Mr. P.’s queer 
little book shall or shall not meet the 
views of “Every American Youth” will 
depend pretty much upon another ques- 
tion of high moment—whether “Every 
American Youth” be or be not as great a 
nincompoop as Mr. Pue. 


That Lord Brougham was an extraor- 
dinary man no one in his senses will 
deny. An intellect of unusual capacity, 
goaded into diseased action by passions 
nearly ferocious, enabled him to as- 
tonish the world, and especially the 
“‘hero-worshippers,”’ as the author of 
Sartor Resartus has it, by the com- 
bined extent and variety of his mental 
triumphs. Attempting many things, it 
may at least be said that he egregious- 
ly failed in none. But that he pre-em- 
inently excelled in any cannot be af- 
firmed with truth, and might well be 
denied a priori. We have no faith in 
admirable Crichtons, and this merely 
because we have implicit faith in Na- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ture and her laws. “He that is born 
to be a man,” says Wieland, in his Pere- 
grinus Proteus, ‘neither should nor can 
be anything nobler, greater, nor better 
than a man.” The Broughams of the 
human intellect are never its Newtons 
or its Bayles. Yet the contemporane- 
ous reputation to be acquired by the 
former is naturally greater than any 
which the latter may attain. The ver- 
satility of one whom we see and hear 
is a more dazzling and more readily ap- 
preciable merit than his profundity; 
which latter is best estimated in the si- 
lence of the closet, and after the quiet 
lapse of years. What impression Lord 
Brougham has stamped upon his age, 
cannot be accurately determined until 
Time has fixed and rendered definite 
the lines of the medal; and fifty years 
hence it will be difficult perhaps to make 
out the deepest indentation of the ex- 
ergue. Like Coleridge he should be re- 
garded as one who might have done 
much, had he been satisfied with at- 
tempting but little. 


The Art of Mr. Dickens, although 
elaborate and great, seems only a happy 
modification of Nature. In this respect 
he differs remarkably from the author 
of “Night and Morning.”. The latter, 
by excessive care and by patient reflec- 
tion, aided by much rhetorical knowl- 
edge and general information, has ar- 
rived at the capability of producing 
books which might be mistaken by nine- 
ty-nine readers out of a hundred for the 
genuine inspirations of genius. The 
former, by the promptings of the truest 
genius itself, has been brought to com- 
pose, and evidently without effort, works 
which have effected a long-sought con-° 
summation, which have rendered him 


MARGINALIA 


the idol of the people, while defying and 
enchanting the critics. Mr. Bulwer, 
through art, has almost created a ge- 
nius. Mr. Dickens, through genius, has 
perfected a standard from which art 
itself will derive its essence in rules. 
While Defoe would have been fairly 
entitled to immortality had he never 
written Robinson Crusoe, yet his many 
other very excellent writings have near- 
ly faded from our attention in the su- 
perior lustre of the Adventures of the 
Mariner of York. What better pos- 
sible species of reputation could the 
author have desired for that book than 
the species which it has so long en- 
joyed? It has become a_ household 
thing in nearly every family in Chris- 
tendom. Yet never was admiration of 
any work—universal admiration—more 
indiscriminately or more inappropriate- 
ly bestowed. Not one person in ten— 
nay, not one person in five hundred, 
has, during the perusal of Robinson 
Crusoe, the most remote conception that 
any particle of genius, or even of com- 
mon talent, has been employed in its 
creation! Men do not look upon it 
in the light of a literary performance. 
Defoe has none of their thoughts—Rob- 
inson all. The powers which have 
wrought the wonder have been thrown 
into obscurity by the very stupendous- 
ness of the wonder they have wrought? 
We read, and become perfect abstrac- 
tions in the intensity of our interest— 
we close the book, and are quite satis- 
fied that we could have written as well 
ourselves.. All this is effected by the 
potent magic of verisimilitude. Indeed 
the author of Crusoe must have pos- 
sessed, above all other faculties, what 
has been termed the faculty of identi- 
fication—that dominion exercised - by 


1005 


volition over imagination which enables 
the mind to lose its own, in a fictitious 
individuality. This includes, in a very 
great degree, the power of abstraction; 
and with these keys we may partially 
unlock the mystery of that spell which 
has so long invested the volume before 
us. But a complete analysis of our in- 
terest in it cannot be thus afforded. De- 
foe is largely indebted to his subject. 
The idea of man in a state of perfect 
isolation, although often entertained, 
was never before so comprehensively 
carried out. Indeed the frequency of 
its occurrence to the thoughts of man- 
kind argued the extent of its influence 
on their sympathies, while the fact of 
no attempt having been made to give 
an embodied form to the conception, 
went to prove the difficulty of the un- 
dertaking. But the true narrative of 
Selkirk in 1711, with the powerful im- 
pression it then made upon the public 
mind, sufficed to-inspire Defoe with 
both the necessary courage for his work, 
and entire confidence in its success. 
How wonderful has been the result! 


The increase within a few years of 
the magazine literature is by no means 
to be regarded as indicating what some 
critics would suppose it to indicate—a 
downward tendency in American taste 
or in American letters. It is but a 
sign of the times—an indication of an 
era in which men are forced upon the 
curt, the condensed, the well-digested— 
in place of the voluminous—in a word, 
upon journalism in lieu of dissertation. 
We need now the light artillery rather 
than the Peace-makers of the intellect. 
I will not be sure that men at present 
think more profoundly than half a cen- 
tury ago, but beyond question they 


1006 


think with more rapidity, with more 
skill, with more tact, with more of 
method and less of excrescence in the 
thought. Besides all this, they have a 
vast increase in the thinking material; 
they have more facts, more to think 
about. For this reason, they are dis- 
posed to put the greatest amount of 
thought in the smallest compass and 
disperse it with the utmost attainable 
rapidity. Hence the journalism of the 
age; hence, in especial magazines. Too 
many we cannot have, as a general 
proposition; but we demand that they 
have sufficient merit to render them 
noticeable in the beginning, and that 
they continue in existence sufficiently 
long to permit us a fair estimation of 
their value. 


One-half the pleasure experienced at 
a theatre arises from the spectator’s 
sympathy with the rest of the audience, 
and especially from his belief in their 
sympathy with him. The eccentric gen- 
tleman who not long ago, at the Park, 
found himself the solitary occupant of 
box, pit, and gallery, would have de- 
rived but little enjoyment from his visit 
had he been suffered to remain. It was 
an act of mercy to turn him out. The 
present absurd rage for lecturing is 
founded in the feeling in question. Es- 
says which we would not be hired to 
read, so trite is their subject, so feeble 
is their execution, so much easier is it 
to get better information on similar 
themes out of any encyclopedia in 
Christendom, we are brought to toler- 
ate, and also, even to applaud in their 
tenth and twentieth repetition, through 
the sole force of our sympathy with the 
throng. In the same way we listen to 


a story with greater zest when there are. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


others present at its narration beside 
ourselves. Aware of this, authors with- 
out due reflection have repeatedly at- 
tempted, by supposing a circle of listen- 
ers, to imbue their narratives with the 
interest of sympathy. At a cursory 
glance the idea seems plausible enough. 
But in the one case there is an actual, 
personal, and palpable sympathy con- 
veyed in looks, gestures, and brief com- 
ments— a sympathy of real individuals, 
all with the matters discussed to be 
sure, but then especially each with each. 
In the other instance, we, alone in our 
closet, are required to sympathise with 
the sympathy of fictitious listeners, 
who, so far from being present in body, 
are often studiously kept out of sight 
and ut of mind for two or three hun- 
dred pages at a time. This is sympathy 
double-diluted—the shadow of a shade. 
It is unnecessary to say that the design 
invariably fails of its effect. 


The qualities of Heber are well un- 
derstood. His poetry is of a high order. 
He is imaginative, glowing, and vigor- 
ous, with a skill in the management of 
his means unsurpassed by that of any 
writer of his time, but without any high 
degree of originality. Can there be any- 
thing in the nature of a “classical” life 
at war with novelty per se? At ali 
events few fine scholars, such as Heber 
truly was, are original. 

Original characters, so called, can be 
critically praised as such either when 
presenting qualities known in real life 
but never before depicted (a combin- 
ation nearly impossible), or when pre- 
senting qualities (moral, or physical, or 
both), which, although unknown, or 
even known to be hypothetical, are so 
skillfully adapted to the circumstances 


which surround them that our sense of 
fitness is not offended, and we find our- 
selves seeking a reason why those things 
might not have been, which we are 
still satisfied are not. The latter species 
of originality appertains to the loftier 
regions of the Jdeal. 

“George Balcombe” we are induced 
to regard, upon the whole, as the best 
American novel. There have been few 
books of its peculiar kind, we think, 
written in any country much its superior. 
Its interest is intense from beginning 
to end. Talent of a lofty order is 
evinced in every page of it. Its most 
distinguishing features are invention, 
vigour, almost audacity, of thought— 
great variety of what the German critics 
term intrigue, and exceeding ingenuity 
and finish in the adaptation of its com- 
ponent parts. Nothing is wanting to a 
complete whole, and nothing is out of 








FIFTY SUGGESTIONS 


1007 


place or out of time. Without being 
chargeable in the least degree with im- 
itation, the novel bears a strong fam- 
ily resemblance to the Caleb Williams 
of Godwin. Thinking thus highly of 
“George Balcombe,’ we still do not 
wish to be understood as ranking it with 
the more brilliant fictions of some of 
the living novelists of Great Britain. 
In regard to the authorship of the 
book, some little conversation has oc- 
curred, and the matter is still consid- 
ered a secret. But why so?—or rather 
how so? The mind of the chief person- 
age of the story is the transcript of a- 
mind familiar to us—an unintentional 
transcript, let us grant—but still one not 
to be mistaken. “George Balcombe” 
thinks, speaks, and acts, as no person, 
we are convinced, but Judge Beverley 
Tucker ever precisely thought, spoke, 
or acted before. 


Fifty Suggestions 


(First published in Graham’s Magazine, May, 1845.—Ed.) 


if. 


It is observable that, while among all 
nations the omnicolour, white, has been 
received as an emblem of the pure, the 
no-colour, black, has by no means been 
generally admitted as sufficiently typi- 
cal of impurity. There are blue devils 
as well as black; and when we think 


* The end of Suggestion IX is in 
Marginalia. XIX is the preface to the 
tale, Never Bet the Devil Your Head. 
XXXYV is in the criticism Elizabeth Bar- 
rett Barrett. The first part of XLI is 
in the criticism Thomas Moore.—Ed. 


very ill of a woman, and wish to 


blacken her character, we merely call 


her ‘“‘a blue-stocking,” and advise her to 
read, in Rabelais’ “Gargantua,” the 
chapter “de ce qui est signifie par les 
couleurs blanc et bleu.” There is far 
more difference between these “cou- 
leurs,’ in fact, than that which exists 
between simple black and white. Your 
“blue,” when we come to talk of stock- 
ings, is black in issimo—“nigrum nigri- 
us nigro”—like the matter from which 
Raymond Lully first manufactured his 
alcohol. 
Li i 


Mr. , I perceive, has been ap- 





1008 





pointed Librarian to the new 
Atheneum. To him the appointment 
is advantageous in many respects. Es- 
pecially: —“Mon cousin, voici une belle 
eccasion pour apprende a lire!” 


TIT. 


As far as I can understand the “‘ov- 
ing our enemies,” it implies the hating 
our friends. 


IV. 


In commencing our dinners with 
gravy soup, no doubt we have taken a 
hint from Horace. “Da,” he says, 


—Si grave non est 


Que prima iratum ventrem placaverit 
esca.”” 


V. 


Of much of our cottage architecture 
we may safely say, I think (admitting 
the good intention), that it would have 
been Gothic if it had not felt it its duty 
to be Dutch. 

VI. 


James’s multitudinous novels seem to 
be written upon the plan of ‘‘the songs 
of the Bard of Schiraz,” in which, we 
are assured by Fadladeen, “the same 
beautiful thought occurs again and 
again in every possible variety of 
phrase.” 

MT 


Some of our foreign lions resemble 
the human brain in one very striking 
particular. They are without any sense 
themselves, and yet are the centres of 
sensation. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


VIII. 


Mirabeau, I fancy, acquired his won- 
derful tact at foreseeing and meeting 
contingencies, during his residence in 
the stronghold of Jf. 


IX. 

Cottle’s ‘“Reminiscences of Coleridge” 
is just such a book as damns its per- 
petrator for ever in the opinion of 
every gentleman who reads it. More 
and more every day do we moderns 
pavoneggiarsi about our Christianity; 
yet, so far as the spirit of Christianity 
is concerned, we are immeasurably be- 
hind the ancients. Mottoes and pro- 
verbs are the indices of national char- 
acter; and the Anglo-Saxons are dis- 
graced in having no proverbial equiva- 
lent to the “De mortuis nil nisi bonum.” 
Moreover—where, in all statutory Chris- 
tendom, shall we find a Jaw so Christian 
as the “Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur” 
of the Twelve Tables? ‘The simple neg- 
ative injunction of the Latin law and 
proverb—the injunction not to do ill 
to the dead—seems, at a first glance, 
scarcely susceptible of improvement in 
the delicate respect of its terms. 


X. 


I have no doubt that the Fourierites 
honestly fancy “a nasty poet fit for 
nothing” to be the true translation of 
“poeta nascitur non fit.” 


XI. 


There surely cannot be “more things 
in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt 


FIFTY SUGGESTIONS 


of” (oh, Andrew Jackson Davis!) “in 
your philosophy.” 


XII. 


‘Tt is only as the Bird of Paradise 
quits us in taking wing,’ observes, or 
should observe, some poet, “that we ob- 
tain a full view of the beauty of its 
plumage;” and it is only as the poli- 
tician is about being “turned out” that, 
like the snake of the Irish Chronicle 
when touched by St. Patrick, he “‘awak- 
ens to a sense of his sztuation.” 


XIII. 


Newspaper editors seem to have con- 
stitutions closely similar to those of the 
Deities in “Walhalla,” who cut each 
other to pieces every day, and yet get 
up perfectly sound and fresh every 
morning. 


XIV. 


As far as I can comprehend the mod- 
ern cant in favour of “unadulterated 
Saxon,’ it is fast leading us to the 
language of that region where, as Ad- 
dison has it, ‘‘they sell the best fish and 
speak the plainest English.” 


XV. 


The frightfully long money-pouches, 
like ‘the Cucumber called the Gigantic,” 
which have come in vogue among our 
belles, are not of Parisian origin, as 
many suppose, but are strictly indigen- 
ous here. The fact is, such a fashion 
would be quite out of place in Paris, 
where it is money only that women 
keep in a purse. The purse of an Amer- 
ican lady, however, must be large 


1009 


enough to carry both the money and 
the soul of its owner. 


XVI. 


I can see no objection to gentlemen 
“standing for Congress” provided they 
stand on one side, nor to their “‘running 
for Congress” if they are in a very great 
hurry to get there, but it would be a 
blessing if some of them could be per- 
suaded into sitting still for Congress 
after they arrive. 


XVII. 


If Envy, as Cyprian has it, be “the 
moth of the soul,’ whether shall we 
regard Content as its Scotch snuff or its 
camphor? 

XVIII. 


M 


‘3 


, having been “used up” in the 
Review,” goes about town laud- 
ing his critic, as an epicure lauds the 
best London mustard, with the tears in 
his eyes. 








XX. 


Children are never too tender to be 
whipped; like tough beef-steaks, the 
more you beat them the more tender 
they become. 


XXI. 

Lucian, in describing the statue “with 
its surface of Parian marble, and its in- 
terior filled with rags,’ must have been 
looking with a prophetic eye at some of 
our great “moneyed institutions.”. 


XXII. 


That poets (using the word compre- 


1010 


hensively, as including artists in gen- 
eral) are a genus irritabile is well un- 
derstood, but the why seems not to be 
commonly seen. An artist zs an ar- 
tist only by dint of his exquisite sense 
of Beauty, a sense affording him rap- 
turous enjoyment, but at the same time 
implying or involving an equally ex- 
quisite sense of Deformity—of dispro- 
portion. Thus a wrong—an injustice— 
done a poet who is really a poet, ex- 
cites him to a degree which to ordinary 
apprehension appears disproportionate 
with the wrong. Poets see injustice, 
never where it does not exist, but very 
often where the unpoetical see no injus- 
tice whatever. Thus the poetical irri- 
tability has no reference to “temper” 
in the vulgar sense, but merely to a 
more than usual clear-sightedness in re- 
spect to wrong, this clear-sightedness 
being nothing more than a corollary 
from the vivid perception of right—of 
justice—of proportion—in a word, of 
to kalon (Gr.) But one thing is clear, 
that the man who is noé “irritable” (to 
the ordinary apprehension) is no poet. 


XXITI. 


Let a man succeed ever so evidently 
—ever so demonstrably—in many dif- 
ferent displays of genius the envy of 
criticism will agree with the popular 
voice in denying him more than talent 
in any. Thus a poet who has achieved 
a great (by which I mean an effective) 
poem, should be cautious not to distin- 
guish himself in other walks of Letters. 
In especial—let him make no effort in 
Science—unless anonymously, or with 
the view of waiting patiently the judg- 
ment of posterity. Because universal 
or even versatile geniuses have rarely 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


or never been known, therefore, thinks 
the world, none such can ever be. A 
“therefore” of this kind is, with the 
world conclusive. But what is the fact, 
as taught us by analysis of mental 
power? Simply that the highest genius 
—that the genius which all men instan- 
taneously acknowledge as such—which 
acts upon individuals, as well as upon 
the mass, by a species of magnetism in- 
comprehensible but irresistible and 
never resisted—that this genius which 
demonstrates itself in the simplest ges- 
ture—or even by the absence of all— 
this genius which speaks without a voice 
and flashes from the unopened eye—is 
but the result of generally large mental 
power existing in a state of absolute 
proportion—so that no one faculty has 
undue predominance. That factitious 
“genius’—that ‘‘genius” in the popular 
sense—which is but the manifestation 
of the abnormal predominance of some 
one faculty over all the others—and, 
of course, at the expense and to the 
detriment of all the others—is a result 
of mental disease, or rather of organic 
malformation of mind:—it is this and 
nothing more. Not only will such 
“genius” fail, if turned aside from the 
path indicated by its predominant fac- 
ulty; but, even when pursuing this 
path—when producing those works in 
which, certainly it is best calculated to 
succeed—will give unmistakable indi- 
cations of wunsoundness, in respect to 
general intellect. Hence, indeed, arises 
the just idea that 

“Great wit to madness nearly is allied.” 
I say, “just idea;” for by “great wit,” 
in this case, the poet intends precisely 
the pseudo-genius to which I refer. The 
true genius, on the other hand, is neces- 
sarily, if not universal in its manifes- 


FIFTY SUGGESTIONS 


tations, at least capable of universality; 
and ii, attempting all things, it suc- 
ceeds in one rather better than in an- 
other, this is merely on account of a 
certain bias by which Taste leads it with 
more earnestness in the one direction 
than in the other. With equal zeal, it 
would succeed equally in all. 

To sum up our results in respect to 
this very simple, but much vexata 
quaesto :— 

What the world calls “genius” is the 
state of mental disease arising from the 
undue predominance of some one of the 
faculties. The works of such genius 
are never sound in themselves, and, in 
especial, always betray the general men- 
tal insanity. 

The proportion of the mental facul- 
ties, in a case where the general mental 
power is mot inordinate, gives that re- 
sult which we distinguish as talent:— 
and the talent is greater or less, first, 
as the general mental power is greater 
or less; and, secondly, as the propor- 
tion of the faculties is more or less ab- 
solute. 

The proportion of the faculties, in a 
case where the mental power is inor- 
dinately. great, gives that result which 
is the true genius (but which on ac- 
count of the proportion and seeming 
simplicity of its works, is seldom ac- 
knowledged to be so); and, the genius 
is greater or less, first as the general 
mental power is more or less inordin- 
ately great; and, secondly, as the pro- 
portion of the faculties is more or less 
absolute. 

An objection will be made—that the 
greatest excess of mental power, how- 
ever proportionate, does not seem to 
satisfy our idea of genius, unless we 
have in addition, sensibility, passion, 


1011 


energy. The reply is, that the “absolute 
proportion” spoken of when applied to 
inordinate mental power gives, as a re- 
sult, the appreciation of Beauty and 
horror of Deformity which we call sen- 
sibility, together with that intense vi- 
tality, which is implied when we speak 
of “energy” or ‘‘Passion.” 


eX LV: 
“And Beauty draws us by a single 
hair.” —Capillary attraction, of course. 


XXV 


It is by no means clear as regards the 
present revolutionary spirit of Europe 
that it is a spirit which ‘“moveth alto- 
gether if it move at all.” In Great 
Britain it may be kept quiet for half 
a century yet, by placing at the head 
of affairs an experienced medical man. 
He should keep his forefinger constant- 
ly on the pulse of the patient, and pre- 
scribe panem in gentle doses, with as 
much circenses as the stomach can be 
made to retain. 


XXVI. 


The taste manifested by our Trans- 
cendental poets zs to be treated “rever- 
entially,’ beyond doubt, as one of Mr. 
Emerson’s friends suggests—for the fact 
is it is Taste on her death-bed—Taste 
kicking zm articulo mortis. 


XXVII. 


I should not say, of Taglioni, ex- 
actly that she dances, but that she 
laughs with her arms and legs, and that 
if she takes vengeance on her present 


1012 


oppressors she will be amply justified 
by the lex Talionis. 


XXVIII. 


The world is infested just now by 
a new sect of philosophers, who have 
not yet suspected themselves of form- 
ing a sect, and who consequently, have 
adopted no name. ‘They are the Be- 
lievers in Everything Old. Their High 
Priest in the East is Charles Fourier, 
in the West Horace Greeley, and high 
priests they are to some purpose. The 
only common bond among the sect is 
Credulity—let us call it Insanity at 
once, and be done with it. Ask any one 
of them why he believes this or that, 
and, if he be conscientious (ignorant 
people generally are), he will make you 
very much such a reply as Talleyrand 
made when asked why he believed in 
the Bible. “I believe in it first,” said 
he, “because I am Bishop of Autun, 
and secondly, because I know nothing 
about it at all.” What these philoso- 
phers call ‘argument’ is a way they have 
“de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce 
qui nest pas.” 


XXIX, 





K. , the publisher, trying to be 
critical, talks about books pretty much 
as a washerwoman would about Niagara 
Falls, or a poulterer about a phoenix. 


XXX. 


The ingenuity of critical malice would 
often be laughable but for the disgust 
which, even in the most perverted 
spirits, injustice never fails to excite. 
A common trick is that of decrying im- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


pliedly the higher by insisting upon the 
lower merits of an author. Macaulay, for 
example, deeply feeling how much crit- 
ical acumen is enforced by cautious at- 
tention to the mere “rhetoric” which is 
its vehicle, has at length become the 
best of modern rhetoricians. His 
brother reviewers, anonymous of course, 
and likely to remain so for ever, extol 
“the acumen of Carlyle, the analysis of 
Schlegel, and the style of Macaulay.” 
Bancroft is a philosophical historian, 
but no amount of philosophy has yet 
taught him to despise a minute accuracy 
in point of fact. His brother historians 
talk of “the grace of Prescott, the eru- 
dition of Gibbon, and the painstaking 
precision of Bancroft.” ‘Tennyson, per- 
ceiving how vividly an imaginative ef- 
fect is aided, now and then, by a certain 
quaintness judiciously introduced, 
brings this latter at times in support of 
his most glorious and most delicate im- 
agination, where-upon his brother poets 
hasten to laud the imagination of Mr. 
Somebody, whom nobody imagined to 
have any, “and the somewhat affected 
quaintness of Tennyson.” Let the no- 
blest poet add to his other excellences, if 
he dares, that of faultless versification 
and scrupulous attention to grammar. 
He is damned at once. His rivals have 
it in their power to discourse of “A, the 
true poet, and B, the versifier and dis- 
ciple of Lindley Murray.” 


XXXII. 


The goddess Laverna, who is a head 
without a body, could not do better, 
perhaps, than make advances to “La 
Jeune France,” which for some years 
to come, at least, must otherwise re- 
main a body without a head. 





FIFTY SUGGESTIONS 


XXXII. 





H: calls his verse a “‘poem” very 
much as Francis the First bestowed the 
title mes deserts upon his snug little 
deer-park at Fontainebleau. 


XXXITI. 


Mr. A is frequently spoken of as 
‘one’of our most industrious writers;’ 
and in fact when we consider how much 
he has written, we perceive at once that 
he must have been industrious, or he 
could never (like an honest woman as 
he is) have so thoroughly succeeded in 
keeping himself from being ‘talked 
about.’ 





XXXIV. 


That a cause leads to an effect is 
scarcely more certain than that, so far 
23 Morals are concerned, a repetition of 
effect tends to the generation of cause. 
Herein lies the principle of what we so 
vaguely term “Habit.” 


XXXVI. 


What has become of the inferior 
planet which Decuppis about nine years 
ago declared he saw traversing the disc 
of the sunP 

XXXVIT. 


“Ignorance is bliss’—but, that the 
bliss be real, the ignorance must be so 
profound as not to suspect itself ignor- 
ant. With this understanding, Boileau’s 
line may be read thus: 


Le plus fou fouwjours est le plus satis- 
fait, 
—“toujours” in place of “souvent.” 


1013 
XXXVIII. 


Bryant and Street are both essen- 
tially descriptive poets; and descriptive 
poetry even in its happiest manifesta- 
tion is mot of the highest order. But 
the distinction between Bryant and 
Street is very broad. While the for- 
mer, in reproducing the sensible im- 
ages of Nature, reproduces the senti- 
ments with which he regards them, the 
latter gives us the images and nothing 
beyond. He never forces us to feel 
what we feel he must have felt. 


XXXIX. 


In lauding Beauty, Genius merely 
evinces a filial affection. To Genius 
Beauty gives life—reaping often a re- 
ward in Immortality. 


XL. 


And this is the “American Drama” of 
| Well! that ‘Conscience which 
makes cowards of us all” will permit me 
to say in praise of the performance, 
only that it is not quite so bad as I 
expected it to be. But then I always 
expect too much. 


yah 








When Moore is termed “a fanciful 
poet,” the epithet is applied with pre- 
cision. He 7s. He is fanciful in “Lalla 
Rookh,” and had he written the “In- 
ferno” in the “Inferno” he would have 
contrived to be still fanciful and noth- 
ing beyond. 


XLII. 
When we speak of “a suspicious man,” 


we may mean either one who suspects, 
or one to be suspected. Our language 


1014 


needs either the adjective “suspectful,” 
or the adjective “suspectable.”’ 


XLITI. 


<4 


“To love,’ says Spenser, “is 


To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, 

to run, 

To speed, to give, to want, to be un- 

done.” 

The philosophy here might be ren- 
dered more profound, by the mere omis- 
sion of a comma. We all know the 
willing blindness—the voluntary mad- 
ness of Love. We express this in thus 
punctuating the last line: 

To speed, to give—to want to be un- 
done. : 

It is a case, in short, where we gain a 
point by omitting it. 


XLIV. 


Miss Edgeworth seems to have had 
only an approximate comprehension of 
“Fashion,” for she says, “If it was the 
fashion to burn me, and I at the stake, 
I hardly know ten persons of my ac- 
quaintance who would refuse to throw 
on a fagot.” There are many who, in 
such a case, would “refuse to throw on 
a fagot”—for fear of smothering out 
the fire. 


XLV. 


I am beginning to think with Hor- 
sley—that “the People have nothing to 
do with the laws but to obey them.” 


XLVI. 


“It is not fair to review my book 
without reading it,’ says Mr. Mathews, 
talking at the critics, and as usual, ex- 
pecting impossibilities. The man who 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


is clever enough to write such a work, 
is clever enough to read it, no doubt; 
but we should not look for so much 
talent in the world at large. Mr. Math- 
ews will not imagine that I mean to 
blame him. The book alone is in fault, 
after all. The fact is that, “es lasst 
sich nicht lesen”—it will not permit it- 
self to be read. Being a hobby of Mr. 
Mathews’ and brimful of spirit, it will 
let nobody mount it but Mr. Mathews. 


XLVII. 
It is only to teach his children Geog- 


raphy, that G wears a boot, like 
the picture of Italy upon the map. 





XLVIII. 


In his great Dictionary, Webster 
seems to have had an idea of being more 
English than the English—“plus Arabe 
qu’en Arabie.” 


XLIX. 


That there were once ‘“‘seven wise 
men” is by no means, strictly speaking, 
an historical fact; and I am rather in- 
clined to rank the idea among the Kab- 
bala. 

L, 


Painting their faces to look like Ma- 
caulay, some of our critics manage to 
resemble him, at length, as a Masac- 
cian does a Rafaellian Virgin; and, ex- 
cept that the former is feebler and 
thinner than the other—suggesting the 
idea of its being the ghost of the 
other—not one connoisseur in ten can 
perceive any difference. But then, un- 
happily even the street lazzaroni can 
feel the distinction. 





Pmnakidta 


(First published in Southern Literary Messenger, August, 1836.—Ed.) 


Under the head of “Random 
Thoughts,’ “Odds and Ends,” “Stray 
Leaves,” “Scraps,” ‘“Brevities,” and a 
variety of similar titles, we occasionally 
meet, in periodicals and elsewhere, with 
papers of rich interest and value, the 
result in some cases of much thought 
and more research, expended, however, 
at a manifest disadvantage, if we re- 
gard merely the estimate which the pub- 
lic are willing to set upon such articles. 
It sometimes occurs that in papers of 
this nature may be found a collective 
mass of general but more usually of 
classical erudition, which, if dexterously 
besprinkled over a proper surface of 
narrative, would be sufficient to make 
the fortunes of one or two hundred 
ordinary novelists in these our good 
days, when all heroes and heroines are 
necessarily men and women of “exten- 
sive acquirements.” But for the most 
part these “Brevities,’ etc., are either 
piecemeal cullings at second-hand from 
a variety of sources hidden or supposed 
to be hidden, or more audacious pilfer- 
ings from those vast storehouses of 
brief facts, memoranda, and opinions in 
general literature, which are so abun- 
dant in all the principal libraries of Ger- 
many and France. Of the former 
species the Koran of Laurence Sterne is, 
at the same time, one of the most con- 
summately impudent and silly, and it 
may well be doubted whether a single 
paragraph of any merit in the whole of 
it may not be found, nearly verbatim, 
in the works of some of his immediate 
contemporaries. If the Lacon of Mr. 


1015 


Colton is any better, its superiority 
consists altogether in a deeper ingenuity 
in disguising his stolen wares, and in 
that perscriptive right of the strongest, 
which, time out of mind, has decided 
upon calling every Napoleon a con- 
queror, and every Dick Turpin a thief. 
Seneca, Machiavelli,* Balzac, the author 
of ‘La Maniere de Bien Penser,” Biel- 
feld the German, who wrote in French . 
“Les Premiers Traits de 1Erudition 
Universelle,” Rochefoucault, Bacon, 
Bolingbroke, and especially Burdon, of 
“Materials for Thinking’ memory, 
possesses among them _ indisputable 
claims to the ownership of nearly every- 
thing worth owning in the book. 

Of the latter species of theft we see 
frequent specimens in the continental 
magazines of Europe, and occasionally 
meet with them even in the lower class 
of periodicals in Great Britain. These 
specimens are usually extracts, by 
wholesale, from such works as_ the 
“Bibliotheque des Memorabilia Lite- 
raria,” the ‘“Recueil des Bonnes Pensees,” 
the “Lettres Edifiantes et Curieuses,” 
the “Literary Memoirs” of Sallengre, the 
“Melanges Litteraires” of Suard and 


*It is remarkable that much of what 
Colton has stolen from Machiavelli was 
previously stolen by Machiavelli from 
Plutarchh A MS. book of the 
Apophthegms of the Ancients, by this 
latter writer, having fallen into Machi- 
avelli’s hands, he put them nearly all 
into the mouth of his hero, Castrucio 
Castracani. 


1016 


Andre, or the ‘Pieces Interessantes et 
Peu Connues” of Laplace. D’Israeli’s 
“Curiosities of Literature,’ ‘Literary 
Character,” and “Calamities of Au- 
thors,” have of late years proved ex- 
ceedingly convenient to some little 
American pilferers in this line, but are 
now becoming too generally known to 
allow much hope of their good things 
being any longer appropriated with im- 
punity. 

Such collections as those of which 
we have been speaking are usually en- 
tertaining in themselves, and for the 
‘most part we relish everything about 
them save their pretensions to original- 
ity. In offering ourselves something of 
the kind to our readers, we wish to be 
understood as disclaiming in a great 
degree every such pretension. Most of 
the following article is original, and will 
be readily recognized as such by the 
classical and general reader; some por- 
tions of it may have been written down 
in the words, or nearly in the words, of 
the primitive authorities. The whole 
is taken from a confused mass of mar- 
ginal notes and entries in a common- 
place book. No certain arrangement 
has been considered necessary, and in- 
deed so heterogeneous a farrago it 
would have been an endless task to 
methodise. We have chosen the head- 
ing Pinakidia or Tablets, as one suffi- 
ciently comprehensive. It was used for 
a somewhat similar purpose by Dion- 
ysius of Halicarnassus. 


The whole of Bulwer’s elaborate 
argument on the immortality of the 
soul, which he has put into the mouth 
of: “The Ambitious Student,’ may be 
confuted through the author’s omission 
of one particular point in his summary 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the attributes of Deity—a point 
which we cannot believe omitted al- 
together through accident. A single link 
is deficient in the chain, but the chain 
is worthless without it. No man doubts 
the immortality of the soul, yet of all 
truths, this truth of immortality is the 
most difficult to prove by any mere 
series of syllogisms. We would refer 
our readers to the argument here men- 
tioned. 


The rude, rough, wild waste has its pow- 
er to please. 


a line in one, Mr. Odiorne’s poems, 
“The Progress of Refinement,” is pro- 
nounced by the American author of a 
book entitled ‘“Antediluvian Antiquities” 
“the very best alliteration in all poetry.” 


Lipsius, in his treatise, “De Supplicio 
Crucis,” says that the upright beam of 
the cross was a fixture at the place of 
execution, whither the criminal was 
made to bear only the transverse arm. 
Consequently the painters are in error 
who depict our Saviour bearing the en- 
tire Cross. 


The tale in Plato’s “Convivium,” that 
man at first was male and female, and 
that, though Jupiter cleft them asunder, 
there was a natural love towards one 
another, seems to be only a corruption 
of the account in Genesis of Eve’s being 
made from Adam’s rib. 

Corneille has these lines in one of his 
tragedies: 


Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez 
vous en eau, 

La Moitie de ma vie a mis l’autre au 
tombeau. 








which may be thus translated, 

Weep, weep, my eyes! It is no time to 
| laugh, 

For half myself has buried the other 
half, 


Over the iron gate of a prison at 
Ferrara is this inscription—Ingresso 
alla prigione di Torquato Tasso.” 


The Rabbi Manasseh published a 
book at Amsterdam entitled “The 
Hopes of Israel.’’ It was founded upon 
the supposed number and power of the 
Jews in America. This supposition was 
derived from a fabulous account by 
Montesini of his having found a vast 
concourse of Jews among the Cordil- 
leras. 


The word ‘‘assassin” is derived, ac- 
cording to Hyle, from Hassa, to kill. 
Some bring it from Hassan, the first 
chief of the association; some from the 
Jewish Essene; Lemoine from a word 
meaning “herbage;” De Sacy and Von 
Hammer from “hashish” the opiate of 
hemp leaves, of which the assassins 
made a singular use. 


The origin of the phrase “corporal 
oath” is to be found in the ancient usage 
of touching, upon occasion of attesta- 
tion, the corporale or cloth which cov- 
ered the consecrated articles. 


Montgomery, in his lectures on Lit- 
erature (!), has the following—“Who 
does not turn with absolute contempt 
from the signs, and gems, and filters, 
and caves, and genii of Eastern Tales 
as from the trinkets of a toy shop, and 
the trumpery of a raree show?” What 


PINAKIDIA 


1017 


man of genius but must answer 


SNoter* 


There is no particular air known 
throughout Switzerland by the name of 
the Ranz des Vaches. Every canton 
has its own song, varying in words, 
notes, and even language. Mr. Cooper, 
the novelist, is our authority. 


The Abbe de St. Pierre* has fixed in 
his language two significant words—viz. 
bienfaisance, and the diminutive la 
gloriole. 


“Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare 
Charybdim” is neither in Virgil nor 
Ovid, as often supposed, but in the 
“Alexandrics” of Philip Gualtier, a 
French poet of the thirteenth century. 


The psalter of Solomon, which con- 
tains eighteen psalms, is a work which 
was found in Greek in the library of 
Augsburg, and has been translated into 
Latin by John Lewis de la Cerda. It 
is supposed not to be Solomon’s but 
the work of some Hellenistic Jew, and 
composed in imitation of David’s 
psalms. The psalter was known to the 
ancients, and was formerly in the fa- 
mous Alexandrian MS. 


It is probable that the Queen of 
Sheba was Balkis, that Sheba was a 
kingdom in the southern part of Arabia 
Felix, and that the people were called 
Sabeans. These lines of Claudian re- 
late to the people and queen:— 


Medis, levibusque Sabzis 


*This author is very frequently 
quoted by Poe with esteem.—Ed. 


1018 


Imperat hic sexus; reginarumque sub 
armis 
Barbarie pars magna jacet. 


Sheridan declared he would rather 
be the author of the ballad called 
“Hosier’s Ghost,” by Glover, than of 
the Annals of Tacitus. 


The word Jehovah is not Hebrew. 
The Hebrews had no such letters as 
J or V. The word is properly Yah, 
Wah, compounded of Yah, essence, and 
Wah, existing. Its full meaning is the 
self-existing essence of all things. 


The “Song of Solomon,” throwing 
aside the heading of the chapters, which 
is the work of the English translators, 
contains nothing which relates to the 
Saviour or the Church. It does not, 
like every other sacred book, contain 
even the name of the Deity. 


The word translated “slanderers” in 
_I Timothy iii, 2, and that translated 
“false accusers” in Titus ii, 3, are “fe- 
male devils” in the original Greek of 
the New Testament. 


The Hebrew language contains no 
word (except perhaps Jehovah) which 
conveys to the mind the idea of etern- 
ity. The translators of the Old Testa- 
ment have used the word “eternity” but 
once (Isa. Ivii, 15). 


A version of the Psalms was pub- 
lished in 1642 by William Slatyer, of 
which this is a specimen:— 


The righteous shall his sorrows scan, 
And laugh at him, and say, “Behold! 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


What hath become of this here man, 
That on his riches was so bold. 


Milton, in ‘Paradise Lost,’’ has this 
passage :— 


When the scourge 
Inexorably, and the torturing hour 
Call us to penance; 


Gray, in his “Ode to Adversity,” 
has :— 


Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 
The bad affright. 


Gray tells us that the image of his 
bard, where 


Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled 
air, 


was taken from a picture by Raphael: 
vet the beard of MHudibras is also 
likened to a meteor:— 


This hairy meteor did denounce 
The fall of sceptres and of crowns. 


Dryden, in his “Absalom and Archi- 
topel,” has these lines:— 


David for him his tuneful harp has 
strung, 

And heaven had wanted one immortal 
song, 


Pope, in his “Epistle to Arbuthnot,” 
has :— 


Friend of my life, which did not you 
prolong, 





The world had wanted many an idle song. 


_ In Suidas is a letter from Dionysius 
the Areopagite, dated Heliopolis in the 


fourth year of the 202d Olympiad (the 
year of Christ’s crucifixion), to his 
friend Apollophanes, in which is men- 
tioned a total eclipse of the sun at 


noon, “Either,” says Dionysius, “the 
author of nature suffers, or he sympa- 
thises with some who do.” 


A curious passage in a letter from 


Cicero to his literary friend Papirius 


Petus, shows that our custom of annex- 
ing a farce or pantomime to a tragic 
drama existed among the Romans. 


In Hudibras are these lines:— 
Each window, like the pillory, appears 
With heads thrust through, nailed by 


the ears, 


Young, in his “Love of Fame,” has 
the following :— 


An opera, like a pillory, may be said 
To nail our ears down and expose our 
head.’ 


Goldsmith’s celebrated lines, 


Man wants but little here below 
Nor wants that little long, 


are stolen from Young, who has 


Man wants but little, nor that little 
long. 


Archbishop Usher, in a manuscript 
of St. Patrick’s Life, said to have been 
found at Louvain as an original of a 


PINAKIDIA 


1019 


very remote date, detected several en- 
tire passages purloined from his own 
writings. 





“The Slipper of Cinderella,” says the 
editor of the new edition of Wharton, 
“finds a parallel in the history of 
Rhodope.” Cinderella is a tale of uni- 
versal currency. An ancient Danish 
ballad has some of the incidents. It is 
popular amongst the Welsh—also 
among the Poles—in Hesse, and in 
Servia. Schottky found it among the 
Servian fables. Rcllenbagen, in his 
Froschmauseler, speaks of it as the tale 
of the despised Aschenpossel. Luther 
mentions it. It is in the Italian Penta- 
merone under the title of Cenerentola. 


Boileau is mistaken in saying that 
Petrarch, “qui est regarde comme le 
pere du sonnet,’ borrowed it from the 
French or Provencal writers. The 
Italian sonnet can be traced back as 
far as the year 1200. Petrarch was 
not born until 1304. 

Dante gives the name of sonnet to his 
little canzone or ode beginning 


O voi che per la via d’Amor passate. 
The lines 


For he that fights and runs away 
May live to fight another day, 
But he that is in battle slain 

Will never rise to fight again. 


are not to be found, as is thought, in 
Hudibras. Butler’s verses ran thus:—- 


For he that flies may fight again, 
Which he can never do that’s slain. 


1020 


The former are in a volume of 
“Poems,” by Sir John Mennes, reign 
of Charles the Second. The original 
idea is in Demosthenes. 


The noble simile of Milton, of Satan 
with the rising sun, in the first book of 
the “Paradise Lost,’’ had nearly occa- 
sioned the suppression of that epic; it 
was supposed to contain a treasonable 
allusion. 


Campbell’s line 
Like angels visits, few and far between, 
is a palpable plagiarism. Blair has 


Its visits, 
Like angel visits, short and far between. 


The character of the ancient Bacchus, 
that graceful divinity, seems to have 
been little understood by Dryden. The 
line in Virgil 


Et quocunque deus circum caput egit 
honestum. 


is thus grossly mistranslated, 


On whate’er side he turns his honest 
face. 


Macrobius gives the form of an im- 
precation by which the Romans believed 
whole towns could be demolished and 
armies defeated. It commences “Dis 
Pater sive Jovis mavis sive quo alio 
nomine fas est nominare,” and ends, 
“Si heec ita faxitis ut ego sciam, sen- 
tiam, intelligamque, tum quisquis votum 
hoc faxit recte factum esto, ovibus. atris 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


tribus, Tellus mater, teque, Jupiter, 
obtestor.” 

The Courtier of Baldazzar Castigli- 
one, 1528, is the first attempt at peri- 
odical moral essay with which we are 
acquainted. The Noctes Attice of 
Aulus Gellius cannot be allowed to rank 
as such. 


These lines were written over the 
closet-door of M. Menard:— 


Las d’esperer, et de me laindre 
De l'amour, des grands, et du sort, 
C’est ici que j’attends la mort 
Sans la desirer ou Ja craindre. 


Martin Luther, in his reply to Henry 
the Eighth’s book, by which the latter 
acquired the title of “Defender of the 
Faith,” calls the monarch very uncere- 
moniously “a pig, an ass, a dunghill, the 
spawn of an adder, a basilisk, a lying 
buffoon dressed in a king’s robes, a mad 
fool with a frothy mouth and a whorish 
races) 


An unshaped kind of something first ap- 
peared, 


is a line in Cowley’s famous description 
of the Creation. 


The “Turkish Spy” is the original of 
many similar works, among the best of 
which are Montesquieu’s “Persian Let- 
ters,’ and the “British Spy” of our 
own Wirt. It was written undoubtedly 
by John Paul Marana, an Italian, in 
Italian, but probably was first published 
in French. Dr. Johnson, who only saw 
an English translation, supposed it an 
English work. Marana died in 1693. 






 Corneille’s celebrated “Moi” of 
'Medea is borrowed from _ Seneca. 
Racine, in “Phedra,” has stolen nearly 
the whole scene of the declaration of 
love from the same puerile writer. 


The peculiar zodiac of the comets is 
comprised in these verses of Cassini:— 


_Antinous, Pegasusque, Andromeda, Tau- 
rus, Orion, 

Procyon, atque MHydrus, 
Scorpius, Arcus. 


Centaurus, 


A religious hubbub, such as the world 
has seldom seen, was excited, during 
the reign of Frederick II, by the im- 
agined virulence of a book entitled “The 
Three Impostors.” It was attributed to 
Pierre des Vignes, chancellor of the 
king, who was accused by the Pope of 
having treated the religions of Moses, 
Jesus, and Mahomet as political fables. 
The work in question, however, which 
was squabbled about, abused, defended, 
and familiarly quoted by all parties, is 
well proved never to have existed. 


Theophrastus, in his botanical works, 
anticipated the sexual system of Lin- 
neus. Philolaus of Crotona maintained 
that commets appeared after a certain 
revolution—and A‘%cetes contended for 
the existence of what is now called the 
new world. Pulci, “The Sire of the 
Half Serious Rhyme,” has a passage 
expressly alluding to a western conti- 
nent. Dante, two centuries before, has 
the same allusion :— 


De vostri sensi ch’e del rimanente 
Non vogliate negar l’esperenza, 
Diretro al sol, del mondo sensa gente. 


PINAKIDIA 


1021 


The “Lamentations” of Jeremiah are 
written, with the exception of the last 
chapter, in acrostic verse; that is to 
say, every line or couplet begins in 
alphabetical order, with some letter in 
the Hebrew alphabet. In the third 
chapter each letter is repeated three 
times successively. 


The fullest account of the Amazons 
is to be found in Diodorus Siculus. 


Cicero makes finis masculine, Virgil 
feminine. Usque ad eum  finem— 
Cicero. Que finis standi? Hec finis 
Priam fatorum—Virgil. 


Dante left a poem in three lan- 
guages—Latin, Provencal and _ Italian. 
Rambaud de Vachieras left one in five. 


Marcus Antoninus wrote a book en- 
titled Toen Eis Eauton (Gr.)—“Of the 
things which concern himself.” It 
would be a good title for a diary. 


The stream flowing through the mid- 
dle of the valley of Jehoshaphat is 
called in the Gospel of St. John “the 
brook of cedars.” In the Septuagint 
the word is kedron, darkness, from the 
Hebrew kiddar, black, and not kedroen, 
of cedars. 


Seneca says that Appion, a gram- 
marian of the age of Caligula, main- 
tained that Homer himself made the 
division of the Iliad and Odyssey into 
books, and evidences the first word of 
the Iliad Maenin, the Mae of which 
signifies 48, the number of books in 
both poems. Seneca, however, adds 
Talia sciat oportet qui multa vult scire. 

Hedelin, a Frenchman. in the begin- 


1022 


ning of the eighteenth century, denied 
that any such person as Homer ever ex- 
isted, and supposed the Iliad to be made 
up ex tragediis, et variis canticis de 
trivio mendicatorum et circulatorum— 
a la maniere des chansons du Portneuf. 

There are about one thousand lines 
identical in the Iliad and Odyssey. 

The shield of Achilles, in Homer, 
seems to have been copied from some 
pharos which the poet had seen in 
Egypt. What he describes on the cen- 
tral part of the shield is a map of the 
earth and of the celestial appearances. 


Under a portrait of Tiberio Fiurelli 
who invented the character of Scara- 
mouch, are these verses— 


Cet illustre Comedien 

De son art traca la carriere; 
Il fut le maitre de Moliere, 
Et la Nature fut le sien. 


In Cary’s “Dante,” the following pas- 
sage :— 


And pilgrim newly on his road with 
love, 
Thrills if he hears the vesper bell from 
far, 
That seems to mourn for the expiring 
day. 


Gray has also 


The curfew tolls the knell of parting 
day. 


Marmontel, in the ““Encyclopedie” de- 
clares that the Italians did not possess 
a single comedy worth reading—there- 
in displaying his ignorance. Some of 
the greatest names in Italian literature 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


were writers of comedy. Baretti men- 
tions a collection of four thousand 
dramas made by Apostolo Leno, of 
which the greater part were comedies, 
many of a high order. 

A comedy or opera by Andreini was 
the origin of “Paradise Lost.” An- 
dreini’s “Adamo” was the model of 
Milton’s Adam. 

Milton has the expression ‘Forget 
thyself to marble.” Pope has the line 
“T have not yet forgot myself to stone.” 

The most particular history of the 
Deluge, and the nearest of any to the 
account given by Moses is to be found 
in Lucian (De Dea Syria). 


The Greeks had no historian prior to 
Cadmus Milesius, nor any public in- 
scription of which we can be certified 
before the laws of Draco. 


So great is the uncertainty of ancient 
history that the epoch of Semiramis 
cannot be ascertained within 1535 
years; for according to 


Syncellus, she lived before Christ 2177 
Patavius od 2 2 ” 2060 


Hélvicus miof2va 7 iW ” 2248 
Eusebius ” ” 3 1984 
Mr. Jackson p2 Zz ” 1964 
Archbishop Usher z Piuth2b5 


Philo Byblius, from Sanchoniathon 1200 
Herodotus about 713 


An extract from “The Mystery of 
St. Dennis” is in the “Bibliotheque due 
Theatre Francais, depuis son origine,” 
Dresden, 1768. In this serious drama, 
St. Dennis, having been tortured and at 
length decapitated, rises very quietly, 
takes his head under his arm, and walks 


off the stage in all the dignity of 
martyrdom. 


The idea of ‘No light but rather 
darkness visible” was perhaps suggested 
to Milton by Spencer’s 





| 


A little glooming light much like a 
shade. 


Francis le Brossano engraved these 
verses upon a marble tomb which he 
erected to Petrarch at Argua. 


Frigida Francisci tegit hic lapis ossa 
Petrarce. 

Suscipe, virgo parens, animam; state 
Virginie, parce, 

Fessaque iam terris, coeli requiescat in 
arce. 


Bochart derives Elysium from the 
Pheenician Elysoth, joy, through the 
Greek Aelusion; Circe from the Phceni- 
cian Kirkar, to corrupt; Siren from the 
Pheenician Sir, to sing; Scylla from the 
Phoenician Scol, destruction; Charybdis 
from the Phoenician Chor-obdam, chasm 
of ruin. 


Of the ten tragedies which are at- 
tributed to Seneca (the only Roman 
tragedies extant), nine are on Greek 
subjects. 


Voltaire’s ignorance of antiquity is 
laughable. In his Essay on Tragedy, 
prefixed to “Brutus,” he actually boasts 
of having introduced the Roman senate 
cn the stage in red mantles. “The 
Greeks,” as he asserts, “font paraitre 
ses acteurs (tragic) sur des especes 


PINAKIDIA 


1023 


dechasses, le visage couvert d’un masque 
qui exprime la douleur d’un cote 
et la joie de Vautre.” The only cir- 
cumstance upon which he could possibly 
have founded such an accusation is that 
in the new comedy masks were worn 
with one eyebrow drawn up and the 
other down, to denote a busybody or 
inquisitive meddler. 


There is a book by a Jesuit, Pere 
Labbe, entitled La Bibliotheque des 
Bibliotheques; it is a catalogue of all 
authors in ail nations who have written 
catalogues of books. 


Lucretius, lib. v. 93, 96, has the 
words, 
terras— 
Una dies dabit exitio. 
Ovid the lines, 





Carmine sublimis tunc sunt peritura 
Lucreti, 


Exitio terras cum dabit una dies. 


It is a remarkable fact that during 
the whole period of the Middle Ages, 
the Germans lived in utter ignorance 
of the art of writing. 


A version of the Psalms in 1564, by 
Archbishop Parker, has the following— 


Who sticketh to God in stable trust, 
As Sion’s mount he stands full just, 
Which moveth no whit, nor yet can reel, 
But standeth for ever as stiff as steel. 


A part of the 137th Psalm runs 
thus: —“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, 


1024 


may my right hand forget her cunning, 
and may my tongue cleave to the roof 
of my mouth,” which has been thus 
paraphrased in a version of the Psalms— 


If I forget thee ever, 

Then let me prosper never, 
But let it cause 

My tongue and jaws 

To cling and cleave together. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


At the bottom of an obelisk which 
Pius VI was erecting at great expense 
near the entrance of the Quirinal Palace 
in 1783, while the people were starv-— 
ing for bread, were found written these 
words, 

Signore dia questa pietra chi divenga 
pane. 

Lord, command that these stones be 
made bread. 


Anastatic Printing 


(In this essay as in Poe’s other writings, the student of literature would do well 


to compare the articles of his contemporaries upon the same subject. 
hand of the master is always plainly seen. 


Vol. 1:15.—Ed.) 


It is admitted by every one that of 
late there has been a rather singular 
invention, called Anastatic Printing, and 
that this invention may possibly lead, 
in the course of time, to some rather 
remarkable results—among which the 
one chiefly insisted upon is the abolition 
of the ordinary stereotyping process— 
but this seems to be the amount, in 
America at least, of distinct understand- 
ing on this subject. 

“There is no exquisite beauty,” says 
Bacon, ‘“‘without some strangeness in the 
proportions.” The philosopher had ref- 
erence, here, to beauty, in its common 
acceptation—but the remark is equally 
applicable to all the forms of beauty— 
that is to say, to everything which 
arouses profound interest in the heart or 
intellect of man. In every such thing, 
strangeness—in other words novelty— 
will be found a principal element: and 
So universal is this law that it has no 
exception even in the case of this prin- 


The 
Published in Broadway Journal, 


cipal element itself. Nothing unless it 
be novel—not even novelty itself—will 
be the source of very intense excite- 
ment among men. ‘Thus the ennuye 
who travels in the hope of dissipating 
his ennui by the perpetual succession of 
novelties, will invariably be disappoint- 
ed in the end. He receives the impres- 
sion of novelty so continuously that 
it is at length no novelty to receive it. 
And the man, in general of the nine- 
teenth century—more especially of our 
own particular epoch of it—-is very 
much in the predicament of the traveller 
in question. We are so habituated to 
new inventions that we no longer get 
fiom newness the vivid interest which 
should appertain to the new—and no 
example could be adduced more dis- 
tinctly showing that the mere impor- 
tance of a novelty will not suffice to 
gain for it universal attention than we 
find in the invention of Anastatic 
Printing. It excites not one fiftieth 


ANASTATIC PRINTING 


part of the comment which was excited 
by the comparatively frivolous inven- 
tion of Sennefelder:—but he lived in 
the good old days when a novelty was 
novel. Nevertheless, while Lithography 
opened the way for a very agreeable 
pastime, it is the province of Anastatic 
Printing to revolutionise the world. 

By means of this discovery anything 
written, drawn, or printed, can be made 
to stereotype itself, with absolute ac- 
curacy, in five minutes. 

Let us take, for example, a page of 
this Journal; supposing only one side 
of the leaf to have printing on it. We 
damp the leaf with a certain acid di- 
luted, and then place it between two 
leaves of blotting-paper to absorb su- 
perfluous moisture. We then place the 
printed side in contact with a zinc plate 
that lies on the table. The acid in the 
interspaces between the letters immedi- 
ately corrodes the zinc, but the acid on 
the letters themselves has no such 
effect, having been neutralised by the 
ink. Removing the leaf at the end of 
five minutes, we find a reversed copy, 
in slight relief, of the printing on the 
page—in other words, we have a stereo- 
type plate, from which we can print a 
vast number of absolute facsimiles of 
the original printed page—which latter 
has not been at all injured in the proc- 
ess—that is to say, we can still produce 
from it (or from any impression of the 
stereotype plate) new stereotype plates 
ad libitum. Any engraving, or any pen- 
and-ink drawing, or any MS.’ can be 
stereotyped in precisely the same man- 
ner. 

The facts of this invention are estab- 
lished. The process is in successful 
operation both in London and Paris. 
We have seen several specimens of 


1025 


printing done from the plates described, 
and have now lying before us a leaf 
(from the London Art-Union) covered 
with drawing, MS., letterpress, and im- 
pressions from woodcuts—the whole 
printed from the Anastatic stereotypes, 
and warranted by the Art-Union to be 
absolute facsimiles of the originals. 

The process can scarcely be regarded 
as a new invention—and appears to be 
rather the modification and successful 
application of two or three previously 
ascertained principles—those of etching, 
electrography, lithography, etc. It fol- 
lows from this that there will be much 
difficulty in establishing or maintaining 
a right of patent, and the probability 
is that the benefits of the process will 
soon be thrown open to the world. As 
to the secret—it can only be a secret in 
name. 

That the discovery (if we may so call 
it) has been made, can excite no sur- 
prise in any thinking person—the only 
matter for surprise is that it has not 
been made many years ago. The obvi- 
ousness of the process, however, in no 
degree lessens its importance. Indeed 
its inevitable results enkindle the imagi- 
nation, and embarrass the understand- 
ing. 

Every one will perceive at once that 
the ordinary process of stereotyping will 
be abolished. Through this ordinary 
process a publisher, to be sure, is en- 
abled to keep on hand the means of 
producing edition after edition of any 
work the certainty of whose sale will 
justify the cost of stereotyping—which 
is trifling in comparison with that of 
re-setting the matter. But still, posi- 
tively this cost (of stereotyping) is 
great. Moreover, there cannot always 
be certainty about sales. Publishers 


1026 


frequently are forced to re-set works 
which they have neglected to stereo- 
type, thinking them unworthy the ex- 
pense; and many excellent works are 
not published at all, because small edi- 
tions do not pay, and the anticipated 
sales will not warrant the cost of stereo- 
type. Some of these difficulties will be 
at once remedied by the Anastatic 
Printing, and all will be remedied in a 
brief time. A publisher has only to 
print as many copies as are immediately 
demanded. He need print no more than 
a dozen, indeed, unless he feels per- 
fectly confident of success. Preserving 
one copy, he can from this, at no other 
cost than that of the zinc, produce with 
any desirable rapidity, as many impres- 
sions as he may think proper. Some 
idea of the advantages thus accruing 
may be gleaned from the fact that in 
several of the London publishing ware- 
houses there is deposited in stereotype 
plates alone property to the amount of 
a million sterling. 

The next view of the case, in point 
of obviousness is, that if necessary, a 
hundred thousand impressions per hour, 
or even infinitely more, can be taken of 
any newspaper, or similar publication. 
As many presses can be put in operation 
as the occasion may require—indeed 
there can be no limit to the number 
of copies producible, provided we have 
no limit to the number of presses. 

The tendency of all this is to cheapen 
information, to diffuse knowledge and 
amusement, and to bring before the 
public the very class of works which 
are most valuable, but least in circula- 
tion on account of unsaleability—is 
what need scarcely be suggested to any 
one. But benefits such as these are 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


merely the immediate and most obvious 
—by no means the most important. 

For some years, perhaps, the strong 
spirit of conventionality—of conserva- 
tion—will induce authors in general to 
have recourse, as usual, to the setting 
of type. A printed book now is more 
sightly, anc more legible than any MS., 
and for some years the idea will not be 
overthrown that this state of things is 
one of necessity. But by degrees it will 
be remembered that, while MS. was a 
necessity, men wrote after such fashion 
that no books printed in modern times 
have surpassed their MSS. either in ac- 
curacy or in beauty. This consideration 
will lead to the cultivation of a neat and 
distinct style of handwriting—for au- 
thors will perceive the immense advan- 
tage of giving their own MSS. directly 
to the public without the expensive in- 
terference of the type-setter, and the 
often ruinous intervention of the pub- 
lisher. All that a man of letters need 
do, will be to pay some attention to 
legibility of MS., arrange his pages to 
suit himself, and stereotype them in- 
stantaneously, as arranged. He may 
intersperse them with his own drawings, 
or with anything to please his own 
fancy, in the certainty of being fairly 
brought before his readers with all the 
freshness of his original conception 
about him. 

And at this point we are arrested by 
a consideration of infinite moment, al- 
though of a seemingly shadowy charac- 
ter. The cultivation of accuracy in MS. 
thus enforced will tend, with an inevi- 
table inipetus, to every species of im- 
provement in style, more especially in 
the points of concision and distinctness; 
and this again, in a degree even more 
noticeable, to precision of thought and 





ANASTATIC PRINTING 


luminous arrangement of matter. There 
_is a very peculiar and easily intelligible 
reciprocal influence between the thing 
written and the manner of writing, but 
the latter has the predominant influence 
of the two. The more remote effect 
on philosophy at large, which will inevi- 
tably result from improvement of style 
and thought in the points of concision, 
distinctness, and accuracy, need only be 
suggested to be conceived. 

As a consequence of attention being 
directed to neatness and beauty of MS., 
the antique profession of the scribe will 
be revived, affording abundant employ- 
ment to women, their delicacy of organ- 
isation fitting them peculiarly for such 
tasks. The female amanuensis indeed 
will occupy very nearly the position of 
the present male type-setter, whose i- 
dustry will be diverted perforce into 
other channels. 

These considerations are of vital im- 
portance, but there is yet one beyond 
them all. The value of every book is 
a compound of its literary value and 
its physical or mechanical value, as the 
product of physical labour applied to 
the physical material. But at present 
the latter value immensely predomi- 
nates even in the works of the most 
esteemed authors. It will be seen, 
however, that the new condition of 
things will at once give the ascendency 


1027 


to the literary values, and thus, by their 
literary values, will books come to be 
estimated among men. ‘The wealthy 
gentleman of ‘elegant leisure” will lose 
the vantage-ground now afforded him, 
and will be forced to tilt on terms of 
equality with the poor-devil author. At 
present the literary world is a species of 
anomalous congress, in which the ma- 
jority of the members are constrained 
to listen in silence while all the elo- 
quence proceeds from a privileged few. 
In the new regime the humblest will 
speak as often and as freely as the most 
exalted, and will be sure of receiving 
just that amount of attention which the 
intrinsic merit of their speeches may — 
deserve. 

From what we have said it will be 
evident that the discovery of Anastatic 
Printing will not only not obviate the 
necessity of copyright laws, and of an 
international law in especial, but will 
render this necessity more imperative 
and more apparent. It has been shown 
that in depressing the value of the 
physique of a book the invention will 
proportionally elevate the value of its 
morale, and since it is the latter value 
alone which the copyright laws are 
needed to protect, the necessity of the 
protection will be only the more urgent 


and more obvious than ever. 


Autography 


(Tt is an interesting fact that a long article on Autography appeared in the Southern 
Literary Journal (not the Messenger) signed W., and referring to Sullivan’s 


Island (the island of the Gold Bug). 


This article of Poe originated in 


Southern Literary Messenger, February, 1836.—Ed.) 


fl 


Unper this head, some years ago, 
there appeared in the “Southern Lit- 
erary Messenger” an article which at- 
tracted very general attention, not less 
from the nature of its subject than 
from the peculiar manner in which it 
was handled. The editor introduces his 
readers to a certain Mr. Joseph Miller, 
who, it is hinted, is not merely a de- 
scendant of the illustrious Joe of jest- 
book notoriety, but is that identical 
individual in proper person. Upon this 
point, however, an air of uncertainty 
is thrown by means of an equivoque, 
maintained throughout the paper, in 
respect to Mr. Miller’s middle name. 
This equivoque is put into the mouth 
of Mr. M. himself. He gives his name, 
in the first instance, as Joseph A. Mil- 
ler, but in the course of conversation 
shifts it to Joseph B., then to Joseph 
C., and so on through the whole alpha- 
bet, until he concludes by desiring a 
copy of the Magazine to be sent to his 
address as Joseph Z. Miller, Esquire. 

The object of his visit to the editor 
is to place in his hands the autographs 
of certain distinguished American I/:te- 
ratt. To these persons he had written 
rigmarole letters on various topics, and 


in all cases had been successful in elicit- 
ing a reply. The replies only (which 
it is scarcely necessary to say are all 
fictitious) are given in the Magazine 
with a genuine autograph facsimile ap- 
pended, and are either burlesques of the 
supposed writer’s usual style, or ren- 
dered otherwise absurd by reference to 
the nonsensical questions imagined to 
have been propounded by Mr. Miller. 
The autographs thus given are twenty- 
six in all—corresponding to the twenty- 
six variations in the initial letter of the 
hoaxer’s middle name. 

With the public this article took 
amazingly well, and many of our prin- 
cipal papers were at the expense of 
reprinting it with the woodcut auto- 
graphs. Even those whose names had 
been introduced, and whose style had 
been burlesqued, took the joke, gen- 
erally speaking, in good part. Some of 
them were at a loss what to make of 
the matter. Dr. W. E. Channing of 
Boston was at some trouble, it is said, 
in calling to mind whether he had or 
had not actually written to some Mr. 
Joseph Miller the letter attributed to 
him in the article. This letter was 
nothing more than what follows:— 





BosTON, 3 
Dear Sir—No such person as Philip 
Philpot has ever been in my employ .as 
a coachman, or otherwise. The name 
is an odd one, and not likely to be 


1028 


AUTOGRAPHY 


forgotten. The man must have refer- 
ence to some other Doctor Channing. 
It would be as well to question him 
closely. 
Respectfully yours, 
W. E. CHANNING. 
To Joseph X. Miller, Esq. 


The precise and brief sententiousness 
of the divine is here, it will be seen, 
very truly adopted or “‘hit-off.” 

In one instance only was the jeu- 
d’-esprit taken in serious dudgeon. 
Colonel Stone and the ‘‘Messenger” had 
not been upon the best of terms. Some 
one of the Colonel’s little brochures 
had been severely treated by that jour- 
nal, which declared that the work would 
have been far more properly published 
among the quack advertisements in a 
spare corner of the “Commercial.” The 
Colonel had retaliated by wholesale vi- 
tuperation of the “Messenger.” This 
being the state of affairs, it was not to 
be wondered at that the following epis- 
tle was not quietly received on the part 
of him to whom it was attributed:— 





NEw York, ; 
Dear Sir—I am exceedingly and ex- 
cessively sorry that it is out of my 
power to comply with your rational and 
reasonable request. The subject you 
mention is one with which I am utterly 
unacquainted. Moreover, it is one about 
which I know very little. 
Respectfully, 
W. L. STONE. 
Joseph V. Miller, Esq. 


These tautologies and anti-climaxes 
were too much for the Colonel, and we 
are shamed to say that he committed 
himself by publishing in the “Commer- 


1029 


cial” an indignant denial of ever having 
indited such an epistle. 

The principal feature of this auto- 
graph article, although perhaps the 
least interesting, was that of the edi- 
torial comment upon the _ supposed 
MSS., regarding them as indicative of 
character. In these comments the de- 
sign was never more than semi-serious. 
At times, too, the writer was evidently 
led into error or injustice through the 
desire of being pungent—not unfre- 
quently sacrificing truth for the sake 
of a bon-mot. In this manner qualities 
were often attributed to individuals, 
which were not so much indicated by 
their handwriting, as suggested by the 
spleen of the commentator. But that a 
strong analogy does generally and natu- 
rally exist between every man’s chirog- 
raphy and character, will be denied by 
none but the unreflecting. It is not our 
purpose, however, to enter into the 
philosophy of this subject, either in this 
portion of the present paper, or in the 
abstract. What we may have to say 
will be introduced elsewhere, and in 
connection with particular MSS. The 
practical application of the theory will 
thus go hand in hand with the theory 
itself. 

Our design is threefold:—In the first 
place, seriously to illustrate our position 
that the mental features are indicated 
(with certain exceptions) by the hand- 
writing; secondly, to indulge in a little 
literary gossip; and, thirdly, to furnish 
our readers with a more accurate and 
at the same time a more general col- 
lection of the autographs of our Jiterati 
than is to be found elsewhere. Of the 
first portion of this design we have 
already spoken. The second speaks for 
itself. Of the third it is only necessary 


1030 


to say that we are confident of its in- 
terest for all lovers of literature. Next 
to the person of a distinguished man- 
of-letters, we desire to see his portrait 
—next to his portrait his autograph. 
In the latter, especially, there is some- 
thing which seems to bring him before 
us in his true idiosyncrasy—in his char- 
acter of scribe. The feeling which 
prompts to the collection of autographs 
is a natural and rational one. But 
complete, or even extensive collections, 
are beyond the reach of those who 
themselves do not dabble in the waters 
of literature. The writer of this article 
has had opportunities in this way en- 
joyed by few. The MSS. now lying 
before him are a motley mass indeed. 
Here are letters, or other compositions, 
from every individual in America who 
has the slightest pretension to literary 
celebrity. From these we propose to 
select the most eminent names—as to 
give all would be a work of super- 
erogation. Unquestionably, among those 
whose claims we are forced to postpone, 
are several whose high merit might 
justly demand a different treatment; 
but the rule applicable in a case like 
this seems to be that of celebrity rather 
than that of true worth. It will be 
understood that, in the necessity of se- 
lection which circumstances impose 
upon us, we confine ourselves to the 
most noted among the living literati of 
the country. The article above alluded 
to embraced, as we have already stated, 
only twenty-six names, and was not 
occupied exclusively either with living 
persons, or properly speaking, with 
literary ones. In fact the whole paper 
seemed to acknowledge no law beyond 
that of whim. Our present essay will 
de found to include one hundred auto- 


in our collection. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


graphs. We have thought it unneces- 
sary to preserve any particular order in 
their arrangement. 


C LiKfedblite ~ 


The chirography of Professor ANTHON 
is the most regularly beautiful of any 
We see the most 
scrupulous precision, finish, and neat- 
ness about every portion of it—in the 
formation of individual letters, as well 
as in the tout-ensemble. The perfect 
symmetry of the MS. gives it, to a 
casual glance, the appearance of Italic 
print. The lines are quite straight, and 
at exactly equal distances, yet are 
written without black rules, or other 
artificial aid. There is not the slightest 
superfluity in the way of flourish or 
otherwise, with the exception of the 
twirl in the C of the signature. Yet 
the whole is rather neat and graceful 
than forcible. Of four letters now lying 
before us, one is written on pink, one 
on a faint blue, one on green, and one 
on yellow paper—all of the finest qual- 
ity. The seal is of green wax, with an 
impression of the head of Cesar. 

It is in the chirography of such men 
as Professor Anthon that we look with 
certainty for indication of character. 
The life of a scholar is mostly undis- 
turbed by those adventitious events 
which distort the natural disposition of 
the man of the world, preventing his 
real nature from manifesting itself in 
his MS. The lawyer, who, pressed for 


*The first part of this criticism will 
be found under the same name in 
Literati of New York.—Ed. 


| 


AUTOGRAPHY 


time, is often forced to embody a world 


of heterogeneous memoranda on scraps 


| 


of paper, with the stamps of all varie- 


ties of pen, will soon find the fair char- 


acters of his boyhood degenerate into 
hieroglyphics which would puzzle Doc- 


tor Wallis or Champollion; and from 


impossible to decide anything. 


chirography so disturbed it is nearly 
In a 
similar manner, men who pass through 
many striking vicissitudes of life, ac- 
quire in each change of circumstance a 
temporary inflection of the handwriting; 


the whole resulting, after many years, 


in an unformed or variable MS., 
scarcely to be recognised by them- 
selves from one day to the other. In 
the case of literary men generally, we 
may expect some decisive token of the 
mental influence on the MS., and in the 
instance of the classical devotee we 
may look with especial certainty for 
such token. We see, accordingly, in 
Professor Anthon’s autography each and 
all of the known idiosyncrasies of his 
taste and intellect. We recognise at 
once the scrupulous precision and finish 
of his scholarship and of his style—the 
love of elegance which prompts him to 
surround himself in his private study 
with gems of sculptural art and beauti- 
fully bound volumes, all arranged with 
elaborate attention to form, and in the 
very pedantry of neatness. We per- 
ceive, too, the disdain of superfluous 
embellishment which distinguishes his 
compilations, and which gives to their 
exterior appearance so marked an dir 
of Quakerism. We must not forget to 
observe that the “want of force” is a 
want as perceptible in the whole char- 
acter of the man as in that of the MS. 


1031 


The MS. of Mr. Irvrnc has little 
about it indicative of his genius. Cer- 
tainly, no one could suspect from it any 
nice finish in the writer’s compositions; 
nor is this nice finish to be found. The 
letters now before us vary remarkably 
in appearance; and those of late date 
are not nearly so well written as the 
more antique. Mr. Irving has travelled 
much, has seen many vicissitudes, and 
has been so thoroughly satiated with 
fame as to grow slovenly in the per- 
formance of his literary tasks. This 
slovenliness has affected his handwrit- 
ing. But even from his earlier MSS. 
there is little to be gleaned, except the 
ideas of simplicity and precision. It 
must be admitted, however, that this 
fact, in itself, is characteristic of the 
literary manner, which, however excel- 
lent, has no prominent or very remark- 
able features. 


For the last six or seven years few 
men have occupied a more desirable 
position among us than Mr, BENJAMIN. 
As the editor of the ‘““American Monthly 
Magazine,” of the “New Yorker,” and 
more lately of the “Signal,” and ‘““New 
World,’ he has exerted an influence 
scarcely second to that of any editor in 
the country. This influence Mr. B. 
owes to no single cause, but to his 
combined ability, activity, causticity, 
fearlessness, and independence. We use 
the latter term, however, with some 


1032 


mental reservation. The editor of the 
“World” is independent so far as the 
word implies unshaken resolution to 
follow the bent of one’s own will, let 
the consequences be what they may. 
He is no respecter of persons, and his 
vituperation as often assails the power- 
ful as the powerless—indeed the latter 
fall rarely under his censure. But we 
cannot call his independence at all times 
that of principle. We can never be sure 
that he will defend a cause merely be- 
cause it is the cause of truth—or even 
because he regards it as such. He is 
too frequently biassed by personal feel- 
ings—feelings now of friendship, and 
again of vindictiveness. He is a warm 
friend, and a bitter, but not implacable 
enemy. His judgment in literary mat- 
ters should not be questioned, but there 
is some difficulty in getting at his real 
opinion. As a prose writer, his style 
is lucid, terse, and pungent. He is often 
witty, often cuttingly sarcastic, but sel- 
dom humorous. He frequently injures 
the force of his fiercest attacks by an 
indulgence in merely vituperative epi- 
thets. As a poet, he is entitled to far 
higher consideration than that in which 
he is ordinarily held. He is skilful and 
passionat~, as well as imaginative. His 
sonnet’ save not been surpassed. In 
short, it is as a poet that his better 
genius is evinced—it is in poetry that 
his noble spirit breaks forth, showing 
what the man is, and what, but for un- 
happy circumstances, he would invar- 
iably appear. 

Mr. Benjamin’s MS. is not very dis- 
similar to Mr. Irving’s, and, like his, 
it has no doubt been greatly modified 
by the excitements of life, and by the 
necessity of writing much and hastily, 
so that we can predicate but little re- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


specting it. It speaks of his exquisite 
sensibility and passion. ‘These betray 
themselves in the nervous variation of 
the MS. as the subject is diversified. 
When the theme is an ordinary one, the 
writing is legible and has force, but 
when it verges upon anything which 
may be supposed to excite, we see the 
characters falter as they proceed. In 
the MSS. of some of his best poems this 
peculiarity is very remarkable. The 
signature conveys the idea of his usual 
chirography. 


tit P bina 


Mr. KENNEDY is well known as the 
author of “Swallow Barn,” “Horse- 
Shoe Robinson,” and “Rob of the 
Bowl,” three works whose features are 
strongly and decidedly marked. ‘These 
features are boldness and force. of 
thought (disdaining ordinary embellish- 
ment, and depending for its effect upon 
masses rather than upon details), with 
a predominant sense of the picturesque 
pervading and giving colour to the 
whole. His “Swallow Barn” in especial 
(and it is by the first effort of an author 
that we form the truest idea of his 
mental bias) is but a rich succession of 
picturesque still-life pieces. Mr. Ken- 
nedy is well-to-do in the world, and has 
always taken the world easily. We may 
therefore expect to find in his chirogra- 
phy, if ever in any, a full indication of 
the chief feature of his literary style, 
especially as this chief feature is so 
remarkably prominent. A glance at his 
signature will convince any one that the 
indication zs to be found. A painter 
called upon to designate the main pecu- 


| 
. 
| 


| 


parts. 





of the letters. 


AUTOGRAPHY 


 liarity of this MS., would speak at once 


of the picturesque. ‘This character is 
given it by the absence of hair-strokes, 


and by the abrupt termination of every 
letter without tapering; also in great 


measure by varying the size and slope 
Great uniformity is pre- 
served in the whole air of the MS., 
with great variety in the constituent 
Every character has the clear- 
ness, boldness, and precision of a wood- 
cut. The long letters do not rise or fall 


in an undue degree above the others. 
Upon the whole, this is a hand which 


pleases us much, although its bizarrerie 
is rather too piquant for the general 
taste. Should its writer devote himself 
more exclusively to light ietters we 
predict his future eminence. The paper 
on which our epistles are written is very 
fine, clear, and white, with gilt edges. 
The seal is neat, and just sufficient wax 
has been used for the impression. All 
this betokens a love of the elegant with- 
out effeminacy. 


C= B22Q22n— 


The handwriting of GRENVILLE MEL- 
LEN is somewhat peculiar, and partakes 
largely of the character of his signature 
as seen above. The whole is highly 
indicative of the poet’s flighty, hyper- 
fanciful character, with his unsettled 
and often erroneous ideas of the beau- 
tiful. His straining after effect is well 
paralleled in the formation of the pre- 
posterous G in the signature, with the 
two dots by its side. Mr. Mellen has 
genius unquestionably, but there is 
something in his temperament which 
obscures it. 


1033 


No correct notion of Mr. PAuULDING’s 
literary peculiarities can be obtained 
from an inspection of his MS., which 
no doubt has been strongly modified by 
adventitious circumstances. His small 
a’s, ¢’s, and c’s are all alike, and the 
style of the characters generally is 
French, although the entire MS. has 
much the appearance of Greek text. 
The paper which he ordinarily uses is 
of a very fine glossy texture, and of a 
blue tint, with gilt edges. His signature 
is a good specimen of his general hand. 


. LE Kez jas 


Mrs. SIGOURNEY seems to take much 
pains with her MSS. Apparently she 
employs black lines. Every t is crossed, 
and every z dotted, with precision, while 
the punctuation is faultless. Yet the 
whole has nothing of effeminacy or 
formality. The individual characters 
are large, well and freely formed, and 
preserve a perfect uniformity through- 
out. Something in her handwriting puts 
us in mind of Mr. Paulding’s. In both 
MSS. perfect regularity exists, and in 
both the style is formed or decided. 
Both are beautiful, yet Mrs. Sigourney’s 
is the most legible, and Mr. Paulding’s 
nearly the most illegible in the world. 
From that of Mrs. S. we might easily 
form a true estimate of her composi- 
tions. Freedom, dignity, precision, and 
grace, without originality, may be prop- 
erly attributed to her. She has fine 
taste, without genius. Her paper is 


1034 


usually good, the seal small, of green 
and gold wax, and without impression. 


CLA fk alee, 


Mr. Watsn’s MS. is peculiar, from 
its large, sprawling, and irregular ap- 
pearance—rather rotund than angular. 
It always seems to have been hurriedly 
written. The ?#’s are crossed with a 
sweeping scratch of the pen, which gives 
to his epistles a somewhat droll appear- 
ance. A dictatorial air pervades the 
whole. His paper is of ordinary qual- 
ity. His seal is commonly of brown 
wax mingled with gold, and bears a 
Latin motto, of which only the words 
trans and mortuus are legible. 

Mr. Walsh cannot be denied talent, 
but his reputation, which has been bol- 
stered into being by a clique, is not a 
thing to live. A blustering self-conceit 
betrays itself in his chirography, which 
upon the whole is not very dissimilar to 
that of Mr. E. Everett, of whom we 
shall speak hereafter. 


Le igor han 


Mr. INGRAHAM, or Ingrahame (for he 
writes his name sometimes with, and 
sometimes without the e), is one of 
our most popular novelists, if not one 
of our best. He appeals always to the 
taste of the ultra-romanticists (as a 
matter, we believe, rather of pecuniary 
policy than of choice) and thus is ob- 
noxious to the charge of a certain cut- 
and-thrust, blue-fire, melodramaticism. 
Still, he is capable of better things. 
His chirography is very unequal, at 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


times sufficiently clear and flowing, at 
others shockingly scratchy and uncouth. 
From it nothing whatever can be predi- 
cated except an uneasy vacillation of 
temper and of purpose. 


Cv 


Mr. Bryant’s MS. puts us entirely 
at fault. It is one of the most com- 
monplace clerk’s hands which we ever 
encountered, and has no character about 
it beyond that of the day-book and 
ledger. He writes, in short, what mer- 
cantile men and professional penmen 
call a fair hand, but what artists would 
term an abominable one. Among its. 
regular up and down strokes, waving 
lines and hair-lines, systematic taper- 
ings and flourishes, we look in vain for 
the force, polish, and decision of the 
poet. The picturesque, to be sure, is 
equally deficient in his chirography and 
in his poetical productions. 


° 


Spey | 





Mr. HAtteck’s hand is strikingly in- 
dicative of his genius. We see in it 
some force, more grace, and little of the 
picturesque. There is a great deal of 
freedom. about it, and his MSS. seem 
to be written currente calamo, but 
without hurry. His flourishes, which 
are not many, look as if thoughtfully 
planned, and deliberately, yet firmly 
executed. His paper is very good, and 
of a bluish tint, his seal of red wax. 


AUTOGRAPHY 


_ Mr. Wiis when writing carefully 
would write a hand nearly resembling 
that of Mr. Halleck, although no simi- 
larity is perceptible in the signatures. 
His usual chirography is dashing, free, 
and not ungraceful, but is sadly defi- 
cient in force and picturesqueness. It 
has been the fate of this gentleman to 
be alternately condemned ad infinitum, 
and lauded ad nauseam, a fact which 
speaks much in his praise. We know 
of no American writer who has evinced 
greater versatility of talent, that is to 
say, of high talent, often amounting to 
genius, and we know of none who has 
more narrowly missed placing himself 
at the head of our letters. 

The paper of Mr. Willis’s epistles is 
always fine and glossy. At present he 
employs a somewhat large seal, with a 
dove or carrier-pigeon at the top, the 
word “Glenmary” at bottom, and the 
initials “N. P. W.” in the middle. 


Jectfztt Poerez} 


Mr. Dawes has been long known as a 
poet, but his claims are scarcely yet 
settled, his friends giving him rank with 
Brant and Halleck, while his opponents 
treat his pretensions with contempt. 
The truth is that the author of “Geral- 
dine” and “‘Athenia of Damascus” has 
written occasional verses very well—so 
well that some of his minor pieces may 
be considered equal to any of the minor 
pieces of either of the two gentlemen 
above mentioned. His longer poems, 
however, will not bear examination. 
‘Athenia of Damascus” is pompous 





1035 


nonsense, and “Geraldine” a most 
ridiculous imitation of Don Juan, in 
which the beauties of the original ‘have 
been as sedulously avoided as the blem- 
ishes have been blunderingly culled. In 
style he is perhaps the most inflated, 
involved, and false-figurative of any of 
our more noted poets. This defect of 
course is only fully appreciable in what 
are termed his “sustained efforts,” and 
thus his shorter pieces are often ex- 
ceedingly good. His apparent erudition 
is mere verbiage, and were it real would 
be lamentably out of place where we 
see it. He seems to have been infected 
with a blind admiration of Coleridge, 
especially of his mysticism and cant. 


H. W. Loncrettow (Professor of 
Moral Philosophy at Harvard), is enti- 
tled to the first place among the poets 
of America—certainly to the first place 
among those who have put themselves 
prominently forth as poets. His good 
qualities are all of the highest order, 
while his sins are chiefly those of af- 
fectation and imitation—an imitation 
sometimes verging upon downright 
theft. 

His MS. is remarkably good, and is 
fairly exemplified in the signature. We 
see here plain indications of the force, 
vigour, and glowing richness of his 
literary style; the deliberate and steady 
finish of his compositions. The man 
who writes thus may not accomplish 
much, but what he does, will always be 
thoroughly done. The main beauty, or 
at least one great beauty, of his poetry, 


1036 


is that of proportion; another is a free- 
dom from extraneous embellishment. 
He oftener runs into affectation through 
his endeavours at simplicity than 
through any other cause. Now this 
rigid simplicity and proportion are 
easily perceptible in the MS., which, 
altogether, is a very excellent one. 


Ai Ppnd.. 


The Rev. J. Prerpont, who, of late, 
has attracted so much of the public 
attention, is one of the most accom- 
plished poets in America. His “Air 
of Palestine” is distinguished by the 
sweetness and vigour of its versification, 
and by the grace of its sentiments. 
Some of his shorter pieces are exceed- 
ingly terse and forcible, and none of 
our readers can have forgotten his 
“Lines on Napoleon.” His rhythm is 
at least equal in strength and modula- 
tion to that of any poet in America. 
Here he resembles Milman and Croly. 

His chirography, nevertheless, indi- 
cates nothing beyond the commonplace. 
It is an ordinary clerk’s hand—one 
which is met with more frequently than 
any other. It is decidedly formed; and 
we have no doubt that he never writes 
otherwise than thus. The MS. of his 
school-days has probably been persisted 
in to the last. If so, the fact is in full 
consonance with the steady precision of 
his style. The flourish at the end of the 
signature is but a part of the writer’s 
general enthusiasm. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Mr. Stmms is the author of “Martin 
Faber,” ~“Atalantis,” “‘Guy *, Rivers. 
“The Partisans,” ‘‘Mellichampe,” ‘The 
Yemassee,” “The Damsel of Darien,” 
“The Black Riders of the Congaree,” 
and one or two other productions, 
among which we must not forget to 
mention several fine poems. As a poet, 
indeed, we like him far better than as - 
a novelist. His qualities in this latter 
respect resemble those of Mr. Kennedy, 
although he equals him in no particular, 
except in his appreciation of the grace- 
ful. In his sense of beauty he is Mr. 
K.’s superior, but falls behind him in 
force, and the other attributes of the 
author of “Swallow Barn.” These dif- 
ferences and resemblances are well 
shown in the MSS. That of Mr. S. has 
more slope, and more uniformity in de- 
tail, with less in the mass—while it has 
also less of the picturesque, although 
still much. The middle name is Gil- 
more; in the cut it looks like Gilmere. 


The Rev. Orestes A. BRowNSON is 
chiefly known to the literary world as 
the editor of the “Boston Quarterly Re- 
view,” a work to which he contributes, 
each quarter, at least two-thirds of the 
matter. He has published little in 
book-form—his principal works being 
“Charles Elwood” and ‘New Views.” 
Of these, the former production is, in 
many respects, one of the highest merit. 


In logical accuracy, in comprehensive- 
ness of thought, and in the evident 
frankness and desire for truth in which 
it is composed, we know of few theo- 
logical treatises which can be compared 
with it. Its conclusion, however, bears 
about it a species of hesitation and in- 
consequence which betray the fact that 
the writer has not altogether succeeded 
in convincing himself of those impor- 
tant truths which he is so anxious to 
impress upon his readers. We must 
bear in mind, however, that this is the 
fault of Mr. Brownson’s subject, and 
not of Mr. Brownson. However well 
@ man may reason on the great topics 
of God and immortality, he will be 
forced to admit tacitly in the end, that 
God and immortality are things to be 
felt, rather than demonstrated. 

On subjects less indefinite, Mr. B. 
reasons with the calm and convincing 
force of a Combe. He is, in every re- 
spect an extraordinary man, and with 
the more extensive resources which 
would have been afforded him by early 
education, could not have failed to bring 
about important results. 

His MS. indicates, in the most strik- 
ing manner, the unpretending simplicity, 
directness, and especially the indefatiga- 
bility. of his mental character. His 
signature is more petite than his general 
chirography. 


Di. Ltrs 


Judge Brverty Tucker, of the Col- 
lege of William and Mary, Virginia, is 
the author of one of the best novels 
ever published in America—‘‘George 
Balcombe’’—although for some reason 
the book was never a popular favourite. 





AUTOGRAPHY 


1037 


It was, perhaps, somewhat too didactic 
for the general taste. 

He has written a great deal also for 
the “Southern Literary Messenger” at 
different times; and at one period acted 
in part, if not altogether, as editor of 
that Magazine, which is indebted to him 
for some very racy articles, in the way 
of criticism especially. He is apt, how- 
ever, to be led away for personal feel- 
ings, and is more given to vituperation 
for the mere sake of point or pungency 
than is altogether consonant with his 
character as judge. Some five years 
ago there appeared in the ‘‘Messenger,”* 
under the editorial head, an article on 
the subject of the ‘Pickwick Papers” 
and some other productions of Mr. 
Dickens. This article, which abounded 
in well-written but extravagant denun- 
ciation of everything composed by the 
author of “The Curiosity Shop,” and 
which prophesied his immediate down- 
fall, we have reason to believe was from 
the pen of Judge Beverly Tucker. We 
take this opportunity of mentioning the 
subject, because the odium of the paper 
in question fell altogether upon our 
shoulders, and it is a burden we are not 
disposed and never intended to bear. 
The review appeared in March, we 
think, and we had retired from the 
‘“‘Messenger” in the January preceding. 
About eighteen months previously and 
when Mr. Dickens was scarcely known 
to the public at all, except as the au- 
thor of some brief tales and essays, the 
writer of this article took occasion to 
predict in the “Messenger,” and in the 
most emphatic manner, that high and 
just distinction which the author in 
question has attained. Judge Tucker’s 
MS. is diminutive, but neat and legible, 
and has much force and precision, with 


1038 


little of the picturesque. The care 
which he bestows upon his literary com- 
positions makes itself manifest also in 
his chirography. ‘The signature is more 
florid than the general hand. 


Toh ipa wont 


Mr. SANDERSON, Professor of the 
Greek and Latin languages in the High 
School of Philadelphia, is well known 
as the author of a series of letters en- 
titled “The American in Paris.” These 
are distinguished by ease and vivacity 
of style, with occasional profundity of 
observation, and, above all, by the fre- 
guency of their illustrative anecdotes 
and figures. In all these particulars 
Professor Sanderson is the precise coun- 
terpart of Judge Bcverly Tucker, eu- 
thor cs ‘George Balcombe.” The MSS. 
of the wo gentl..aen a . nearly identi- 
cal. Both are neat, clear, and legible. 
Mr. Sanderson’s is somewhat the more 
crowded. 





ELE Coulob. 


About Miss Goutp’s MS. there is 
great neatness, picturesqueness, and fin- 
ish, without over-effeminacy. The lit- 
erary style of one who writes thus will 
always be remarkable for sententious- 
ness and epigrammatism; and these are 
the leading features of Miss Gould’s 


CA Mey 


Prof. Henry, of Bristol College, is 
chiefly known by his contributions to 
cur Quarterlies, and as one of the or- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


iginators of the “New York Review,” 
in conjunction with Dr. Hawks and Pro- 
fessor Anthon. His chirography is now 
neat and picturesque (much resembling 
that of Judge Tucker), and now exces- 
sively scratchy, clerky, and slovenly— 
so that it is nearly impossible to say 
anything respecting it, except that it in- 
dicates a vacillating disposition, with 
unsettled ideas of the beautiful. None 
of his epistles, in regard to their chirog- 
raphy, end as well as they begin. This 
trait denotes fatigability. His signature, 
which is bold and decided, conveys not 
the faintest idea of the general MS. 


_ Mrs. Empury is chiefly known by her 
contributions to the Periodicals of the 
country. She is one of the most nerv- 


‘ous of our female writers, and is not 


destitute of originality—that rarest of 
all qualities in a woman, and especially 
in an American woman. 

Her MS. evinces a strong disposition 
to fly off at a tangent from the old 
formule of the Boarding Academies. 
Both in it, and in her literary style, 
it would be well that she should no 
longer hesitate to discard the absurdities 
of mere fashion. 


Sal oll 


Miss Lestie is celebrated for the 
homely naturalness of her stories and 
for the broad satire of her comic style. 
She has written much for the Maga- 
zines. Her chirography is distinguished 
for neatness and finish, without over- — 
effeminacy. It is rotund, and somewhat — 


AUTOGRAPHY 


diminutive; the letters being separate, 
and the words always finished with an 
inward twirl. She is never particular 
about the quality of her paper or the 
other externals of epistolary correspond- 
ence. From her MSS. in general, we 
might suppose her solicitous rather 
about the effect of her compositions as 
a whole, than about the polishing of the 
constituent parts. There is much of 
the picturesque both in her chirography 
and in her literary style. 


Mr. NEAL has acquired a very exten- 
sive reputation through his “Charcoal 
Sketches,” a series of papers originally 
written for the “Saturday News” of this 
city, and afterwards published in book 
form, with illustrations by Johnston. 
The whole design of the “Charcoal 
Sketches” may be stated as the depict- 
ing of the wharf and street loafer; but 
this design has been executed altogether 
| in caricature. The extreme of bur- 
lesque runs throughout the work, which 
is also chargeable with a tedious repe- 
tition of slang and incident. The loafer 
always declaims the same nonsense, in 
the same style, gets drunk in the same 
way, and is taken to the watch-house 
after the same fashion. Reading one 
chapter of the book we read all. Any 
single description would have been an 
original idea well executed, but the dose 
is repeated ad nauseam, and betrays a 
woful poverty of invention. The man- 
ner in which Mr. Neal’s book was be- 
lauded by his personal friends of the 
Philadelphia press speaks little for their 
independence, or less for their taste. 
To dub the author of these “Charcoal 





1039 


Sketches” (which are really very excel- 
lent police-reports) with the title of 
“the American Boz,” is either outrage- 
ous nonsense or malevolent irony. 

In other respects Mr. N. has evinced 
talents which cannot be questioned. He 
has conducted the “Pennsylvanian” with 
credit, and, as a political writer, he 
stands deservedly high. His MS. is 
simple and legible, with much space 
between the words. It has force, but 
little grace. Altogether, his chirography 
is good; but as he belongs to the edi- 
torial corps, it would not be just to 
suppose that any deductions in respect 
to character could be gleaned from it. 
His signature conveys the general MS. 
with accuracy. 


CLG Wh peas 


Mr. SesA SmitH has become some- 
what widely celebrated as the author, 
in part, of the “Letters of Major Jack 
Downing.” These were very clever 
productions; coarse, but full of fun, wit, 
sarcasm, and sense. ‘Their manner ren- 
dered them exceedingly popular, until 
their success tempted into the field a 
host of brainless imitators. Mr. S. is 
also the author of several poems; 
among others, of “Powhatan, a Metrical 
Romance,” which we do not very par- 
ticularly admire. His MS. is legible, 
and has much simplicity about it. At 
times it vacillates, and appears un- 
formed. Upon the whole, it is much 
such a MS. as David Crockett wrote, 
and precisely such a one as we might 
imagine would be written by a veritable 
Jack Downing—by Jack Downing him- 
self, had this creature of Mr. Smith’s 
fancy been endowed with a real entity. 


1040 


The fact is that “The Major” is not all 
a creation; at least one half of his char- 
acter actually exists in the bosom of his 
originator. It was the Jack Downing 
half that composed ‘‘Powhatan.” 


Lieutenant SLIDELL some years ago 
took the additional name of Mackenzie. 
His reputation at one period was ex- 
travagantly high—a circumstance owing, 
in some measure, to the esprit de corps 
of the navy of which he is a member, 
and to his private influence, through 
his family, with the Review-cliques. 
Yet his fame was not altogether unde- 
served; although it cannot be denied 
that his first book, “A Year in Spain,” 
was in some danger of being overlooked 
by his countrymen, until a benignant 
star directed the attention of the Lon- 
don Bookseller, Murray, to its merits. 
Cockney octavos prevailed; and the 
clever young writer, who was cut dead 
in his Yankee habiliments, met with 
bows innumerable in the gala dress of 
an English imprimatur. The work now 
ran through several editions, and pre- 
pared the public for the kind reception 
of “The American in England,” which 
exalted his reputation to its highest pin- 
nacle. Both these books abound in racy 
description, but are chiefly remarkable 
for their gross deficiencies in grammat- 
ical construction. 

Lieut. Slidell’s MS. is peculiarly neat 
and even—quite legible, but altogether 
too petite and effeminate. Few tokens 
of his literary character are to be found 
beyond the petiteness, which is exactly 
analogous with the minute detail of his 
descriptions. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


“Cena Li 


FRANCIS LIEBER is Professor of His- 
tory and Political Economy in the Col- | 
lege of South Carolina, and has pub- | 
lished many works distinguished by | 
acumen and erudition. Among these) 
we may notice a “Journal of a Resi- ' 
dence in Greece,”’ written at the insti- | 
gation of the historian Niebuhr; “The | 
Stranger in America,” a piquant book | 
abounding in various information rela-| 
tive to the United States; a treatise) 
n “Education”; “‘Reminiscences of an} 
Intercourse with Niebuhr,” and an 
“Essay on International Copyright”— 
this last a valuable work. 

Professor Lieber’s personal character 
is that of the frankest and most unpre- 
tending bonhomie, while his erudition) 
is rather massive than minute. We may) 
therefore expect his MS. to differ widely 
from that of his brother scholar Pro- | 
fessor Anthon; and so in truth it does, | 
His chirography is careless, heavy, 
black, and forcible, without hie slightest | 
attempt at ornament—very similar, 
upon the whole, to the well-known) 
chirography of Chief-Justice Marshall. | 
His letters have the peculiarity of a 
wide margin left at the top of each 
page. 


Mrs. HAte is .well known for her 
masculine style of thought. This is. 
clearly expressed in her chirography, 
which is far larger, heavier, and alto-. 
gether bolder than that of her sex gen- 





















AUTOGRAPHY 


erally. It resembles in a great degree 
‘that of Professor Lieber, and is not 
. easily deciphered. 


Gil a Coupezee 


Mr. Everett’s MS. is a noble one. 
It has about it an air of deliberate 
| precision emblematic of the statesman, 
and a mingled grace and solidity betok- 
_ ening the scholar. Nothing can be more 
legible, and nothing need be more uni- 
form. The man who writes thus will 
' never grossly err in judgment or other- 
wise; but we may also venture to say 
that he will never attain the loftiest 
| pinnacles of renown. The letters before 
| us have a seal of red wax, with an oval 
| device bearing the initials E.E. and sur- 
rounded with a scroll, inscribed with 
' some Latin words which are illegible. 


Dr. Brrp is well known as the author 
of “The Gladiator,” ‘“Calavar,”’ ‘The 
Infidel,” “Nick of the Woods,’ and 
some other works—‘Calavar” being, we 
think, by far the best of them, and 
beyond doubt one of the best of Amer- 
ican novels. 

His chirography resembles that of 
Mr. Benjamin very closely; the chief 
difference being in a curl of the final 
letters in Dr. B’s. The characters, too, 
have the air of not being able to keep 
pace with the thought, and an uneasy 
want of finish seems to have been the 
consequence. A vivid imagination might 
easily be deduced from such a MS, 


1041 


hfe te 


eee eee ees 


Mr. JoHN NEAL’s MS. is exceedingly 
illegible and careless. Many of his 
epistles are perfect enigmas, and we 
doubt whether he could read them him- 
self in half-an-hour after they are 
penned. Sometimes four or five words 
are run together. Any one, from Mr. 
Neal’s penmanship, might suppose his 
mind to be what it really is—excessively 
flighty and irregular, but active and 
energetic. 


CA ge Dac 


The penmanship of Miss Sepcwick 
is excellent. The characters are well- 
sized, distinct, elegantly but not osten- 
tatiously formed, and, with perfect 
freedom of manner, are still sufficiently 
feminine. The hair-strokes differ little 
from the downward ones, and the MSS. 
have thus a uniformity they might not 
otherwise have. The paper she gener- 
ally uses is good, blue, and machine- 
ruled. Miss Sedgwick’s handwriting 
points unequivocally to the traits of her 
literary style—which are strong com- 
mon sense, and a masculine disdain of 
mere ornament. ‘The signature conveys 
the general chirography. 


of Fousus  Corfirrs 


Mr. Cooper’s MS. is very bad— 
unformed, with little of distinctive 
character about it, and varying greatly 
in different epistles. In most of those 
before us a steel pen has been em- 


1042 . 


ployed, the lines are crooked, and the 
whole chirography has a constrained 
and school-boyish air. The paper is fine, 
and of a bluish tint. A wafer is always 
used. Without appearing ill-natured, 
we could scarcely draw any inferences 
from such a MS. Mr. Cooper has seen 
many vicissitudes, and it is probable 


that he has not always written thus. | 


Whatever are his faults, his genius can- 
not be doubted. 


PS Spiel Peat 


Dr. Hawks is one of the originators 
of the ‘New York Review,” to which 
journal he has furnished many articles. 
He is also known as the author of the 
“History of the Episcopal Church of 
Virginia,” and one or two minor works. 
He now edits the “Church Record.” 
His style, both as a writer and as a 
preacher, is characterized rather by a 
perfect fluency than by any more lofty 
quality, and this trait is strikingly indi- 
cated in his chirography, of which the 
signature is a fair specimen. 


erazy lor Kir Cap 


the author of 
Brothers,” ‘“Ring- 


This gentleman is 
“Cromwell,” “The 
wood, the Rover,’ and some other 
minor productions. He at one time 
edited the ‘American Monthly Maga- 
zine” in connection with Mr. Hoffman. 
In his compositions for the Magazines, 
Mr. Hersert is in the habit of doing 
both them and himself gross injustice 
by neglect and hurry. His longer works 
evince much ability, although he is 
rarely entitled to be called original. His 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


MS. is exceedingly neat, clear, and © 
forcible; the signature affording a just 
idea of it. It resembles that of Mr. © 
Kennedy very nearly; but has more 
slope and uniformity, with, of course, — 
less spirit, and less of the picturesque. | | 
He who writes as Mr. Herbert will be © 
found always to depend chiefly upon 
his merits of style for a literary repu- | 
tation, and will not be unapt to fall” 
into a pompous grandiloquence. The © 
author of “Cromwell” is sometimes, 
wofully turgid. . 


Vie 


Professor PALFREY* is known to the! 
public principally through his editorship | 
of the “North American Review.” He’ 
has a reputation for scholarship; and/ 


many of the articles which are attrib-/ 


uted to his pen evince that this reputa-! 
tion is well based, so far as the common | 
notion of scholarship extends. For the 
rest, he seems to dwell altogether | 
within the narrow world of his own) 
conceptions; imprisoning them by the 
very barrier which he has erected. 
against the conceptions of others. 

His MS. shows a total deficiency in| 
the sense of the beautiful. It has great) 
pretension—great straining after effect, 
but is altogether one of the most miser- | 
able MSS. in the world—forceless, 
graceless, tawdry, vacillating, and un-| 








*Palfrey, Pierrepont, Paulding and 
Percival, as well as Poe, are among the | 
names to be considered in attributing | 
articles signed P.: to the proper 
author.—Ed. | 











picturesque. The signature conveys but 
a faint idea of its extravagance. How- 
‘ever much we may admire the mere 
knowledge of the man who writes thus, 
‘it will not do to place any dependence 
‘upon his wisdom or upon his taste. 


Ul tru, 


F. W. Tuomas, who began his lit- 
‘erary career at the early age of seven- 
_teen, by a poetical lampoon upon cer- 
_tain Baltimore fops, has since more 
particularly distinguished himself as a 
inovelist. His “Clinton Bradshawe’’ is 
»perhaps better known than any of his 
\later fictions. It is remarkable for a 
frank, unscrupulous portraiture of men 
and things, in high life and low, and by 
-unusual discrimination and observation 
in respect to character. Since its pub- 
lication he has produced ‘East and 
‘ West” and “Howard Pinckney,” neither 
‘of which seems to have been so popular 
‘as his first essay, although both have 
) merit. 

“East and West,” published in 1836, 
‘was an attempt to portray the every- 
day events occurring to a fallen family 
-emigrating from the East to the West. 
‘In it, as in “Clinton Bradshawe,” most 
of the characters are drawn from life. 
“Howard Pinckney” was published in 
1840. 

Mr. Thomas was at one period the 
editor of the Cincinnati ‘(Commercial 
Advertiser.” He is also well known as 
a public lecturer on a variety of topics. 
His conversational powers are very 
great. As a poet, he has also distin- 
guished himself. His “Emigrant” will 














AUTOGRAPHY 


1043 


be read with pleasure by every person 
of taste. 

His MS. is more like that of Mr. 
Benjamin than that of any other lit- 
erary person of our acquaintance. It 
has even more than the occasional 
nervousness of Mr. B.’s, and, as in the 
case of the editor of the ““New World,” 
indicates the passionate sensibility of 
the man, 


Hoa iope TEE) 


Mr. Morris ranks, we believe, as the 
first of our Philadelphia poets since the 
death of Willis Gaylord Clark. His 
compositions, like those of his late la- 
mented friend, are characterised by 
sweetness rather than by strength of 
versification, and by tenderness and 
delicacy rather than by vigour or origi- 
nality of thought. A late notice of him 
in the “Boston Notion” from the pen of 
Rufus W. Griswold, did his high quali- 
ties no more than justice. As a prose 
writer, he is chiefly known by his edi- 
torial contributions to the Philadelphia 
“Inquirer,” and by occasional essays for 
the Magazines. 

His chirography is usually very illegi- 
ble, although at times sufficiently dis- 
tinct. It has no marked characteristics, 
and like that of almost every editor 
in the country, has been so modified 
by the circumstances of his position as 
to afford no certain indication of the 
mental features. 


1044 





Ezra HoLpeNn has written much, not 
only for his paper, “The Saturday 
Courier,” but for our periodicals gen- 
erally, and stands high in the public 
estimation, as a sound thinker, and still 
more particularly as a fearless expresser 
of his thoughts. 

His MS. (which we are constrained 
to say is a shockingly bad one, and 
whose general features may be seen in 
his signature), indicates the frank and 
naive manner of his literary style—a 
style which not unfrequently flies off 
into whimsicalities. 


be, U Gel aur 


Mr. GRAHAM is known to the literary 
world as the editor and proprietor of 
“Graham’s Magazine,” the most popular 
periodical in America, and also of the 
“Saturday Evening Post,” of Philadel- 
phia. For both of these journals he has 
written much and well.* 

His MS. generally is very bad, or at 
least very illegible. At times it is suffi- 
ciently distinct, and has force and pic- 
turesqueness, speaking plainly of the 
energy which particularly distinguishes 
him as a man. The signature above is 
more scratchy than usual. 


*This remark should be noted by 
those who are too fond of attributing 
to Poe unsigned articles appearing in 
magazines,—Ed, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Colonel STONE, the editor of the New 
York “Commercial Advertiser,” is re-' 
markable for the great difference which’ 
exists between the apparent public opin-' 
ion respecting his abilities and the real 
estimation in which he is privately held.) 
Through his paper, and a bustling ac-' 
tivity always prone to thrust itself for-) 
ward, he has attained an unusual degree, 
of influence in New York, and not only 
this, but what appears to be a reputa-! 
tion for talent. But this talent we do) 
not remember ever to have heard as- 
signed him by any honest man’s private 
opinion. We place him among our) 
literati because he has published certain 
books. Perhaps the best of these are his 
“Life of Brandt,” and “Life and Times) 
of Red Jacket.” Of the rest, his story 
called “Ups and Downs,” his defence 
of Animal Magnetism, and his pam-) 













——a= 





phlets concerning Maria Monk, are 
scarcely the most absurd. His MS. is 
heavy and sprawling, resembling his 
mental character in a species of utter 
unmeaningness, which lies like the 


nightmare, upon his autograph. 


The labours of Mr. Sparks, Profes- 
sor of History at Harvard, are well 
known and justly appreciated. : 
MS. has an unusually odd appearance. 
The characters are large, round, black, 
irregular, and perpendicular—the sig- 
nature, as above, being an excellent 
specimen of his chirography in general.) 
In all his letters now before us, the 





























lines are as close together as possible, 
giving the idea of irretrievable con- 
fusion; still none of them are illegible 
upon close inspection. We can form 
no guess in regard to any mental pe- 
culiarities from Mr. Sparks’ MSS. which 
thas been no doubt modified by the hur- 
‘rying and intricate nature of his re- 
searches. We might imagine such 
epistles as these to have been written 
‘in extreme haste, by a man exceedingly 
busy, among great piles of books and 
/papers huddled up around him, like 
‘the chaotic tomes of Magliabecchi. The 
paper used in all our epistles is uncom- 
“monly fine. 


The name of H. S. Lecare is written 
ywithout an accent on the final e, yet is 
‘pronounced as if this letter were ac- 
'cented—Legray. He contributed many 
‘articles of high merit to the “Southern 
‘Review,’ and has a wide reputation for 
scholarship and talent. His MS. re- 
‘sembles that of Mr. Palfrey of the 
“North American Review,” and their 
‘mental features appear to us nearly 
identical. What we have said in regard 
to the chirography of Mr. Palfrey will 
‘apply with equal force to that of the 
‘present Secretary. 


Mr. GeorcE Lunt of Newburyport, 
‘Massachusetts, is known as a poet of 
‘much vigour of style and massiveness 


- AUTOGRAPHY ‘ 


1045 


of thought. He delights in the grand, 
rather than in the beautiful, and is not 
unfrequently turgid, but never feeble.* 
The traits here described impress them- 
selves with remarkable distinctness 
upon his chirography, of which the sig- 
nature gives a perfect idea. 


aelif{ hata. 


Mr. CHANDLER’S reputation as the 
editor of one of the best daily papers 
in the country, and as one of our finest 
belles lettres scholars, is deservedly 
high. He is well known through his 
numerous addresses, essays, miscellane- 
ous sketches, and prose tales. Some of 
these latter evince imaginative powers 
of a superior order. 

His MS. is not fairly shown in his 
signature, the latter being much more 
open and bold than his general chiro- 
graph. His handwriting must be in- 
cluded in the editorial category—it 
seems to have been ruined by habitual 
hurry. 


Pah thot tba Sra 


H. T. TuckerMAN has written one 
or two books consisting of “Sketches 
of Travel.” His ‘Isabel’ is, perhaps, 
better known than any of his other pro- 
ductions, but was never a popular work. 


He is a correct writer so far as mere 


*Tf the student of literature will read 
a few of these poems, he will note the 
marvelous accurate review work of Poe 
as summed up in this brief criticism— 
Ed. 


1046 


English is concerned, but an insufferably 
tedious and dull one. He has con- 
tributed much of late days to the 
“Southern Literary Messenger,” with 
which journal, perhaps, the legibility 
of his MS. has been an important, if 
not the principal recommendation. His 
chirography is neat and distinct, and 
has some grace, but no force—evincing, 
in a remarkable degree, the idiosyn- 
crasies of the writer. 


be 


Mr. Gopey is only known to the 
literary world as editor and publisher 
of “The Lady’s Book,” but his celeb- 
rity in this regard entitles him to a 
place in this collection. His MS. is re- 
markably distinct and graceful—the sig- 
nature affording an excellent idea of it. 
The man who invariably writes so well 
as Mr. G. invariably does, gives evidence 
of a fine taste, combined with an in- 
defatigability which will ensure his per- 
manent success in the world’s affairs. 
No man has warmer friends or fewer 
enemies. 


Mr. Dv SOoLte is well known through 
his connection with the ‘Spirit of the 
Times.” His prose is forcible, and 
often excellent in other respects. As 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


a poet, he is entitled to highe1 consid- 
eration. Some of his Pindaric pieces are 
unusually good, and it may be doubted 
if we have a better versifier in America. 

Accustomed to the daily toil of an 
editor, he has contracted a habit of 
writing hurriedly, and his MS. varies 
with the occasion. It is impossible to: 
deduce any inferences from it as regards 
the mental character. The signature 
shows rather how he can write than how 
he does. | 


lf 


Mr. Frencu is the author of a “Life. 
of David Crockett” and also of a novel 
called ‘“Elkswatawa,” a denunciatory 
review of which, in the “Southern Mes- 
senger,”’ some years ago, deterred him, 
from further literary attempts. Should, 
he write again, he will probably dis-, 
tinguish himself, for he is unquestion-. 
ably a man of talent. We need no bet-. 
ter evidence of this than his MS. which 
speaks of force, boldness, and orig- 
inality. The flourish, however, betrays 
a certain floridity of taste. 


Shu? feugs te 
ag Eo | 

The author of “Norman Leslie” and 
“The Countess Ida” has been more suc- 
cessful as an essayist about small mat- 
ters than as a novelist. “Norman) 


| 








AUTOGRAPHY 


Leslie’ is more familiarly remembered 
as “The Great Used Up,” while ‘The 
Countess”? made no definite impression 
whatever. Of course we are not to ex- 
| pect remarkable features in Mr. Fay’s 
-MS. It has a wavering, finicky, and 
 ever-delicate air, without pretension to 
either grace or force; and the descrip- 
tion of the chirography would answer, 
without alteration, for that of the 
literary character. Mr. F. frequently 
employs an amanuensis, who writes a 
very beautiful French hand. ‘The one 
'must not be confounded with the other. 


YWILALE 


Dr. MitTcHEtt has published several 
{pretty songs which have been set to 
‘music and become popular. He has 
jalso given to the world a volume of 
/poems, of which the longest was re- 
‘markable for an old-fashioned polish 
i and vigour of versification. His MS. 
-is rather graceful than picturesque or 
| forcible—and these words apply equally 
well to his poetry in general. The sig- 
‘nature indicates the hand. 
| 


| General Morris has composed many 
songs which have taken fast hold upon 
the popular taste, and which are de- 
servedly celebrated. He has caught the 
\true tone for these things, and hence 
‘his popularity—a popularity which his 
enemies would fain make us believe is 
altogether attributable to his editorial 
| The charge is true only in a 


| influence. 
“measure. The tone of which we speak 








1047 


is that kind of frank, free, hearty senztz- 
ment (rather than philosophy) which 
distinguishes Beranger, and which the 
critics, for want of a better term, call 
nationality. 

His MS. is a simple, unornamented 
hand, rather rotund than angular, very 
legible, forcible, and altogether in keep- 
ing with his style. 


Degree ecnre 


Mr. CALVERT was at one time princi- 
pal editor of the ‘‘Baltimore American,” 
and wrote for that journal some good 
paragraphs on the common topics of the 
day. He has also published many trans- 
lations from the German, and one or 
two original poems—among others an 
imitation of Don Juan called “Pelayo,” 
which did him no credit. He is essen- 
tially a feeble and commonplace writer 
of poetry, altogether his prose com- 
positions have a certain degree of merit. 
His chirography indicates the “common- 
place” upon which we have commented. 
It is a very unusual, scratchy, and 
tapering clerk’s hand—a hand which no 
man of talent ever did or could indite, 
unless compelled by circumstances of 
more than ordinary force. The signa- 
ture is far better than the general man- 
uscript of his epistles. 


Mr. McJitton is better known from 
his contributions to the journals of the 
day than from any book-publications. 
He has much talent, and it is not im- 
probable that he will hereafter dis- 


1048 


tinguish himself, although as yet he 
has not composed anything of length 
which, as a whole, can be styled good. 
His MS. is not unlike that of Dr. Snod- 
grass, but it is somewhat clearer and 
better. We can predicate little respect- 
ing it beyond a love of exaggeration and 
bizarrerie. 


WL Gate nfo— 


Mr. GALLAGHER is chiefly known as 
a poet. He is the author of some of 
our most popular songs, and has writ- 
ten many long pieces of high but un- 
equal merit. He has the true spirit, 
and will rise into a just distinction 
hereafter. His manuscript tallies well 
with our opinion. It is a very fine 
one—clear, bold, decided and _ pictur- 
esque. The signature above does not 
convey, in full force, the general char- 
acter of his chirography, which is more 
rotund, and more decidedly placed upon 
the paper. 


Mr. DaNaA ranks among our most 
eminent poets, and he has been the fre- 
quent subject of comment in our Re- 
views. He has high qualities, undoubt- 
edly, but his defects are many and 
great. 

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Gal- 
lagher very nearly, but. is somewhat 
more rolling, and has less boldness and 
decision. The literary traits of the two 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


gentlemen are very similar, although 
Mr. Dana is by far the more polished 
writer, and has a scholarship which Mr. 
Gallagher wants. 


A eS 


Mr. McMicHaet is well known to 
the Philadelphia public by the number 
and force of his prose compositions, but — 
he has seldom been tempted into book-_ 
publication. As a poet, he has pro- 
duced some remarkably vigorous things. | 
We have seldom seen a finer composi- 
tion than a certain celebrated ‘Mon-. 
ody” of his. 

His MS., when not hurried, is grace- 
ful and fosiig without picturesques| 
ness. At times it is totally illegible. 
His chirography is one of those which | 
have been so strongly modified by cir- 
cumstances that it is nearly impossible 
to predicate anything with certainty re- 
specting them. 


Mr. N. C. Brooks has acquired some 
reputation as a Magazine writer. + His. 
serious prose is often very good—is al.) 
ways well-worded—but in his comic at-_ 
tempts he fails, without appearing to 
be aware of his failure. As a poet he. 
has succeeded far better. In a work 
which he entitled “Scriptural Anthol- 
ogy” among many inferior compositions 
of length, there were several shorter. 
pieces of great merit:—for example 
“‘Shelley’s Obsequies” and “The Nic-| 


thanthes.” Of late days we have seen 
little from his pen. | 





His MS. has much resemblance to 
that of Mr. Bryant, although altogether 
it is a better hand, with much more 
freedom and grace. With care Mr. 
Brooks can write a fine MS. just as with 
‘care he can compose a fine poem. 


The Rev. THomas STOCKTON has 
| written many pieces of fine poetry, and 
has lately distinguished himself as the 
_ editor of the “Christian World.” 

His MS. is fairly represented by his 
signature, and bears much resemblance 
(to that of Mr. N. C. Brooks of Balti- 
‘more. Between these two gentlemen 
' there exists also a remarkable similarity, 
‘not only of thought, but of personal 
| bearing and character. We have al- 
ready spoken of the peculiarities of Mr. 
_B.’s chirography. 


Cin SF. sco of 2 


Mr. THomson has written many 
'short poems, and some of them possess 
'merit. They are characterised by ten- 
'derness and grace. His MS. has some 
‘resemblance to that of Professor Long- 
fellow, and by many persons would be 
thought a finer hand. It is clear, legi- 
‘ble, and open—what is called a rolling 
‘hand. It has too much tapering, and 
too much variation between the weight 
of the hair strokes and the downward 
ones, to be forcible or picturesque. In 
‘all those qualities which we have 
| pointed out as especially distinctive of 



















AUTOGRAPHY 


1049 


Professor Longfellow’s MS. it is re- 
markably deficient; and, in fact, the 
literary character of no two individuals 
could be more radically different. 


Hay 


The Rev. W. E. CHANNING is at the 
head of our moral and didactic writers. 
His reputation both at home and abroad 
is deservedly high, and in regard to the 
matters of purity, polish, and modula- 
tion of style, he may be said to have 
attained the dignity of a standard and 
a classic. He has, it is true, been 
severely criticised, even in respect to 
these very points, by the “Edinburgh 
Review.” The critic, however, made 
out his case but lamely, and proved 
nothing beyond his own incompetence. 
To detect occasional or even frequent 
inadvertences in the way of bad gram: 
mar, faulty construction, or misusage 
of language, is not to prove impurity 
of style—a word which happily has a 
bolder signification than any dreamed of 
by the Zoilus of the Review in question. 
Style regards, more than anything else, 
the tone of a composition. All the rest 
is not unimportant, to be sure, but 
appertains to the minor morals of litera- 
ture, and can be learned by rote by the 
meanest simpletons in letters—can be 
carried to “its highest excellence by 
dolts, who, upon the whole, are de- 
spicable as stylists. Irving’s style is 
inimitable in its grace and delicacy, yet 
few of our practised writers are guilty 
of more frequent inadvertences of lan- 
guage. In what may be termed his 
mere English, he is surpassed by fifty 


1050 


whom we could name. Mr. Tucker- 
man’s English, on the contrary, is suffi- 
ciently pure, but a more lamentable 
style than that of his “Sicily” it would 
be difficult to point out. 

Besides those peculiarities which we 
have already mentioned as_ belonging 
to Dr. Channing’s style, we must not 
fail to mention a certain calm, broad 
deliberateness, which constitutes force 
in its highest character, and approaches 
to majesty. All these traits will be 
found to exist plainly in his chirog- 
raphy, the character of which is ex- 
emplified by the signature, although 
this is somewhat larger than the general 
manuscript. 


LA. Wasa: 
—— SO 


Mr. Witmer has written and pub- 
lished much; but he has reaped the 
usual fruits of a spirit of independence, 
and has thus failed to make that im- 
pression on the popular mind which 
his talents, under other circumstances, 
would have effected. But better days 
are in store for him, and for all who 
“hold to the right of way,” despising 
the yelpings of the small dogs of our 
literature. His prose writings have all 
merit—always the merit of a chastened 
style. But he is more favourably known 
by his poetry, in which the student of 
the British classics will find much for 
warm admiration. We have few better 
versifiers than Mr. Wilmer. 

His chirography plainly indicates the 
cautious polish and terseness of his 
style, but the signature does not con- 
vey the print-like appearance of the 
MS. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


etre 


Mr. Dow is distinguished as the au- 
thor of many fine sea-pieces, 
which will be remembered a series of 
papers called “The Log of Old Iron- 
sides.” 


among 


His land sketches are not gen- 


erally so good. He has a fine imagina- 


tion, which as yet is undisciplined, and 
leads him into occasional bombast. 


As | 


a poet he has done better things than - 


as a writer of prose. 

His MS., which has been strongly. 
modified by circumstances, gives no in- | 
dication of his true character, literary 
or moral. 


Soh tone Feo 


Mr. WELD is well known as the pres- 
ent working editor of the New York) 


“Tattler” and “Brother Jonathan.” His 


attention was accidentally directed to 
literature about ten years ago, after a) 


minority, to use his own words, ‘“‘spent 


at sea, in a store, in a machine-shop, | 





and in a printing-office.” He is now, 
we believe, about thirty-one years of 
age. 


His deficiency of what is termed 


U 


L 


’ 
t 
] 


regular education would scarcely be 


gleaned from his editorials, which, in 


general, are unusually | well written. His 
“Corrected Proofs” is a work which 


does him high credit, and which has_ 


been extensively circulated, although 
“printed at odd times by himself, when 
he had nothing else to do.” 

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Jos- 
eph C. Neal in many respects, but is 
less open and less legible. His signa- 
ture is altogether much better than his 
general chirography. 


i 


| 








AUTOGRAPHY 


Mrs. M. St. Leon Loup is one of 
the finest poets of this country; possess- 
ing, we think, more of the true divine 
afflatus than any of her female con- 
temporaries. She has, in especial, zmag- 
ination of no common order, and unlike 
many of her sex whom we could men- 
tion, is not 


Content to dwell in decencies forever. 


_While she can, upon occasion, compose 
the ordinary metrical sing-song with all 
the decorous proprieties which are in 
fashion, she yet ventures very fre- 
quently into a.more ethereal region. 
We refer our readers to a truly beau- 
tiful little poem entitled the “Dream 
' of the Lonely Isle,” lately published in 
this Magazine. 

_. Mrs. Loud’s MS. is exceedingly clear, 
neat, and forcible, with just sufficient 
-effeminacy and no more. 


Dr. Piiny Earte, of Frankford, Pa., 
has not only distinguished himself by 
several works of medical and general 
science, but has become well known to 
the literary world, of late, by a volume 
of very fine poems, the longest, but by 
no means the best of which was entitled 
“Marathon.” This latter is not greatly 

inferior to the “Marco Bozzaris” of 
Halleck, while some of the minor pieces 
equal any American poems. His chi- 
_rography is peculiarly neat and beau- 
_tiful, giving indication of the elaborate 
finish which characterises his composi- 
tions. The signature conveys the gen- 
eral hand, 


1051 


Lats WGA non 


Davin HorrmMan of Baltimore, has 
not only contributed much and well to 
monthly Magazines and Reviews, but 
has given to the world several valuable 
publications in book form. His style 
is terse, pungent, and otherwise excel- 
lent, although disfigured by a _half- 
comic half-serious pedantry. 

His MS. has about it nothing strongly 
indicative of character. 


MO Manghe 


S. D. Lancrree has been long and 
favourably known to the public as 
editor of the “Georgetown Metropoli- 
tan,’ and more lately of the “Demo- 
cratic Review,” both of which journals 
he has conducted with distinguished 
success. As a critic, he has proved 
himself just, bold, and acute, while his 
prose compositions generally evince the 
man of talent and taste. 

His MS. is not remarkably good, 
being somewhat too scratchy and taper- 
ing. We include him, of course, in the 
editorial category. 


WL Goma | 


Jupce Conrap occupies, perhaps, the 
first place -among our Philadelphia 
literati. He has distinguished himself 
both as a prose writer and a poet—not 
to speak of his high legal reputation. 
He has been a frequent contributor to 
the periodicals of this city, and we 
believe to one at least of the Eastern 
Reviews. His first production which 


1052 


attracted general notice was a tragedy 
entitled “Conrad, King of Naples.” It 
was performed at the Arch Street Thea- 
tre, and elicited applause from the more 
judicious. This play was succeeded by 
“Jack Cade,” performed at the Walnut 
Street Theatre, and lately modified and 
reproduced under the title of “Ayl- 
mere.” In its new dress this drama 
has been one of the most successful 
ever written by an American, not only 
attracting crowded houses, but extort- 
ing the good word of our best critics. 
In occasional poetry Judge Conrad has 
also done well. His lines “On a Blind 
Boy Soliciting Charity” have been 
greatly admired, and many of his other 
pieces evince ability of a high order. 
His political fame is scarcely a topic 
for these pages, and is, moreover too 
much a matter of common observation 
to need comment from us. 

His MS. is neat, legible, and forcible, 
evincing combined caution and spirit in 
a very remarkable degree. 


J. aad Adons, 


The chirography of Ex-President 
Apams (whose poem, “The Wants of 
a Man,” has of late attracted so much 
attention), is remarkable for a certain 
steadiness of purpose pervading the 
whole, and overcoming even the con- 
stitutional tremulousness of the writ- 
er’s hand. Wavering in every letter, 
the entire MS. has yet a firm, regular, 
and decisive appearance. It is also 
very legible. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


P. P. Cooke of Winchester, Virginia, 
is well known, especially in the South, 
as the author of numerous excellent 
contributions to the “Southern Liter- 
ary Messenger.” He has written some 
of the finest poetry of which America 
can boast. A little piece of his en- 
titled ‘Florence Vane,” and contributed 
to the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of this 
city, during our editorship of that jour- 
nal, was remarkable for the high ideal- 
ity it evinced, and for the great deli- 
cacy and melody of its rhythm. It was 
universally admired and copied, as well 
here as in England. We saw it not 
long ago, as original in “Bentley’s Mis- 
cellany.” Mr. Cooke has, we believe, 
nearly ready for press a novel called 
“Maurice Werterbern,” whose success 
we predict with confidence. His MS. is 
clear, forcible and legible, but disfig- 
ured by some little of that affectation 
which is scarcely a blemish in his liter- 
ary style. 


Mr. J. BEAucHAmp Jones has been, 
we believe, connected for many years 
past with the lighter literature of Balti- 
more, and at present edits the “Balti- 
more Saturday Visiter,’ with much 
judgment and general ability. He is 
the author of a series of papers of high 
merit now in course of publication in 
the “Visiter,” and entitled ‘““Wild West- 
ern Scenes.” 


His MS, is distinct, and might be 


_ termed a fine one; but is somewhat too 
much in consonance with the ordinary 
clerk style to be either graceful or 
- forcible. 


LU wba 
Ce 


Mr. Burton is better known as a 
comedian than as a literary man, but 
he has written many short prose arti- 
cles of merit, and his quondam editor- 
ship of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” 
would, at all events, entitle him to a 
place in this collection. He has, more- 
over, published one or two books. An 
‘annual issued by Carey and Hart in 
1840 consisted entirely of prose contri- 
‘butions from himself, with poetical 
jones from Charles West Thompson, 
Esq. In this work many of the tales 
‘were good. 

' Mr. Burton’s MS. is scratchy and 
‘ petite, betokening indecision and care 
r or caution. 






RIcHARD HENRY WILDE of Georgia, 
has acquired much reputation as a poet, 
and especially as the author of a little 
| piece entitled “My life is like the Sum- 
“mer Rose,” whose claim to originality 
thas been made the subject of repeated 
and reiterated attack and defence. 
‘Upon the whole it is hardly worth 
‘quarreling about. Far better verses are 
‘to be found in every second newspaper 
we take up. Mr. Wilde has also lately 


‘published, or is about to publish a 










AUTOGRAPHY 


1053 


“Life of Tasso,” for which he has been 
long collecting material. 

His MS. has all the peculiar sprawl- 
ing and elaborate tastelessness of Mr. 
Palfrey’s, to which altogether it bears 
a marked resemblance. The love of 
effect, however, is more perceptible in 
Mr. Wilde’s then even in Mr. Palfrey’s. 


eee 


Lewis Cass, the Ex-Secretary of 
War, has distinguished himself as one 
of the finest belles lettres scholars of 
America. At one period he was a very 
regular contributor to the ‘Southern 
Literary Messenger,” and even lately 
he has furnished that journal with one 
or two very excellent papers. 

His MS. is clear, deliberate, and 
statesmanlike; resembling that of Ed- 
ward Everett very closely. It is not 
often that we see a letter written alto- 
gether by himself. He generally em- 
ploys an amanuensis, whose chirography 
does not differ materially from his own, 
but is somewhat more regular. 


Son Cel 


Mr. JAMeEs Brooks enjoys rather a 
private than a public literary reputa- 
tion; but his talents are unquestionably 
great, and his productions have been 
numerous and excellent. As the author 
of many of the celebrated “Jack Down- 
ing” letters, and as the reputed author 
of the whole of them, he would at all 
events be entitled to a place among our 
literati. 


1054 


His chirography is simple, clear, and 
legible, with little grace and less bold- 
ness. These traits are precisely those 
of his literary style. 


As the authorship of the “Jack 
Downing” letters is even still considered 
by many a moot point (although in fact 
there should be no question about it), 
and as we have given the signature of 
Mr. Seba Smith, and (just above) of 
Mr. Brooks, we now present our read- 
ers with the facsimile signature of the 
“veritable Jack’ himself, written by 
him individually in our own bodily 
presence. Here, then, is an opportunity 
of comparison. 

The chirography of “the veritable 
Jack” is a very good, honest, sensible 
hand, and not very dissimilar to that 
of Ex-President Adams. 


JR deroal. 


Mr. J. R. Lowe tt, of Massachusetts, 
is entitled, in our opinion, to at least 
the second or third place among the 
poets of America. We say this on ac- 
count of the vigour of his zmagination 
—a faculty to be first considered in all 
criticism upon poetry. In this respect 
he surpasses, we think, any of our 
writers (at least any of those who have 
put themselves prominently forth as 
poets) with the exception of Longfel- 
low, and perhaps one other. His ear 
for rhythm, nevertheless, is imperfect, 
and he is very far from possessing the 
artistic ability of either Longfellow, 
Bryant, Halleck, Sprague, or Pierpont. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The reader, desirious of properly esti- 
mating the powers of Mr. Lowell, will 
find a very beautiful little poem from 
his pen in the October number of this 
Magazine. There is one also (not quite 
so fine) in the number for last month. 
He will contribute regularly. 

His MS. is strongly indicative of the 
vigour and precision of his poetical 
thought. The man who writes thus, for 
example, will never be guilty of meta- 
phorical extravagance, and there will be 
found terseness as well as strength in 
all he does. 


Wa 


Mr. L. J.:Cist, of Cincinnati, has not 
written much prose, and is known espe- 
cially by his poetical compositions, 
many of which have been very popular, 
although they are at times disfigured 
by false metaphor, and by a meretric- 
ious straining after effect. This latter 
foible makes itself clearly apparent in 
his chirography, which abounds in orna- 
mental flourishes, not ill executed, to 
be sure, but in very bad taste. 


Mr. ArTHuR is not without a rich 
talent for description of scenes in low 
life, but is uneducated, and too fond of 
mere vulgarities to please a refined 
taste. He has published “The Subordi- 
nate,” and “Insubordination,” two tales 
distinguished by the peculiarities above 
mentioned. He has also written much 





for our weekly papers and the “Lady’s 
Book.” 

His hand is a commonplace clerk’s 
hand, such as we might expect him to 
write. The signature is much better 
than the general MS. 


JAE fecal 


Mr. HeatH is almost the only per- 
son of any literary distinction residing 
in the chief city of the Old Dominion. 
He edited the “Southern Literary Mes- 
'senger”’ in the five or six first months 
of its existence: and, since the seces- 
sion of the writer of this article, has 
frequently: aided in its editorial con- 
duct. He is the author of “Edge-Hill,” 
-a well-written novel, which, owing to 
the circumstances of its publication, did 
‘not meet with the reception it deserved. 
His writings are rather polished and 
graceful than forcible or original, and 
these peculiarities can be traced in his 
_chirography. 


"The teotunn 


— Dr. THomas Hotty Cuivers,* of 
New York, is at the same time one of 


America. His productions affect one 
as a wild dream—strange, incongruous, 
‘full of images of more than arabesque 
monstrosity, and snatches of sweet un- 
sustained song. Even his worst non- 
sense (and some of it is horrible) has 
an indefinite charm of sentiment and 






* Chivers was a wonderful imitator of 
Poe’s poetic style. His failure is a 
proof that thought alone can sustain 
/genius.—Ed. 


AUTOGRAPHY 


the best and one of the worst poets in’ 


1055 


melody. We can never be sure that 
there is any meaning in his words— 
neither is there any meaning in many 
of our finest musical airs—but the 
effect is very similar in both. His fig- 
ures of speech are metaphor run mad, 
and his grammar is often none at all. 
Yet there are as fine individual pas- 
sages to be found in the poems of Dr. 
Chivers as in those of any poet what- 
soever. 

His MS. resembles that of P. P. 
Cooke very nearly, and in poetical char- 
acter the two gentlemen are closely 
akin. Mr. Cooke is, by much, the 
more correct, while Dr. Chivers is some- 
times the more poetic. Mr. C. always 
sustains himself; Dr. C. never. 


J Ophir 


Judge Story, and his various literary 
and political labours, are too well 
known to require comment. 

His chirography is a noble one— 
bold, clear, massive, and deliberate, be- 
tokening in the most unequivocal man- 
ner all the characteristics of his intel- 
lect. The plain unornamented style of 
his compositions is impressed with ac- 
curacy upon his handwriting, the whole 
air of which is well conveyed in the 
signature, 


[Re 


Mr. Joun Frost, Professor of Belles 
Lettres in the High School of Phila- 
delphia, and at present editor of ‘““The 
Young People’s Book,’ has _ distin- 
guisbed himself by numerous literary 
compositions for the periodicals of the 


1056 


day, and by a great number of pub- 
lished works which come under the 
head of the wtile rather than of the 
dulce—at least in the estimation of the 
young. He is a gentleman of fine taste, 
sound scholarship, and great general 
ability. 

His chirography denotes his mental 
idiosyncrasy with great precision. Its 
careful neatness, legibility, and finish 
are but a part of that turn of mind 
which leads him so frequently into com- 
pilation. The signature here given is 
more diminutive than usual. 


rin 0 Ceae 
Vi C5 

Mr. J. F. Oris is well known as a 
writer for the Magazines; and has, at 
various times, been connected with 
many of the leading newspapers of the 


day—especially with those in New York 


and Washington. His prose and poetry 
are equally good; but he writes too 
much and too hurriedly to write in- 
variably well. His taste is fine, and his 
judgment in literary matters is to be 
depended upon at all times when not 
interfered with by his personal antip- 
athies or predilections. 

His chirography is exceedingly illeg- 
ible, and, like his style, has every pos- 
sible fault except that of the common- 
place, 


Mr. ReyNOLDs occupied at one time 
a distinguished position in the eye of 
the public on account of his great and 
laudable exertions to get up the Amer- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ican South Polar expedition, from a 
personal participation in which he was 
most shamefully excluded. He has 
written much and well. Among other 
works, the public are indebted to him 
for a graphic account of the noted voy- 
age of the frigate Potomac to Mada- 
gascar. 

His MS. is an ordinary clerk’s hand, 
giving no indication of character. 


D4 Vite Thou. 


Davip Paut Brown is scarcely more 
distinguished in his legal capacity than 
by his literary compositions, As a 
dramatic writer he has met with much 
success. His “Sertorius” has been par- 
ticularly well received both upon the 
stage and in the closet. His fugitive 
productions, both in prose and verse, 
have also been numerous, diversified, 
and excellent. 

His chirography has no doubt been 
strongly modified by the circumstances 
of his position. No one can expect a 
lawyer in full practice to give in his 
MS. any true indication of his intellect 
or character. 


6. Lo Piedwmanwe 


Mrs. E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN has 
lately attracted much attention by the 
delicacy and grace of her poetical com- 
positions, as well as by the piquancy 
and spirit of her prose. For some 
months past we have been proud to 
rank her among the best of the con- 
tributors to “Graham’s Magazine.” 

Her chirography differs as materially 
from that of her sex in general as does 





. her literary manner from the _ usual 
-mamby-pamby of our blue-stockings. 
‘It is indeed a beautiful MS. very 
' closely resembling that of Professor 
| 


: ie bitten 


J. GREENLEAF WHITTIER is placed by 
his particular admirers in the very front 
rank of American poets. We are not 
disposed, however, to agree with their 
decision in every respect. Mr. Whit- 
tier is a fine versifier, so far as strength 
‘is regarded independently of - modula- 
‘tion. His subjects, too, are usually 
chosen with the view of affording scope 
to a certain vivida vis of expression 
‘which seems to be his forte; but in 
taste, and especially in imagination 
‘which Coleridge has justly styled the 
‘soul of all poetry, he is ever remark- 
ably deficient. His themes are never to 
our liking. 

' His chirography is an ordinary clerk’s 
hand, affording little indication of char- 


| acter. 


Mrs. ANN S. STEPHENS was at one 
period the editor of the “Portland Mag- 
azine,” a periodical of which we have 
not heard for some time, and which 
we presume, has been discontinued. 
‘More lately her name has been placed 
upon the title-page of ‘The Lady’s 


Companion” of New York, as one of 
| 

















AUTOGRAPHY 


1057 


the conductors of that journal—to 
which she has contributed many arti- 
cles of merit and popularity. She has 
also written much and well for various 
other periodicals—and will hereafter 
enrich this magazine with her composi- 
tions, and act as one of its editors. 

Her MS. is a very excellent one, and 
differs from that of her sex in general 
by an air of more than usual force and 
freedom, 


WM Gturrede 

Mr. GRISWOLD has written much, but 
chiefly in the editorial way, whether for 
the papers, or in books. He is a gentle- 
man of fine taste and sound judgment. 
His knowledge of American literature, 
in all its details, is not exceeded by 
that of any man among us. He is not 
only a polished prose-writer, but a poet 
of no ordinary power; although, as yet, 
he has not put himself much in the way 
of the public admiration. 

His MS. is by no means a good one. 
It appears unformed, and vacillates in 
a singular manner; so that nothing can 
be predicated from it, except a certain 
unsteadiness of purpose. 


APPENDIX 


IN THE foregoing facsimile signatures 
of the most distinguished American 
literati our design was to furnish a 
complete series of Autographs, embrac- 
ing a specimen of the MS. of each of 
the most noted among our living male 
and female writers. For obvious rea- 
scns, we made no attempt at classifi- ~ 


1058 


cation or arrangement—either in refer- 
ence to reputation or our own private 
opinion of merit. Our second article 
will be found to contain as many of the 
Dit majorum gentium as our first; and 
this, our third and last, as many as 
either—although fewer names, upon the 
whole, than the preceding papers. The 
impossibility of procuring the signa- 
tures now given, at a period sufficiently 
early for the immense edition of De- 
cember, has obliged us to introduce 
this Appendix. 

It is with great pleasure that we have 
found our anticipations fulfilled in re- 
spect to the popularity of these chap- 
ters—our individual claim to merit is 
so trivial that we may be permitted to 
say so much—but we confess it was 
with no less surprise than pleasure that 
we observed so little discrepancy of 
opinion manifested in relation to the 
hasty critical, or rather gossiping, ob- 
servations which accompanied the sig- 
natures. Where the subject was so 
wide and so necessarily personal— 
where the claims of more than one 
hundred /iterati, summarily disposed of, 
were turned over for re-adjudication to 
a press so intricately bound up in their 
interest as is ours—it is really surpris- 
ing how little of dissent was mingled 
with so much of general comment. The 
fact, however, speaks loudly to one 
point:—to the unity of truth. It as- 
sures us that the differences which 
exist among us are differences not of 
real, but of affected opinion, and that 
the voice of him who maintains fear- 
lessly what he believes honestly, is 
pretty sure to find an echo (if the 
speaking be not mad) in the vast heart 
of the world at large. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The “Writings of Cartes Spracur” 
were first collected and published about 
nine months ago by Mr. Charles S, 
Francis, of New York. At the time 
of the issue of the book we expressed — 
our opinion frankly in respect to the 
general merits of the author—an opin- 
ion with which one or two members — 
of the Boston press did not see fit to 
agree—but which, as yet, we have 
found no reason for modifying. What 
we say now is, in spirit, merely a repe- 
tition of what we said then. Mr. — 
Sprague is an accomplished belles lettres — 
scholar, so far as the usual ideas of | 
scholarship extend. He is a very cor-_ 
rect rhetorician of the old school. His — 
versification has not been equalled by © 
that of any American—has been sur- 
passed by no one living or dead. In 
this regard there are to be found finer 
passages in his poems than any else- 
where. These are his chief merits. In 
the essentials of poetry he is excelled 
by twenty of our countrymen whom 
we could name. Except in a very few 
instances he gives no evidence of the 
loftier ideality. His “Winged Worship- | 
pers” and “Lines on the Death of M. | 
S. C.” are beautiful poems—but he has 
written nothing else which should be 
called so. His “Shakespeare Ode,” upon | 
which his high reputation mainly de- 
pended, is quite a second-hand affair— 
with no merit whatever beyond that of 
a polished and vigorous  versification- 
Its imitation of “Collins’ Ode to the 
Passions” is obvious. Its allegorical 
conduct is mawkish, passe, and absurd- 
The poem, upon the whole, is just suck | 





years ago. 





AUTOGRAPHY 


a one as would have obtained its author 
an Etonian prize some forty or fifty 
It is an exquisite specimen 
of mannerism, without meaning and 
without merit—of an artificial, but 
most inartistical style of composition, 
of which conventionality is the soul,— 
taste, nature, and reason the antipodes. 
_-A man may be a clever financier with- 
out being a genius. 

It requires but little effort to see in 
Mr. Sprague’s MS. all the idiosyncrasy 
of his intellect. Here are distinctness, 
precision, and vigour—but vigour em- 
_ ployed upon grace rather than upon its 
_ legitimate functions. The signature 
fully indicates the general hand—in 
which the spirit of elegant imitation 
and conservatism may be seen reflected 
as in a mirror. 


LETTE 


Mr. Cornettus MaTHews is one of 
the editors of “Arcturus,” a monthly 
journal which has attained much repu- 
tation during the brief period of its 
existence. He is the author of “Puffer 
Hopkins,” a clever satirical tale some- 
what given to excess in caricature, and 
also of the well-written retrospective 
criticisms which appear in his Maga- 
zine. He is better known, however, by 
“The Motley Book,’ published some 
years ago—a work which we had no 
opportunity of reading. He is a gen- 
tleman of taste and judgment unques- 
tionably. — 

His MS. is much to our liking—bold, 
distinct, and picturesque—such a hand 


1059 


as no one destitute of talent indites, 
The signature conveys the hand. 


Mr. CHARLES FENNo HorrMan is 
the author of “A Winter in the West,” 
“Greyslaer,” and other productions of 
merit. At one time he edited, with 
much ability, the “American Monthly 
Magazine” in conjunction with Mr. 
Benjamin, and subsequently with Dr. 
Bird. He is a gentleman of talent. 

His chirography is not unlike that of 
Mr. Mathews. It has the same bold- 
ness, strength, and picturesqueness, but 
is more diffuse, more ornamented, and 
less legible. Our facsimile is from a 
somewhat hurried signature, which fails 
in giving a correct idea of the general 
hand. 


Cheon. Cree Le 

Mr. Horace GREELEY,* present edi- 
tor of “The Tribune,’ and formerly 
of the ‘New-Yorker,” has for many 
years been remarked as one of the 
most able and honest of American edi- 
tors. He has written much and invari- 
ably well. His political knowledge is 
equal to that of any of his contem- 
poraries—his general information exten- 
sive. As a belles lettres critic he is 
entitled to high respect. 

His MS. is a remarkable one—having 


* Poe once remarked that Greeley 
had everything afire. He quoted one 
simple sentence, five words of which 
meant something burning.—Ed. 


1060 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


about it a peculiarity which we know 
not how better to designate than as a 
converse of the picturesque. His char- 
acters are scratchy and irregular, end- 
ing with an abrupt taper—if we may 
be allowed this contradiction in terms, 
where we have the facsimile to prove 
that there is no contradiction in fact. 
All abrupt MSS., save this, have square 
Or concise terminations of the letters. 
The whole chirography puts us in mind 
of a jig. We can fancy the writer 
jerking up his hand from the paper 
at the end of each word, and, indeed, 
of each letter. What mental idiosyn- 
crasy lies perdu beneath all this is 
more than we can say, but we will 
venture to assert that Mr. Greeley 
(whom we do not know personally) is, 
personally, a very remarkable man. 


Og. Motors, 
——— 

The name of Mr. Prosper M. WEtT- 
MORE is familiar to all readers of Amer- 
ican light literature. He has written a 
great deal, at various periods, both in 
prose and poétry (but principally in 
the latter) for our Papers, Magazines, 
and Annuals. Of late days we have 
seen but little, comparatively speaking, 
from his pen. 

His MS. is not unlike that of Fitz- 
Greene Halleck, but is by no means 
so good. Its clerky flourishes indicate 
a love of the beautiful with an undue 
straining for effect—qualities which are 
distinctly traceable in his poetic efforts. 
As many as five or six words are occa- 
sionally run together; and no man who 
writes thus will be noted for finish of 
style. Mr. Wetmore is sometimes very 
slovenly in his best compositions. 


Professor Ware, of Harvard, has 
written some very tall poetry, but © 
is chiefly known by his “Life of the. 
Saviour,’ “Hints on Extemporaneous > 
Preaching,” and other religious works. | 

His MS. is fully shown in the signa- | 
ture. It evinces the direct unpretending | 
strength and simplicity which charac- | 
terise the man, not less than his general | 
compositions. 


Ali GO.labeg 


{ 

( 

The name of Witrr1AmM B. O. PEA-| 
Bopy, like that of Mr. Wetmore, is | 
known chiefly to the readers of our | 
light literature, and much more famil- | 
iarly to Northern than to Southern | 
readers. He is a resident of Springfield, | 
Mass. His occasional poems have been | 
much admired. 
His chirography is what would be} 
called beautiful by the ladies univer- | 
sally, and, perhaps, by a large majority | 
of the bolder sex. Individually, we | 
think it a miserable one—too careful, | 
undecided, tapering, and effeminate. It | 
| 








is not unlike Mr. Paulding’s, but is | 


more regular and more legible, with less 
force. We hold it as undeniable that | 
no man of genius ever wrote such a 
hand. | 


EPES SARGENT, Esq., has acquired 


high reputation as the author of 
“Velasco,” a tragedy full of beauty as 





a poem, but not adapted—perhaps not 
_ intended—for representation. He has 
written, besides, many very excellent 
_poems—“The Missing Ship,” for exam- 
ple, published in the “Knickerbocker” — 
| the “Night Storm at Sea”—and, espe- 
| cially, a fine production entitled ‘Shells 
| and Sea-Weeds.” One or two Theatri- 
} cal Addresses from his pen are very 
| creditable iz their way—but the way 
| itself is, as we have before said, exe- 
\crable. As an editor, Mr. Sargent has 
also distinguished himself. He is a 
| gentleman of taste and high talent. 

His MS. is too much in the usual 
clerk style to be either vigorous, grace- 
ful, or easily read. It resembles Mr. 
| Wetmore’s, but has somewhat more 
| force. The signature is better than 
| the general hand, but conveys its idea 
| very well. 





it WI al eotow 


| The name of “WasuincTton ALL- 
'STON,”’ the poet and painter, is one that 
|| has been long before the public. Of 
"his paintings we have here nothing to 
say—except briefly, that the most noted 
of them are not to our taste. His 
poems are not all of a high order of 
‘merit; and, in truth, the faults of his 
pencil and of his pen are identical. Yet 
every reader will remember his ‘“Span- 
‘ish Maid” with pleasure, and the 
“Address to Great Britain,” first pub- 
lished in Coleridge’s “‘Sibylline Leaves,” 
and attributed to an English author, is 
a production of which Mr. Allston may 
‘be proud. 

His MS., notwithstanding an exceed- 
‘/ingly simple and boyish air, is one 
‘which we particularly admire. It is 





SS a Oe ae. Dee 





AUTOGRAPHY 1061 


forcible, picturesque, and legible, with- 
out ornament of any description. Each 
letter is formed with a thorough dis- 
tinctness and individuality. Such a 
MS. indicates caution and precision, 
most unquestionably—but we say of it 
as we say of Mr. Peabody’s (a very 
different MS.) that no man of original 
genius ever did or could habitually 
indite it under any circumstances what- 
ever. The signature conveys the gen- 
eral hand with accuracy. 


Aut Sal 


Mr. AtFreD B. STREET has been long 
before the public as a poet. At as 
early an age as fifteen, some of his 
pieces were published by Mr. Bryant in 
the “Evening Post’—among these was 
one of much merit, entitled a “Winter 
Scene.” In the ‘““New York Book,” and 
in the collections of American poetry 
by Messieurs Keese and Bryant, will 
be found many excellent specimens of 
his maturer powers. “The Willewe- 
m0G,” «i bhe,..Forest:-4;Iree,”” ,;- The. In- 
dian’s Vigil,’ “The Lost Hunter,” and 
“White Lake” we prefer to any of his 
other productions which have met our 
eye. Mr. Street has fine taste, and a 
keen sense of the beautiful. He writes 
carefully, elaborately, and _ correctly. 
He has made Mr. Bryant his model, 
and in all Mr..Bryant’s good points 
would be nearly his equal, were it not 
for the sad and too perceptible stain 
of the imitation. That he has imitated 
at all—or rather that, in mature age, 
he has persevered in his imitations—is 
sufficient warranty for placing him 
among the men of talent rather than 
among the men of genius. 


1062 


His MS. is full corroboration of this 
warranty. It is a very pretty chirog- 
raphy, graceful, legible, and neat. By 
most persons it would be called beau- 
tiful. The fact is, it is without fault— 
but its merits, like those of his poems, 
are chiefly negative. 


Mr. RicHArD PENN SMITH, although 
perhaps better known in Philadelphia 
than elsewhere, has acquired much lit- 
erary reputation. His chief works are 
“The Forsaken,’ a novel; a pseudo- 
autobiography called ‘Colonel Crock- 
ett’s Tour in Texas’; the tragedy of 
“Caius Marius,” and two domestic 
dramas entitled “The Disowned” and 
“The Deformed.” He has also pub- 
lished two volumes of miscellanies 
under the title of “The Actress of 
Padua and other Tales,’ besides occa- 
sional poetry. We are not sufficiently 
cognisant of any of these works to 
speak with decision respecting their 


merits. In a biography of Mr. Smith, 
however, very well written, by his 
friend, Mr. McMichael, of this city, 


we are informed of “The Forsaken” 
that ‘‘a large edition of it was speed- 
ily exhausted”—of “The Actress of 
Padua,” that it “had an extensive sale 
and was much commended”—of the 
“Tour in Texas,” that “few books 
attained an equal popularity” —of 
“Caius Marius,” that “it has great capa- 
bilities for an acting play,’—of “The 
Disowned” and “The Deformed,” that 
they ‘‘were performed at the London 
theatres, where they both made a 
favorable impression’”’—and of his 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


poetry in general, “that it will be found! 
superior to the average quality of that 
commodity.” “It is by his dramatic 
efforts,’ says the biographer, “that his 
merits as a poet must be determined, 
and judged by these he will be assigned 
a place in the foremost rank of Ameri- 
can writers.” We have only to add 
that we have the highest respect for 
the judgment of Mr. McMichael. 

Mr. Smith’s MS. is clear, graceful 
and legible, and would generally be 
called a fine hand, but is sometini¢y 
too clerky for our taste. 


Dr. OLivER WENDEL HOoLMEs, 0° 
Boston, late Professor of Anatomy anc 
Physiology at Dartmouth College, ha: 
written many productions of merit, anc 
has been pronounced by a very high 
authority the best of the humorou) 
poets of the day. : 

His chirography is remarkably fine 
and a quick fancy might easily detect, 
in its graceful yet picturesque quaint 
ness, an analogy with the vivid drollery 
of his style. The signature is a fai 
specimen of the general MS. 


Mtsorws 


Bishop Doane, of New Jersey, i 
somewhat more extensively known 1 
his clerical than in a literary capacity | 
but has accomplished much more thai 
sufficient in the world of books to en) 
title him to a place among the mos 
noted of our living men of letters. Th 
compositions by which he is best know: 














—— 





























] 
] 


were published, we believe, during his 


professorship of Rhetoric and Belles 
_Lettres in Washington College, Hart- 
ford. 

His MS. has some resemblance to 
that of Mr. Greeley of “The Tribune.” 
‘The signature is far bolder and alto- 


gether better than the general hand. 


: 


We Crhe 


We believe that Mr. Apert PIKE 
has never published his poems in book 
form; nor has he written anything since 
1834. His “Hymns to the Gods,” and 
““Ode to the Mocking Bird,” being 
printed in “Blackwood,” are the chief 
basis of his reputation. His lines “To 
Spring” are, however, much better in 
‘every respect, and a little poem from 
this pen, entitled “Ariel,” originally pub- 
‘lished in the Boston Pearl, is one of 
the finest of American compositions. 
‘Mr. Pike has unquestionable merit, and 
‘that of a high order. His ideality is 
‘rich and well-disciplined. He is the 
‘most classic of our poets in the best 
‘sense of the term, and of course his 
Classicism is very different from that 
sof Mr. Sprague—to whom, neverthe- 
less, he bears much resemblance in other 
‘respects. Upon the whole, there are 
few of our native writers to whom we 
consider him inferior. 

His MS. shows clearly the spirit of 
‘his intellect. We observe in it a keen 
sense not only of the beautiful and 
‘graceful, but of the picturesque—neat- 
mess, precision, and general finish, verg- 
‘ing upon effeminacy. In force it is 
‘deficient. The signature fails to con- 
‘vey the entire MS., which depends upon 
masses for its peculiar character. 


AUTOGRAPHY 


1063 


Dr. JAmMes McHenry, of Philadel- 
phia, is well known to the literary world 
as the writer of numerous articles in 
our Reviews and lighter journals, but 
more especially as the. author of ‘The 
Antediluvians,” an epic poem which has 
been the victim of a most shameful 
cabal in this country, and the subject 
of a very disgraceful pasquinade on 
the part of Professor Wilson. What- 
ever may be the demerits, in some 
regard, of this poem, there can be no 
question of the utter want of fairness, 
and even of common decency, which 
distinguished the Philippic in question. 
The writer of a just review of the 
“Antediluvians” —the only tolerable 
American epic—would render an impor- 
tant service to the literature of his 
country. 

Dr. McHenry’s MS. is distinct, bold, 
and simple, without ornament or super- 
fluity. The signature well conveys the 
idea of the general hand. 


G3 MIR 


o-oo 





Mrs. R. S. Nicuors has acquired 
much reputation of late years by fre- 
quent and excellent contributions to 
the Magazines and Annuals. Many of 
her compositions will be found in our 
pages. 

Her MS. is fair, neat, and legible, 
but formed somewhat too much upon 
the ordinary boarding-school model to 
afford any indication of character. The 
signature is a good specimen of the 
hand. 


1064 


hA dete 


Mr. Rrcuarp ApAms LOCKE is one 
among the few men of unquestionable 
genius whom the country possesses. 
Of the ‘Moon Hoax” it is supereroga- 
tory to say one word—not to know 
that argues one’s self unknown. Its 
rich imagination will long dwell in the 
memory of every one who read it, and 
surely if 


the worth of any thing 
Is just so much as it will bring— 


if, in short, we are to judge of the 
value of a literary composition in any 
degree by its effect—then was the 
“Hoax” most precious. 

But Mr. Locke is also a poet of 
high order. We have seen—nay more 
—we have heard him read—verses of 
his own which would make the fortune 
of two-thirds of our poetasters; and 
he is yet so modest as never to have 
published a volume of poems. As an 
editor—as a political writer—as a writer 
in general—we think that he has scarcely 
a superior in America. There is no man 
among us to whose sleeves we would 
rather pin—not our faith (of that we 
say nothing)—but our judgment. 

His MS. is clear, bold, and forcible— 
somewhat modified, no doubt, by the 
circumstances of his editorial position 
—but still sufficiently indicative of his 
fine intellect. 


SCRE Coin fia 


Mr. Rate Watpo Emerson belongs 
to a class of gentlemen with whom we 
have no patience whatever—the mystics 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


for mysticism’s sake. Quintilian men- 
tions a pedant who taught obscurity, 


and who once said to a pupil, “this is 


excellent, for I do not understand it 
How the good man would 
His pres- 


myself.” 
have chuckled over Mr. E.! 


ent role seems to be the out-Carlyling 


Carlyle. 
fool to him. The best answer to his 
twaddle is cuz bono?—a very little 


Latin phrase very generally mistrans- 


lated and misunderstood—cui bono?— 
to whom is it a benefit? | 
Mr. Emerson individually, then surely 
to no man living. 

His love of the obscure does not 
prevent him, nevertheless, from the 
composition of occasional poems in 
which beauty is apparent by flashes. 
Several of his effusions appeared in the’ 
“Western Messenger” —more in the 
“Dial,” of which he is the soul—or the 
sun—or the shadow. We remember 
the “Sphynx,” the ‘Problem,” the 
“Snow Storm,” and some fine old- 
fashioned verses entitled “Oh fair and 
stately maid whose eye.” 

His MS. is bad, sprawling, illegible. 
and irrégular — although sufficiently 
bold. This latter trait may be, and 
no doubt is, only a portion of > 
general affectation! 


[Nf 


The name of GULIAN C. VERPLANCK 
has long been familiar to all American 
readers, and it is scarcely necessary tc 
say more than we coincide in the gen 
eral view of his merits. His orations 





Lycophron Tenebrosus is a 


If not to 


\! 


{ 






























_reviews, and other compositions all 
evince the cultivated belles lettres 
_ scholar, and man of intellect and taste. 
To high genius he has about the same 
claim as Mr. Sprague, whom in many 
respects he closely resembles. 


PALESTINE derives its name from the 
Philistzi, who inhabited the coast of 
Judea. It has also been called ‘“‘The 
Holy Land,” as being the scene of the 
birth, sufferings, and death of our Re- 
/deemer. It was bounded on the north 
_ by Syria, on the east by Arabia Deserta, 
on the south by Arabia Petrea, and on 
the west by the Mediterranean. The 
‘principal divisions of the country were 
Galilea in the north, Samaria in the 
-middle, and Judea in the south. This 
‘country is at present under the Turkish 
yoke; and the oppression which it now 
experiences, as well as the visible ef- 
fects of the divine displeasure, not only 
during the reign of Titus, and after- 
wards in the inundations of the north- 
‘ern barbarians, but also of the Saracens 
and Crusaders, are more than sufficient 
‘to have reduced this country, which 
‘has been extolled by Moses, and even 
by Julian the Apostate, for its fecun- 
| dity, to its present condition of a desert. 
Galilea, the northern division, is divided 
by Josephus into Upper Galilea, called 
Galilea of the Gentiles—because inhab- 
‘ited by heathen nations—and Lower 
Galilea, which was adjacent to the sea 
of Tiberias, and which contained the 
‘tribes of Zebulon and Ashur. Galilea 
‘was a very populous country, contain- 


ee 


PALESTINE 


1065 


His chirography is unusually rambling 
and school-boyish—but has vigor and 
precision. It has no doubt been greatly 
modified by adventitious circumstances, 
so that it would be impossible to predi- 
cate anything respecting it. 


Palaestine 


(Published in Southern Literary Messenger, February, 1836.—Ed.) 


ing, according to Josephus, two hundred 
and four cities and towns, and paying 
two hundred talents in tribute. 

The middle district, Samaria, had its 
Origin in a division of the people of 
Israel into two distinct kingdoms, dur- 
ing the reign of Jeroboam. One of 
these kingdoms, called Judah, consisted 
of such as adhered to the house of 
David, comprising the two tribes of 
Judah and Benjamin. The other ten 
tribes retained the name of Israelites 
under Jeroboam. Their capital was 
Samaria, which also became the name 
of their country. The Samaritans and 
people of Judza were bitter enemies. 
The former differed in many respects 
from the strictness of the Mosaic law. 
Among the Judeans, the name of Sa- 
maritan was a term of reproach. 

The southern division, Judza, did not 
assume that name until after the return 
of the Jews from the Babylonian cap- 
tivity—though it had been called long 
before “the kingdom of Judah” in op- 
position to that of Israel. After the 
return, the tribe of Judah settled first 
at Jerusalem; but afterwards spreading 
over the whole country, gave it the 
name of “Judea.” 

The only rivers of any note in Pal- 
estine are the Jordan, and the Leon- 


1066 


tes, which latter passes through the 
northern extremity of Galilea. The 
Jordan, according to a curious story of 
Philip the Tetrarch, has its origin in a 
lake called Phiala, about ten miles north 
of Cesarea of Samochon. This is said 
to have been ascertained by throwing 
into the lake some straw which came 
out where the river emerges from the 
ground, after having run fifteen miles 
beneath the surface of the earth. Man- 
nert, the German, thinks this fabulous, 
and places the sources of the river in 
Mount Panceas, in the province of Dan. 
The Jordan holds a_ southwesterly 
course—flows through the lake Samo- 
chon, or Samochonites, or as it is called 
in the Bible, Merom; after which, pro- 
ceeding onwards till received by the 
sea of Tiberias, or lake of Genesareth, 
it emerges from this, and is finally lost 
in the Dead Sea. In ancient times it 
overflowed its banks annually, about 
the period of early harvest; and thus 
differing from most other rivers, which 
generally swell in the winter, it was 
supposed to have a subterraneous com- 
munication with the Nile. But now, 
we can perceive no rise, which is proba- 
bly owing to the channel having been 
deepened by the swiftness of the cur- 
rent. The name is supposed to be 
derived from the Hebrew “Jarden,” on 
account of the river’s rapid descent 
through the country. 

The Dead Sea, called also Asphal- 
tites, from the “asphaltos” or bitumen, 
which it throws up, is situated in Judea, 
and near one hundred miles long and 
twenty-five broad: but it is called by 
Tacitus “Lacus immenso ambitu.” Its 
waters are extremely salt; but the 
vapours exhaled from them are found 
not to be so pestilential as they have 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


i 
been usually represented. It is sup- 
posed that the thirteen cities, of which 
Sodom and Gomorrah, as mentioned in 
the Bible, are the chief, were destroyed 
by a volcano, and once occupied the 
site of the Dead Sea. Earthquakes are 
now frequent in the country. Volumes; 
of smoke are observed to issue from: 
the lake, and new crevices are on 
found on its margin. 

The country is mountainous. The 
range of Libanus, so named on account. 
of their snowy summits, from the 
Hebrew ‘Lebanon,’ DkSOe is imper- 
fectly defined. The principal part of 
them lies towards the north of Galilea, 
but the name of Libanus is sometimes 
given to several chains, which run 
through the whole extent of Palestine. 
Between two of these ranges lay a val- 
ley so beautiful that some have called) 
it a terrestrial Paradise; though situated 
in a much higher region than the greater. 
part of the country, it enjoys perpetual 
spring—the trees are always green, and, 
the orchards full of fruit. Libanus has 
been famed for its cedars. Moun 
Carmel is a celebrated mountain, prop- 
erly belonging to Samaria, but on whic 
the Syrians had an altar, but not a 
temple, dedicated to their god Carme- 
lus. A priest of this deity, according 
to Tacitus, (Lib. 2, cap. 78), foretold 
the accession of dpe to the 
throne. 

The principal towns in Galilea were 
Dio-Cesarea, Jotapata or Gath, Gene- 
sareth, and Tiberias. Tiberias was 
built by Herod, near the lake of the 
same name, and called after the em- 
peror. After the taking of Jerusalem, 
there was at Tiberias a succession of 
Hebrew judges, till about the time of 
the abdication of Diocletian and Max- 






















<= 


































imianus. Epiphanius, bishop of Sala- 
mis, says that a Hebrew copy of St. 
John, and the Acts of the Apostles, 
was kept in this city. 

The chief cities of Samaria were 
Neapolis, Antipatris, Archelais, Apol- 
lonia, Samaria, and Cesarea. Czesarea 
‘was the principal, and was anciently 
‘called ‘“‘Turris Stratonis.” It was much 
embellished by Herod, who named it 
‘Cesarea in honour of Augustus—and 
was the station of the Roman gov- 
‘ernors. Samaria was situated on 
‘Mount Sameron, and was the residence 
‘of the kings of Israel, from the time 
of Omri, its founder, to the overthrow 
‘of the kingdom. 

_ In Judea, were the cities of Engedi, 


Yand Jerusalem. Jericho was in the 
tribe of Benjamin, near the river Jor- 


adjacent plain, which are also noticed 
by Tacitus. It was destroyed by 
» Joshua, but afterwards rebuilt. Jeru- 
‘salem, the capital, was anciently called 
Salem, or Jebus, by the Jebusites, who 
‘were in possession of it till the time 
‘te 


In the life of every man there occurs 
at least one epoch when the spirit seems 
to abandon, for a brief period, the body, 
and, elevating itself above mortal af- 
fairs just so far as to get a comprehen- 
‘sive and general view, makes thus an 
estimate of its humanity, as accurate 
as is possible, under any circumstances, 


A CHAPTER OF SUGGESTIONS 


1067 


of David; but it was then called by 
the Hebrews Jeruschalaim, signifying 
“the possession of the inheritance of 
peace.” The Greeks and Romans called 
it by the name of Hierosolyma. It 
was built on several hills, of which 
Mount Sion, in the southern part of 
the city, was the largest. To the north 
was <Acra, called the “second,’ or 
“lower city”—on the east of which was 
Solomon’s temple, built on Mount 
Moriah. Northeast of this was the 
Mount of Olives, and north of it Mount 
Calvary, the place of the crucifixion. 
This city was taken by Pompey, who 
thence derived his name of Hierosoly- 
marius. It was also taken and de- 
stroyed by. Titus, (in the year of our 
Lord 71, by the account of Tacitus— 
but according to Josephus,) on the 8th 
of September a.p. 70—2,177 years after 
its foundation. 

In this siege 110,000 persons are said 
to have perished, and 97,000 to have 
been made prisoners, and as Josephus 
relates, sold as slaves, or thrown to the 
wild beasts for the sport of the con- 
querors. 


A Chapter of Suggestions 


a (Appeared in The Opal, 1845.—Ed.) 


to that particular spirit. The soul here 
separates itself from its own idiosyn- 
crasy, or individuality, and considers 
its own being, not as appertaining solely 
to itself, but as a portion of the uni- 
versal Ens. All the important good 
resolutions which we keep—all start 
ling, marked regenerations of character 


1068 


—are brought about at these crises of 


life. And thus it is our sense of self 
which debases, and which keeps us 
debased. 


The theory of chance, or as the 
mathematicians term it, the Calculus 
of Probabilities, has this remarkable 
peculiarity, that its truth in general is 
in direct proportion with its fallacy in 
particular. 

We may judge of the degree of ab- 
straction in one who meditates, by the 
manner in which he receives an inter- 
ruption. Jf he is much startled, his 
revery was not profound; and the con- 
verse. Thus the affectation of the tribe 
of pretended mental-absentees, becomes 
transparent. These people awake from 
their.musings with a start, and an air 
of bewilderment, as men _ naturally 
awake from dreams that have a close 
semblance of reality. But they are, 
clearly, ignorant that the phenomena of 
dreaming differ, radically, from those 
of reverie—of which latter the mes- 
meric condition is the extreme. 

There are few thinkers who will not 
be surprised to find, upon retrospect 
of the world of thought, how very 
frequently the first, or intuitive, im- 
pressions have been the true ones. A 
poem, for example, enraptures us in our 
childhood. In adolescence, we perceive 
it to be full of fault. In the first years 
of manhood, we utterly despise and 
condemn it; and it is not until mature 
age has given tone to our feelings, en- 
larged our knowledge, and perfected 
our understanding, that we recur to 
our original sentiment and primitive 
admiration, with the additional pleasure 
which is always deduced from knowing 
how it was that we once were pleased, 
and why it is that we still admire. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


That the imagination has not been 
unjustly ranked as supreme among the 
mental faculties, appears, from the 
intense consciousness, on the part of 
the imaginative man, that the faculty 
in question brings his soul often to a 
glimpse of things supernal and eternal 
—to the very verge of the great secrets. 
There are moments, indeed, in which 
he perceives the faint perfumes, and 
hears the melodies of a happier world, 
Some of the most profound knowledge 
—perhaps all very profound knowl-: 
edge—has originated from a_ highly 
stimulated imagination. Great intel- 
lects guess well. The laws of Kepler: 
were, professedly, guesses. : 

An excellent magazine paper might 
be written upon the subject of the 
progressive steps by which any great 
work of art—especially of literary art— 
attained completion. How vast a dis- 
similarity always exists between the 
germ and the fruit—between the work 
and its original conception! Sometimes 
the original conception is abandoned, 
or left out of sight altogether. Most 
authors sit down to write with no fixed 
design, trusting to the inspiration of 
the moment; it is not, therefore, to be 
wondered at, that most books are value- 
less. Pen should never touch paper, 
until at least a well-digested general, 
purpose be established. In fiction, the 
denouement—in all other composition 
the intended effect, should be definitel | 
considered and arranged, before writing | 
the first word; and mo word should be 
then written which does not tend, or. 
form a part of a sentence which tends 
to the development of the denouement, 
or to the strengthening of the effect. 
Where plot forms a portion of the con-} 
templated interest, too much precon- 


















— 


ee 





=, 





= — —2~ ee 








































ee 


sideration cannot be had. Plot is very 
‘imperfectly understood, and has never 
‘been rightly defined. Many persons 
‘regard it as mere complexity of inci- 
dent. In its most rigorous acceptation, 
‘it is that from which no component 
atom can be removed, and in which 
‘none of the component atoms can be 
displaced, without ruin to the whole; 
‘and although a sufficiently good plot 
‘may be constructed, without attention 
‘to the whole rigor of this definition, 
‘still it is the definition which the true 
artist should always keep in view, and 
‘always endeavor to consummate in his 
‘works. Some authors appear, however, 
to be totally deficient in constructive- 
mess, and thus, even with plentiful in- 
‘vention, fail signally in plot. Dickens 
belongs to this class. His “Barnaby 
Rudge” shows not the least ability to 
‘adapt. Godwin and Bulwer are the 
‘best constructors of plot in English 
literature. The former has left a 
preface to his “Caleb Williams,” in 
which he says that the novel was writ- 
ten backwards; the author first com- 
‘pleting the second volume, in which 
‘the hero is involved in a maze of diffi- 
‘culties, and then casting about him for 
sufficiently probable cause of these dif- 
ficulties, out of which to concoct vol- 
‘ume the first. This mode cannot surely 
‘be recommended, but evinces the idio- 
isyncrasy of Godwin’s mind. Bulwer’s 
“Pompeii” is an instance of admirably 
managed plot. His “Night and Morn- 
ing,” sacrifices to mere plot interests 
‘of far higher value. 

| All men of genius have their detract- 
ors; but it is merely a non distributio 
medi to argue, thence, that all men 
wo have their detractors are men of 
genius. Yet, undoubtedly, of all despi- 


ee Soe 


A CHAPTER OF SUGGESTIONS 


1069 


cable things, your habitual sneerer at 
real greatness, is the most despicable. 
What names excite, in’ mankind, the 
most unspeakable—the most insuffer- 
able disgust? The Dennises—the Fre- 
rons—the Desfontaines. Their little- 
ness is measured by the greatness of 
those whom they have reviled. And 
yet, in the face of this well-known and 
natural principle, there will always exist 
a set of homunculi, eager to grow noto- 
rious by the pertinacity of their yelp- 
ings at the heels of the distinguished. 
And this eagerness arises, less fre- 
quently from inability to appreciate 
genius, than from a species of cat-and- 
dog antipathy to it, which no sugges- 
tions of worldly prudence are adequate 
to quell. 

That intuitive and seemingly casual 
perception by which we often attain 
knowledge, when reason herself falters 
and abandons the effect, appears to 
resemble the sudden glancing at a star, 
by which we see it more clearly than 
by a direct gaze; or the half-closing 
the eyes in looking at a plot of grass 
the more fully to appreciate the inten- 
sity of its green. 

There are few men of that peculiar 
sensibility which is at the root of 
genius, who, in early youth, have not 
expended much of their mental energy 
in living too fast; and, in later years, 
comes the unconquerable desire to goad 
the imagination up to that point which 
it would have attained in an ordinary, 
normal, or well-regulated life. The 
earnest longing for artificial excitement, 
which, unhappily, has characterized too 
many eminent men, may thus be re- 
garded as a psychal want, or necessity, 
—an effort to regain the lost,—a strug- 
gle of the soul to assume the position 


1070 


which, under other 
would have been its due. 


circumstances, 


The great variety of melodious ex- 


pression which is given out from the 
keys of a plano, might be made, in 
proper hands, the basis of an excellent 
fairy-tale. Let the poet press his finger 
steadily upon each key, keeping it 
down, and imagine each _ prolonged 
series of undulations the history, of 
joy or of sorrow, related by a good 
or evil spirit imprisoned within. There 
are some of the notes which almost 
tell, of their own accord, true and intel- 
ligible histories. 

A precise or clear man, in conversa- 
tion or in composition, has a very 
important consequential advantage— 
more especially in matters of logic. As 
he proceeds with his'argument, the per- 
son addressed, exactly comprehending, 
for that reason, and often for that 
reason only, agrees. Few minds, in 
fact, can immediately perceive the dis- 
tinction between the comprehension of 
a proposition and an agreement of the 
reason with the thing proposed. Pleased 
at comprehending, we often are so 
excited as to take it for granted that 
we assent. Luminous writers may thus 
indulge, for a long time, in pure sophis- 
try, without being detected. Macaulay 
is a remarkable instance of this species 
of mystification. We coincide with 
what he says, too frequently, because 
we so very distinctly understand what 
it is that he intends to say. His essay 
on Bacon has been long and deservedly 
admired; but its concluding portions 
(wherein he endeavors to depreciate 
the Novum Organum,) although logical 
to a fault, are irrational in the extreme. 
But not to confine myself to mere as- 
sertion. Let us refer to this great 
essayist’s review of Ranke’s “History 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of the Popes.” 


His strength is here | 


put forth to account for the progress © 
of Romanism, by maintaining that di- 
vinity is not a progressive science, — 


“The enigmas,” says he, in substance, 


“which perplex the natural theologian, 
are the same in all ages, while the’ 
Bible, where alone we are to seek re- 
vealed truth, has been always what it. 
Here Mr. Macaulay confounds the 
nature of that proof from which we 
reason of the concerns of earth, con- 
sidered as man’s habitation, with the 
nature of that evidence from which we 
reason of the same earth, regarded as. 


isi? 


a unit of the universe. In the former 


case, the data being palpable, the proof 
is direct; in the latter it is purely 


Were the indications we 


analogical. 


derive from science, of the nature and 
designs of Deity, and thence, by infer- 
ence, of man’s destiny—were these 
indications proof direct, it is then very }; 
true that no advance in science could } 
strengthen them; for, as the essayist ] 
justly observes, “nothing can be added | 
to the force of the argument which the } 
mind finds in every beast, bird, and } 


flower’; but, since these indications are 


rigidly analogical, every step in human) 


knowledge, every astronomical discov- 


ery, in especial, throws additional light — 
upon the august subject, by extending 
the range of analogy. That we know 
no more, to-day, of the nature of Deity, 
of its purposes, and. thus of man him- | 


self, than we did even a dozen years 
ago, is a proposition disgracefully ab- 
surd. 


phy would be enlarged also.” 


felt to be true, and will be fulfilled. 


a 


Se Pe 








“Tf Natural Philosophy,” says a 
greater than Macaulay, “should con-— 
tinue to be improved in its various 
branches, the bounds of moral philoso- | 
These 
words of the prophetic Newton are - 














Tue pile called Stonehenge is an 
vassembiage of upright and prostrate 
stones on Salisbury plain, England, and 
is generally supposed to be the remains 
‘of an ancient Druidical temple. From 
its singularity, and the mystery attend- 
ing its origin and appropriation, it has 
excited more surprise and curiosity than 
any other relic of antiquity in Great 
|Britain. It is situated about two miles 
directly west of Amesbury, and seven 
‘north of Salisbury, in Wiltshire. When 
‘viewed at a distance it appears but a 
‘small and trifling object, for its bulk 
‘and character are lost in the extensive 
‘space which surrounds it; and even on 
‘a near examination it fails to fulfil the 
expectations of the stranger who visits 
‘it with exaggerated prepossessions. To 
‘behold this “wonder of Britain,” it 
should be viewed with an artist’s eye, 
and contemplated by an intellect stored 
with antiquarian and historical knowl- 
edge. Stonehenge, notwithstanding 
much that has been said to the con- 
trary, is utterly unlike any monument 
/now remaining in Europe. Many of 
its stones have been squared or hewn 
by art; and on the top of the outer 
circle has been raised a continued series 
of squared stones, attached to the 
uprights by mortices and tenons, or 
regular cavities in the horizontal blocks, 
with projecting points on the perpen- 
dicular ones. Nearly all other so-called 


| Some Account o yf Stonehenge the Giant’ s 
Dance, a Drutdical Ruin in England 


(Published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, June, 1840.—Ed.) 


examples of Druidical circles are com- 
posed of rough, unhewn stones, and are 
without imposts. 

Our engraving represents the present 
appearance of Stonehenge—a confused 
heap of erect and fallen stones. The 
original arrangement of these, however, 
may be readily understood; for by the 
situation and condition of the yet 
standing and prostrate members, we are 
enabled to judge of the number and 
site of those which have been removed. 
The whole consisted of two circular, and 
two curved rows, or arrangements of 
stones, the forms and positions of which 
may be easily ascertained. Horizontal 
stones, or imposts, were laid all round, 
in a continued order, on the outer cir- 
cle, and five similar imposts or ten up- 
rights of the third row. The whole is 
surrounded by a ditch and vallum of 
earth, connected with which are three 
other stones. The vallum does not ex- 
ceed fifteen feet in height, and in ex- 
terior to the ditch. Through this line 
of circumvallation there appears to 
have been one grand entrance from the 
north-east side, and this is decidedly 
marked by two banks and _ ditches, 
called The Avenue. Approaching Stone- 
henge in this direction, the attention is 
first arrested by an immense unchiselled 
stone, called the Friar’s Heel, which is 
now in a leaning position, and measures 
about sixteen feet in height. Imme- 


1071 


1072 


diately within the vallum is another 
stone lying on the ground. It is twenty- 
one feet two inches long, and a hundred 
feet from the stone just mentioned, 
and about the same distance from the 
outside of the outermost circle. Each 
impost of this circle has two mortices 
in it, to correspond with two tenons on 
the top of each vertical stone. The im- 
posts were so connected as to form a 
continued series of architraves. The 
stones of the inner circle are much 
smaller and more irregular than those of 
the outer. Within these two circles 
are arranged two inner rows of stones, 
one of which constitutes the grandest 
portion of Stonehenge. It was formed 
by five distinct ftrilithons—a_trilithon 
is a large impost upon two uprights. 
The workmanship here appears to be 
better. The interior row of stones 
which next claims attention consisted of 
nineteen uprights without imposts, and 
inclined to a pyramidical form. The 
most perfect among them is seven feet 
and a half high. The Altar Stone, as 
it is usually called, lies flat on the 
ground, and occupies the adytum of 
the temple. The total number of 
stones of which Stonehenge was com- 
posed, is, according to Dr. Smith’s plan 
and calculation, one hundred and 
twenty-nine. Some of these were of a 
compact sand-tone, some of fine-grained 
grunstein, interpersed with black horn- 
blende, feldspar, quartz, and chlorite, 
some a siliceous schistus, others an 
argillaceous schistus, others horn-stone. 
The Altar Stone is gray cos. 

In regard to the history of these ex- 
traordinary monuments, there is little 
of any definite nature. The earliest 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


~ twice in the same year. 


account of them occurs in Nenniulf 
who lived in the eighth century. H 
says they were erected by the Briton| 
to commemorate a massacre which tool 
place at the spot. The Historica) 
Triads of the Welsh refer their origi 
to the same cause. Camden calls thi 
structure zmsana, but says nothing abou 
it entitled to notice. Modern author 
have been profuse in speculation, bu 
no more. The general opinion seem; 
to be in favor of a Druidical Temple 
The Rev. James Ingram supposes it t¢ 
have been ‘a heathen burial-place.’ 
Borlase remarks that “the work 0: 
Stonehenge must have been that of ¢ 
great and powerful nation, not of 4 
limited community of priests; the 
grandeur of the design, the distance of 
the materials, the tediousness wit 
which all such massive works are neces- 
sarily attended, all show that such de- 
signs were the fruits of peace and re- 
ligion.” Bryant, whose authority we 
regard as superior to any, discredits the 
Druidical theory altogether. | 

We may be permitted to conclude 
this cursory article by an extract from’ 
the Greek historian, Diodorus Siculus— 
leaving the application of the passage to 
the judgment or the fancy Of our read- 
ers. 

“Among the authors of antiquity 
Hecateus and some others relate that 
there is an island in the ocean, opposite 
to Celtic Caul, and not inferior in size 
to Sicily, lying towards the north, and 
inhabited by Hyperborei, who are so 
called because they live more remote 
from the north wind. The soil is excel- 
lent and fertile, and the harvest is made 
Tradition says 

















that Latona was here born, and there- 
fore Apollo is worshipped above any 
other deity. To him is also dedicated 
tremarkable temple of a round form.” 
_ The ancient superstitions gave the 
giants credit for the construction of 
Stonehenge, believing that the massive 


SOME ACCOUNT OF STONEHENGE, THE GLANT’S DANCE 1073 


piles were moveable but by giant 
power—hence, the name of Choir-gaur, 
which literally means ‘The Giant’s 
Dance.” 

The whole number of stones now 
visible amounts to one hundred and 
nine. 


eyot 


2) 






b701 AOAC 2'TVAROe MER sam 102.90, 690096 


vit 
: 


eMOE-MORO lo SeigAyeds .s9n9d- mae. Yee svods j.bosm wins Le 
éjaaied: 9d Sc ieesseh o vileraail aise boisribal onic. Sua = Nea 
tot ae iagne Saw) cbaoy clo 8 aiehe 
WOH 290042 |, 10, sadetutt,. olodw-nadTs.- atht. OVER abilities By 

bar sbovbrius . 9co.0%.etnyoms sidiaty to cei go=aca aan 


ct je te att Sri evieesm, pas jods.3 mR ue id 
Pars). 
ering ‘<8 etriwlur re a7 Pr, hut be LENE * 







































insigy veictiud yteldamonn: smn eel sted boat mand 


' - . : : > eee oF “i a vy; “ - 
: st tC ani . j ; notices’ rite! i 
aL @ ¢ }OF a \ 2 iu VE A vise i i % — y 
a J +d i Ta Ves <a | ryt ’ — , r fie wzenen bi a er 


é ore muth Sth he in far oot eee 
t : ni those of “Phe Revi james “Engr Ay 

thin these two citcles.- Be cen” “ti bers 

' er fo f stones,  Dorkene - eemarks Sheer 

: nist it iP og (bes! ere nin mie have’ b 

ion of _ ‘ lt was torres ; * ond powerfal" 
listinet Hions—« triton,’ tiled “commuwiges a priests: 

i volts. gramdein ot tbe design, € he distur 

eIrs t® se ine wiacte ie the COUSIN 
ay 

t ¥ intemar Tov i! ES VDE Si SUCH Massy » Woe 
- claims a onaisted’ of aly ‘at cag at sho + 

a pyramid rn Ar bet ‘Bryant, hos 

Oat periect amony theron 34 seven eet rea tha superior to"an } 

wl half hich Phe Attar Stowe, 4s Droiettvat theory: ‘AltoRe 

it “is ‘Asually ‘caflest’ Wes Mal’ da he We al of Do? permites 

Wod, And occupies . 4 on J VOUT of this “ny artide Dy 3 | 

the temple. The total). oumber.. of — the Cece teastaes a, Dio 

nes of wi! ch Lonehelige Was. CON}-” leaving ihe applicat ze 

pased, is, according to-Dr, Smith's plan’. be ju REDE SF be 

* Oot, humired and ae 


i 


ang Oa Lyon 
iwvents gsi Sotue. ol these were of a 
compact sand-idor, doin nf) fine-grained ’ 
grunsivit, inueepers sed with. black hom. 
blends, feldspar, (Guarts, ned chidrita, 
bume 3 siliceous. sobistusy others) aa 
trxillaceous schists, others horri-skotae 
‘dbe Altar Stone ‘is pray cos, 7) 
In regord to the history of 
tendrdina cy monimehts, 2 


of ay, sate pla The: be 


sy 4 Ya 
ies oa ee 






- ® , <s 


VOLUME X 








It HAs been suggested that the defi- 
tiency of satire in America arises from 
‘the want of a suitable field for satirical 
display. In England, it is said, satire 
abounds, because the people there find 
a proper target in the aristocracy, 
whom they (the people) regard as a 
distinct race with whom they have little 
in common; relishing even the most vir- 
ulent abuse of the upper classes with a 
gusto undiminished by any feeling that 
they (the people) have any concern in 
it. In Russia, or Austria, on the other 
hand, it is urged, satire is unknown; be- 
cause there is danger in touching the 
aristocracy, and self-satire would be 
odious to the mass. In America, also, 
the people who write are, it is main- 
tained, the people who read:—thus in 
satirising the people we satirise only 
ourselves, and are never in condition to 
sympathise with the satire. 

All this is more verisimilar than 
true. It is forgotten that no individual 
considers himself as one of the mass. 
Each person, in his own estimate, is the 
pivot on which all the rest of the world 
spins round. We may abuse the people 
by wholesale, and yet with a clear con- 
science, so far as regards any compunc- 





tion for offending any one from among - 


* The first part of this criticism has 
been omitted as it is verbally the same 
as that of the Quacks of Helicon—Ed. 


James Russell Lowell” 


(Published in Southern Literary Messenger, March, 1849.—Ed.) 


the multitude of which “that people” 
is composed. Every one of the crowd 
will cry “Encore!—give it to them, the 
vagabonds! it serves them right.” It 
seems to us that, in America, we have 
refused to encourage satire—not be- 
cause what we have had touches us too 
nearly—but because it has been too 
pointless to touch us at all. Its namby- 
pambyism has arisen, in part, from the 
general want, among our men of let- 
ters, of that minute polish—of that 
skill in details—which, in combination 
with natural sarcastic power, satire, 
more than any other form of literature, 
so imperatively demands. In part, also, 
we may attribute our failure to the co- 
lonial sin of imitation. We content our- 
selves—at this point not less supinely 
than at all others—with doing what not 
only has been done before, but what, 
however well done, has yet been done 
ad nauseam. We should not be able 
to endure infinite repetitions of even ab- 
solute excellence; but what is “M’Fin- 
gal” more than a faint echo from 
“Hudibras” P—and what is ‘“The Vision 
of Rubeta” more than a vast gilded 
swill-trough overflowing with Dunciad 
and water? 

“The Vision” is bold enough—if we 
leave out of sight its anonymous issue 


-—and bitter enough, and witty enough, 


if we forget its pitiable punning on 
names—and long enough (Heaven 


1075 


1076 


knows), and well constructed and de- 
cently versified; but it fails in the prin- 
cipal element of all satire—sarcasm— 
because the intention to be sarcastic 
(as in the “English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers,” and in all the more class- 
ical satires) is permitted to render it- 
self manifest. The malevolence ap- 
pears. ‘The author is never very severe, 
because he is at no time particularly 
cool. We laugh not so much at his vic- 
tims as at himself, for letting them put 
him in such a passion. And where a 
deeper sentiment than mirth is excited 
—where it is pity or contempt that we 
are made to feel—the feeling is too of- 
ten reflected in its object, from the sat- 
irised to the satirist—with whom we 
sympathise in the discomfort »f his an- 
imosity. Mr. Osborn has not many 
superiors in downright invective; but 
this is the awkward left arm of the sa- 
tiric Muse. That satire alone is worth 
talking about which at least appears to 


be the genial, good-humoured out-pour- © 


ing of irrepressible merriment. 

The “Fable for the Critics,” just is- 
sued, has not the name of its author on 
the title-page; and but for some slight 
foreknowledge of the literary opinions, 
' likes, dislikes, whims, prejudices, and 
crochets of Mr. James Russell Lowell, 
we should have had much difficulty in 
attributing so very loose a brochure to 
him. The “Fable” is _ essentially 
“loose’”—ill-conceived and feebly ex- 
ecuted, as well in detail as in general. 
Some good hints and some sparkling 
witticisms do not serve to compensate us 
for its rambling plot (if plot it can be 
called) and for the want of artistic fin- 
ish so particularly noticeable through- 
out the work—especially in its versifi- 
cation. Jn Mr. Lowell’s prose efforts 


appears.” 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


we have before observed a certain dis. 
jointedness, but never, until now, in| 
his verse—and we confess some surprise |! 
at his putting forth so unpolished a> 
performance. The author of ‘The Leg- | 
end of Brittany” (which is decidedly) 
the noblest poem, of the same length, 
written by an American) could. not do) 
a better thing than to take the advice 
of those who mean him well, in spite’ 
of his fanaticism, and leave prose, with 
satiric verse, to those who are better 
able to manage them; while he contents 
himself with that class of poetry for. 
which, and for which alone, he seems to” 
have an especial vocation—the poetry 
of sentiment. This, to be sure, is not 
the very loftiest order of verse; for it’ 
is far inferior to either that of the im- 
agination or that of the passions—but | 
it is the loftiest region in which Mr. 
Lowell can get his breath without dif- | 
ficulty. | 

Our primary objection to this “Fable 
for the Critics’ has reference to a 
point which we have already touched | 
in a general way. “The malevolence 
We laugh not so much at 
the author’s victims as at himself, for 







|| 
| 
| 


' letting them put him in such a passion. 


The very title of the book shows the 
want of a due sense in respect to the 
satirical essence, sarcasm. This “fable” 
—this severe lesson—is meant “for the 
Critics.” “Ah!” we may say to our- 
selves at once—‘‘we see how it is. Mr. 
L. is a poor-devil poet, and some critic 
has been reviewing him, and making 
him feel very uncomfortable; where- 
upon, bearing in mind that Lord Byron, 
when similarly assailed, avenged his 
wrongs in a satire which he called ‘Eng- 
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers,’ he 
(Mr. Lowell), imitative as usual, has 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 1077 


been endeavouring to get redress in a 
parallel manner—by a satire with a 
| parallel title—‘A Fable for the Critics.’ ” 


once wrote some sonnets “On Man,” 
and Mr. Channing some lines on “A 
Tin Can,” or something of that kind— 





All this the reader says to himself; 
-and all this tells against Mr. L. in two 
_ways—first, by suggesting unlucky com- 
parisons between Byron and Lowell, 
and, secondly, by reminding us of the 
various criticisms, in which we have 
been amused (rather ill-naturedly) at 
seeing Mr. Lowell “used up.” 

The title starts us on this train of 
thought, and the satire sustains us in 
it. Every reader versed in our literary 
gossip is at once put dessous des cartes 
as to the particular provocation which 
engendered the “Fable.” Miss Mar- 
garet Fuller, some time ago, in a silly 
and conceited piece of Transcendenta- 
lism, which she called an “Essay on 
American Literature,” or something of 
that kind, had the consummate pleas- 
antry, after selecting from the list of 
American poets Cornelius Mathews and 
William Ellery Channing for especial 
commendation, to speak of Longfellow 
as a booby, and of Lowell as so wretched 
a poetaster “as to be disgusting even to 
his best friends.” All this Miss Fuller 
said, if not in our precise words, still in 
words quite as much to the purpose. 
Why she said it, Heaven only knows— 
unless it was because she was Mar- 
garet Fuller, and wished to be taken 
for nobody else. Messrs. Longfellow 
and Lowell, so pointedly picked out for 
abuse as the worst of our poets, are, 
upon the whole, perhaps, our best—al- 
though Bryant and one or two others 
are scarcely inferior. As for the two 
favourites selected just as pointedly for 
laudation by Miss F., it is really difficult 
to think of them, in connection with 
poetry, without laughing. Mr. Mathews 


and if the former gentleman be not the 
very worst poet that ever existed on 
the face of the earth, it is only because 
he is not quite so bad as the latter. To 
speak algebraically:—Mr. M. is ex- 
ecrable, but Mr. C. is (x plus 1)-ecrable. 

Mr. Lowell has obviously aimed his 
“Fable” at Miss Fuller’s head in the 
frst instance, with an eye to its ricochet- 
ing so as to knock down Mr. Mathews 
in the second. Miss F. is first intro- 
duced as Miss F—, rhyming to “cooler,” 
and afterwards as ‘Miranda’: while 
poor Mr. M. is brought in upon all oc- 
casions, head and shoulders; and now 
and then a sharp thing, although never 
very original, is said of them or at 
them; but all the true satiric effect 
wrought is that produced by the satir- 
ist against himself. The reader is all 
the time smiling to think that so un- 
surpassable a—(what shall we call her? 
—we wish to be civil)—a transcendent- 
alist as Miss Fuller, should, by such a 
criticism, have had the power to put a 
respectable poet in such a passion. 

As for the plot or conduct of this 
fable, the less we say of it the better. 
It is so weak—so flimsy—so ill put 
together—as to be not worth the 
trouble of understanding :—something, 
as usual, about Apollo and Daphne. Is 
there no originality on the face of the 
earth? Mr. Lowell’s total want of it 
is shown at all points, very especially 
in his preface of rhyming verse written 
without distinction by lines or ‘initial 
capitals (a hackneyed matter, originat- 
ing, we believe, with Frazer’s Maga- 
zine )—very especially, also, in his long 
continuations of some particular 


1078 


rhyme—a fashion introduced, if we re- 
member aright, by Leigh Hunt, more 
than twenty-five years ago, in his “Feast 
of the Poets,” which, by the way, has 
been Mr. L.’s model in many respects. 

Although ill-temper has evidently en- 
gendered this “Fable,” it is by no means 
a satire throughout. Much of it is de- 
voted to panegyric—but our readers 
would be quite puzzled to know the 
grounds of the author’s laudations in 
many cases, unless made acquainted 
with a fact which we think it as well 
they should be informed of at once. 
Mr. Lowell is one of the most rabid of 
the Abolition fanatics; and no South- 
erner who does not wish to be insulted, 
and at the same time revolted, by a 
bigotry the most obstinately blind and 
deaf, should ever touch a volume by 
this author.* His fanaticism about 
slavery is a mere local outbreak of the 
same Innate wrong-headedness which, if 
he owned slaves, would manifest itself 
in atrocious ill-treatment of them, with 
murder of any abolitionist who should 
endeavour to set them free. A fan- 
atic of Mr. L.’s species is simply a fan- 
atic for the sake of fanaticism, and 
must be a fanatic in whatever circum- 
stances you place him. 

His prejudices on the topic of slav- 


* This “Fable for the Critics’’—this 
literary satire—this benevolent jeu 
desprit is disgraced by such passages 
as the following :— 


“Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom 
twenty bred 
Their sons for the rice swamps at so 
much a head, 
their daughters 
—E. A. P. 


And for—faugh!” 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ery break out everywhere in his present 
book. Mr. L. has not the common hon- 
esty to speak well, even in a literary 
sense, of any man who is not a ranting | | 
abolitionist. With the exception of Mr. 
Poe (who has written some commenda- 
tory criticisms on his poems) no South- 
erner is mentioned a¢ all in this ‘‘Fable.” 
It is a fashion among Mr. Lowell’s set 
to affect a belief that there is no such 
thing as Southern Literature. Northern- 
ers—people who have really nothing to | 
speak of as men of letters—are cited 
by the dozen, and lauded by this can- | 
did critic aah stint, while Legare, — 
Simms, Longstreet, and others of equal 
note, are passed by in contemptuous si- 
lence. Mr. L. cannot carry his frail 
honesty of opinion even so far South 
as New York. All whom he praises 
are Bostonians., Other writers are bar- 
barians, and _ satirised accordingly—if 
mentioned at all. 

To show the general manner of the 
fable we quote a portion of what he 
says about Mr. Poe:— 





Here comes Poe with his Raven, like 
Barnaby Rudge— 

Three-fifths of him genius, ag two- 
fifths sheer fudge; 

Who talks like a book of iambs and 
pentameters, 

In a way to make all men of common 
sense d—n metres; 

Who has written some things far the 
best of their kind; 

But somehow the heart seems squeezed 
out by the mind. ~ 


We may observe here that profound 
ignorance on any particular topic is al- 
ways sure to manifest itself by some al- 
lusion_to “common sense” as an all- 





JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 


sufficient instructor. So far from Mr. 
P.’s talking “like a book” on the topic 


}} at issue, his chief purpose has been to 


demonstrate that there exists no book 
on the subject worth talking about; 
and “common sense,” after all, has been 
the basis on which he relied in con- 
tradistinction from the wxcommon non- 
sense of Mr. L. and the small pedants. 

And now let us see how far the un- 
usual “common sense” of our satirist 
has availed him in the structure of his 
verse. First, by way of showing what 
his intention was, we quote three acci- 
dentally accurate lines:— 


But a boy|he could ne| ver be right | 
ly defined. 

As I said | he was ne | ver precise | ly 
unkind. 

But as Ci] cero says|he won’t say | 
this or that. 


Here it is clearly seen that Mr. L. in- 
tends a line of four anapests. (An an- 
apzst is a foot composed of two short 
syllables followed by a long.) With 
this observation, we will now simply 
copy a few of the lines which consti- 
tute the body of the poem, asking any 
of our readers to read them if they can; 
that is to say, we place the question, 
without argument, on the broad basis 
of the very commonest “common 
sense.” 


They’re all from one source, monthly, 
weekly, diurnal... 

Disperse all one’s good and condense 
all one’s poor traits... 

The one’s two-thirds Norseman, the 
other half Greek... 

He has imitators in scores who omit... 


1079 


Should suck milk, strong will-giving 
brave, such as runs... 

Along the far rail-road the steam-snake 
glide white... 

From the same runic type-fount and 
alphabet ... 

Earth has six truest patriots, four dis- 
coverers of ether... 

Every cockboat that swims clears its 
fierce (pop) gundeck at him... 

Is some of it pr—no, ’tis not even 
prose... 

O’er his principles when something else 
turns up trumps... 

But a few silly (syllo I mean) gisms 
that squat "em... 

Nos, we don’t want extra freezing in 
Winter... 

Ploughed, dig, sail, forge, build, carve, 
paint, make all things new. 


But enough—we have given a fair 
specimen of the general versification. 
It might have been better—but we are 
quite sure that it could not have been 
worse. So much for “common sense,” 
in Mr. Lowell’s understanding of the 
term. Mr. L. should not have meddled 
with the anapestic rhythm; it is exceed- 
ingly awkward in the hands of one who 
knows nothing about it, and who will 
persist in fancying that he can write it 
by ear. Very especially he should have 
avoided this rhythm in satire, which, 
more than any other branch of letters, 
is dependent upon seeming trifles for its 
effect. Two-thirds of the force of the 
“Dunciad” may be referred to its ex- 
quisite finish; and had the ‘‘Fable for 
the Critics” been (what it is mot) the 
quintessence of the satiric spirit itself, 
it would nevertheless, in so slovenly a 
form, have failed. As it is, no failure 


1080 


was ever more complete or more pit- 
iable. By the publication of a book at 
once so ambitious and so feeble—so 
malevolent, in design and so harmless in 
execution—a work so roughly and 
clumsily, yet so weakly constructed— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


so very different in body and _ spirit 
from anything that he has written 
before—Mr. Lowell has committed an 
irrevocable faux pas and lowered him- 
self at least fifty per cent. in the literary 
public opinion. 


The Poets and Poetry of America 


(First published in Boston Miscellany, November, 1842.—Ed.) 


THAT we are not a poetical people 
has been asserted so often and so 
roundly, both at home and abroad, that 
the slander, through mere dint of repe- 
tition, has come to be received as 
truth. Yet nothing can be further re- 
moved from it. The mistake is but a 
portion or corollary of the old dogma 
that the calculating faculties are at war 
with the ideal; while, in fact, it may be 
demonstrated that the two divisions of 
mental power are never to be found in 
perfection apart. The highest order 
of the imaginative intellect is always 
pre-eminently mathematical, and the 
converse. 

The idiosyncracy of our political 
position has stimulated into early action 
whatever practical talent we possessed. 
Even in our national infancy we evinced 
a degree of utilitarian ability which put 
to shame the mature skill of our fore- 
fathers. While yet in leading-strings 
we proved ourselves adepts in all the 
arts and sciences which promote the 
comfort of the animal man. But the 
arena of exertion, and of consequent 
distinction, into which our first and 
most obvious wants impelled us, has 
been regarded as the field of our delib- 
erate choice. Our necessities have been 


mistaken for our propensities. Having 
been forced to make railroads, it has 
been deemed impossible that we should 
make verse. Because it suited us to 
construct an engine in the first instance, 
it has been denied that we could com- 
pose an epic in the second. Because 
we were not all Homers in the begin- 
ning, it has been somewhat too rashly 
taken for granted that we shall be all 
Jeremy Benthams to the end. 

But this is the purest insanity. The 
principles of the poetic sentiment lie 
deep within the immortal nature of 
man, and have little necessary reference 
to the worldly circumstances which sur- 
round him. The poet in Arcady is, in 
Kamschatka, the poet still. The self- 
same Saxon current animates the Brit- 
ish and the American heart; nor can 
any social, or political, or moral, or 
physical conditions do more than mo- 
mentarily repress the impulses which 
glow in our own bosoms as fervently as 
in those of our progenitors. 

Those who have taken most careful 
note of our literature for the last ten 
or twelve years will be most willing to 
admit that we are a poetical people; 
and in no respect is the fact more 
plainly evinced than in the eagerness 






-with which books professing to compile 
or select from the productions of our 
native bards are received and appre- 
} ciated by the public. Such books meet 
'with success, at least with sale, at 
/periods when the general market for 
literary wares is in a state of stagna- 
tion; and even the ill taste displayed 
in. some of them has not sufficed to con- 
_demn. 

| The “Specimens of American Poetry,” 
| by Kettell; the “Commonplace Book of 
American Poetry,” by Cheever; a Selec- 
tion by General Morris; another by Mr. 
| Bryant; the “Poets of America,’ by 
Keese—all these have been widely dis- 
| seminated and well received. In some 
measure, to be sure, we must regard 
their success as an affair of personal- 
ities. Each individual honoured with a 
niche in the compiler’s memory is nat- 
urally anxious to possess a copy of the 
book so honouring him; and this anxiety 
will extend, in some cases, to ten or 
twenty of the immediate friends of the 
complimented; while,. on the other 
hand, purchasers will arise, in no small 
number, from among a very different 
class—a class animated by very differ- 
ent feelings. I mean the omitted—the 
large body of those who, supposing 
themselves entitled to mention, have 
yet been unmentioned. ‘These buy the 
unfortunate book as a matter of course, 
for the purpose of abusing it with a 
clear conscience and at leisure. But 
holding these deductions in view, we 
are still warranted in believing that the 
demand for works of the kind in ques- 
tion is to be attributed mainly to the 
general interest of the subject dis- 
cussed. The public have been desirous 
of obtaining a more distinct view of our 
poetical literature than the scattered 


THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA 


1081 


effusions of our bards and the random 
criticisms of our periodicals could 
afford. But, hitherto, nothing has been 
accomplished in the way of supplying 
the desideratum. ‘The “specimens” of 
Kettell were specimens of nothing but 
the ignorance and ill taste of the com- 
piler. A large proportion of what he 
gave to the world as American poetry, 
to the exclusion of much that was 
really so, was the doggerel composition 
of individuals unheard of and _ un- 
dreamed of, except by Mr. Kettell him- 
self. Mr. Cheever’s book did not belie 
its title, and was excessively “common- 
place.” The selection by General Mor- 
ris was in so. far good that it accom- 
plished its object to the full extent. 
This object looked to nothing more 
than single brief extracts from the 
writings of every one in the country 
who had established even the slightest 
reputation as a poet. The extracts, so 
far as our truer poets were concerned, 
were tastefully made; but the prover- 
bial kind feeling of the General seduced 
him into the admission of an inordinate 
quantity of the purest twaddle. It was 
gravely declared that we had more than 
two hundred poets in the land. ‘The 
compilation of Mr. Bryant, from whom 
much was expected, proved a source of 
mortification to his friends, and of as- 
tonishment and disappointment to all; 
merely showing that a poet is, neces- 
sarily, neither a critical nor an impartial 
judge of poetry. Mr. Keese succeeded 
much better. He brought to his task, 
if not the most rigorous impartiality, at 
least a fine taste, a sound judgment, and 
a more thorough acquaintance with our 
poetical literature than had _ distin- 
guished any of his predecessors. 

Much, however, remained to be done; 


1082 


and here it may be right to inquire— 
“What should be the aim of every com- 
pilation of the character now dis- 
cussed?” The object, in general terms, 
may be stated as the conveying, within 
moderate compass, a distinct view of 
our poetry and of our poets. This, in 
fact, is the demand of the public. A 
book is required which shall not so 
much be the reflection of the compiler’s 
peculiar views and opinions upon poetry 
in the abstract, as of the popular judg- 
ment upon such poetical works as have 
come immediately within its observa- 
tion. It is not the author’s business to 
Insist upon his own theory, and, in its 
support, to rake up from the by-ways 
of the country the ‘‘inglorious Miltons” 
who may possibly there abound; 
Deither, because ill according with this 
theory, is it his duty to dethrone and 
reject those who have long maintained 
supremacy in the estimation of the peo- 
ple. In this view it will be seen that 
regard must be paid to. the mere quan- 
tzty of a writer’s effusions. He who has 
published much is not to be omitted be- 
cause, in the opinion of the compiler, 
he has written nothing fit for publica- 
tion. On the other hand, he who has 
extemporised a single song, which has 
met the eye on no one but our bibliog- 
rapher, is not to be set forth among 
the poetical magnates, even although 
the one song itself be esteemed equal 
to the very best of Beranger. 

Of the two classes of sins—the nega- 
tive and the positive—those of omission 
and those of commission—obvious ones 
of the former class are, beyond doubt, 
the more unpardonable. It is better to 
introduce half a dozen “great un- 
knowns,” than to give the ‘“‘cut direct” 
to a single individual who has been 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fairly. acknowledged as known. The 
public, in short, seem to demand such 
a compendium of our poetical literature 
as shall embrace specimens from those 
works alone, of our recognised poets, 
which, either through accident, or by 
dint of merit, have been most particu- 
larly the subjects of public discussion. 
We wish this, that we may be put in 
condition to decide for ourselves upon 
the justice or injustice of the reputa- 
tion attained. In critical opinion much 
diversity exists; and, although there is 
one true and tenable critical opinion, 
there are still a thousand, upon all 
topics, which, being only the shadows, 
have all the outlines and assume all 
the movements of the substance of 
truth. Thus any critic who should ex- 
clude from the compendium all which 
tallied not with his individual ideas of 
the Muse, would be found to exclude 
nine hundred and ninety-nine thou- 
sandths of that which the public at 
large, embracing all varieties of opinion, 
has been accustomed to acknowledge as 
poesy. 

These remarks apply only to the ad- 
mission or rejection of poetical speci- 
mens. The public being put fairly in 
possession of the matter debated, with 
the provisions above mentioned, the 
analysis of individual claims, so far as 
the specimens extend, is not only not 
unbecoming in the compiler, but a thing 
to be expected and desired. To this 
department of his work he should bring 
analytical ability; a distinct impression 
of the nature, the principles, and the 
aims of poetry; a thorough contempt 
for all prejudice at war with principle; 
a poetic sense of the poetic; sagacity 
in the detection, and audacity in the 
exposure of demerit; in a word talent 











THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA 


and faith; the lofty honour which places 
mere courtesy beneath its feet; the 
boldness to praise an enemy, and the 
more unusual courage to damn a friend. 

It is, in fact, by the criticism of the 

_ work that the public voice will, in the 
end, decide upon its merits. In pro- 
portion to the ability or incapacity here 
| displayed will it, sooner or later, be 
| approved or condemned. Nevertheless, 
the mere compilation is a point, per- 
haps, of great importance. With the 
| meagre published aids existing previ- 
ously to Mr. Griswold’s book, the 
labour of such an undertaking must 
have been great; and not less great 
the industry and general information 
in respect to our literary affairs which 
have enabled him so successfully to 
_ prosecute it. . 
_ The work before us is indeed so vast 
an improvement upon those of similar 
character which have preceded it, that 
we do its author some wrong in class- 
ing all together. Having explained, 
somewhat minutely, our views of the 
proper mode of compilation, and of the 
general aims of the species of book in 
question, it but remains to say that 
these views have been very nearly ful- 
filled in “The Poets and Poetry of 
America,” while altogether unsatisfied 
by the earlier publications. 

The volume opens with a preface, 
which, with some little supererogation, 
is addressed “To the Reader”; inducing 
very naturally thé query, whether the 
whole book ‘is not addressed to the same 
individual. In this preface, which is 
remarkably well written and _ strictly 
to the purpose, the author thus evinces 
a just comprehension of the nature and 
objects of true poesy:— 


1033 


He who looks on Lake George, or 
sees the sun rise on Mackinaw, or 
listens to the grand music of a storm, 
is divested, certainly for a time, of a 
portion of the alloy of his nature. The 
elements of power in all sublime sights 
and heavenly harmonies should live in 
the poet’s song, to which they can be 
transferred only by him who possesses 
the creative faculty. The sense of 
beauty, next to the miraculous divine 
suasion, is the means through which the 
human character is purified and elevated. 
The creation of beauty, the manifesta- 
tion of the real by the ideal, ‘in words 
that move in metrical array, is poetry. 


The italics dre our own; and we quote 
the passage because it embodies the sole 
true definition of what has been a thou- 
sand times erroneously defined. 

The earliest specimens of poetry pre- 
sented in the body of the work are from 
the writings of Philip Freneau, “one of 
those worthies who, both with lyre and 
sword, aided in the achievement of our 
independence.” But, in a volume pro 
fessing to treat generally of the “Poets 
and Poetry of America,” some mention 
of those who versified before Freneau 
would of course be considered desira- 
ble. Mr. Griswold has included, there- 
fore, most of our earlier votaries of the 
Muse, with many specimens of their 
powers, in an exceedingly valuable “His- 
torical Introduction”; his design being 
to exhibit as well “the progress as the 


condition of poetry in the United 
States.” 
The basis of the compilation is 


formed of short biographical and crit- 
ical notices, with selections from the 
works of, in all, eighty-seven authors, 
chronologically arranged. In an appen- 


1084 


dix at the end of the volume are in- 
tluded specimens from the works of 
sixty, whose compositions have either 
been too few, or in the editor’s opin- 
ion too mediocre, to entitle them to 
more particular notice. To each of 
these specimens are appended foot- 
notes, conveying a brief biographical 
summary, without anything of critical 
disquisition. 

Of the general plan and execution of 
the work we have already expressed 
the fullest approbation. We know no 
one in America who could, or who 
would, have performed the task here 
undertaken, at once so well in accord- 
ance with the judgment of the critical, 
and so much to the satisfaction of the 
public. The labours, the embarrass- 
ments, the great difficulties of the 
achievement are not easily estimated by 
those before the scenes. 

In saying that, individually, we dis- 
agree with many of the opinions ex- 
pressed by Mr. Griswold, we merely 
Suggest what. in itself, would have been 
obvious without the suggestion. It 
rarely happens that any two persons 
thoroughly agree upon any one point. 
It would be mere madness to imagine 
that any two could coincide in every 
point of a case where exists a multiplic- 
ity of opinions upon a multiplicity of 
points. ‘There is no one who, reading 
the volume before us, will not in a 
thousand instances be tempted to throw 
it aside, because its prejudices and par- 
tialities are, in a thousand instances, al- 
together at war with his own. But 
when so tempted, he should bear in 
mind that had the work been that of 
Aristarchus himself, the discrepancies 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of opinion would still have startled him 
and vexed him as now. 

We disagree, then, with Mr. Griswold 
in many of his critical estimates; al- 
though, in general, we are proud to 
find his decisions our own. He has 
omitted from the body of his book some 
one or two whom we should have been 
tempted to introduce. On the other 
hand, he has scarcely made us amends 
by introducing some one or two dozen 
whom we should have treated with con- 
tempt. We might complain, too, of a 
prepossession, evidently unperceived by 
himself, for the writers of New Eng- 
land. We might hint, also, that in two 
or three cases he has rendered himself 
liable to the charge of personal par- 
tiality; it is often so very difficult a 
thing to keep separate in the mind’s 
eye our conceptions of the poetry of a 
friend and our impressions of his good 
fellowship and our recollections of the 
flavour of his wine. 

But having said thus much in the way 
of fault-finding, we have said all. The 
book should be regarded as the most 
important addition which our literature 
has for many years received. Tt fills a 
void which should have been long ago 
supplied. It is written with judgment, 
with dignity, and candour. Steering 
with a dexterity not to be sufficiently 
admired, between the Scylla of Preju- 
dice on the one hand and the Charybdis 
of Conscience on the other, Mr. Gris- 
wold, in “The Poets and Poetry of 
America,” has entitled himself to the 
thanks of his countrymen, while show- 
ing himself a man of taste, talent, and 
tact. 





The American Drama 


(First published in American Whig Review, August, 1845.—Ed.) 


A BIOGRAPHIST of Berryer calls him 
*homme qui, dans sa description, de- 
mande le plus grande quantite possible 
d@’ antithese,’—but that ever-recurring 
topic, the decline of the drama, seems 
' to have consumed of late more of the 
material in question than would have 
_ sufficed for a dozen prime ministers— 
even admitting them to be French. 
Every trick of thought and every harle- 
quinade of phrase have been put in 
operation for the purpose “de nier ce 
qui est, et dexpliquer ce qui n’est pas.” 

Ce qui n’est pas:—for the drama has 
_not declined. ‘The facts and the philos- 
ophy of the case seem to be these. 
The great opponent to Progress is Con- 
servatism. In other words—the great 
adversary of Invention is Imitation: the 
propositions are in spirit identical. 
Just as an art is imitative, is it station- 
ary. The most imitative arts are the 
most prone to repose—and the con- 
verse. Upon the utilitarian—upon the 
_ business arts, where Necessity impels, 
Invention, Necessity’s well-understood 
offspring, is ever in attendance. And 
_ the less we see of the mother the less 
_we behold of the child, No one com- 
plains of the decline of the art of 
_ Engineering. Here the Reason, which 
never retrogrades or reposes, is called 
into play. But let us glance at Sculp- 
ture. We are not worse here than the 
ancients, let pedantry say what it may 
(the Venus of Canova is worth, at any 
time, two of that of Cleomenes), but 
it is equally certain that we have made, 
in general, no advances; and Sculpture, 


ig l 


properly considered, is perhaps the most 
imitative of all arts which have a right 
to the title of Art at all. Looking next 
at Painting, we find that we have to 
boast of progress only in the ratio of 
the inferior imitativeness of Painting, 
when compared with Sculpture. As far 
indeed as we have any means of judg- 
ing, our improvement has been exceed- 
ingly little, and did we know anything 
of ancient Art in this department, we 
might be astonished at discovering that 
we had advanced even far less than we 
suppose. As_ regards Architecture, 
whatever progress we have made has 
been precisely in those particulars which 
have no reference to imitation:—that is 
to say, we have improved the utilitarian 
and not the ornamental provinces of the 
art. Where Reason predominated, we 
advanced; where mere Feeling or Taste 
was the guide, we remained as we were. 

Coming to the Drama, we shall see 
that in its mechanisms we have made 
progress, while in its spirituality we 
have done little or nothing for centuries 
certainly—and, perhaps, little or nothing 
for thousands of years. And this is 
because what we term the spirituality 
of the drama is precisely its imitative 
portion—is exactly that portion which 
distinguishes it as one of the principal 
of the imitative arts. 

Sculptors, painters, dramatists, are, 
from the very nature of their mate- 
rial, — their spiritual material — imi- 
tators—conservatists—prone to repose 
in old Feeling and in antique Taste. 
For this reason—and for this reason 


1085 


1086 


only—the arts of Sculpture, Painting, 
and the Drama have not advanced—or 
have advanced feebly, and inversely in 
the ratio of their imitativeness. 

But it by no means follows that 
either has declined. All seem to have 
declined, because they have remained 
stationary while the multitudinous other 
arts (of reason) have flitted so rapidly 
by them. In the same manner the 
traveller by railroad can imagine that 
the trees by the wayside are retro- 
grading. The trees in this case are ab- 
solutely stationary—but the Drama has 
not been altogether so, although its 
progress has been so slight as not to 
interfere with the general effect—that 
of seeming retrogradation or decline. 

This seeming retrogradation, however, 
is to all practical intents an absolute 
one. Whether the Drama has declined, 
or whether it has merely remained sta- 
tionary, is a point of no importance, so 
far as concerns the public encourage- 
ment of the Drama. It is unsupported, 
in either case, because it does not de- 
serve support. 

But if this stagnation, or deteriora- 
tion, grows out of the very idiosyn- 
cracy of the drama itself, as one of the 
principal of the imitative arts, how is it 
possible that a remedy shall be ap- 
plied—since it is clearly impossible to 
alter the nature of the art, and yet leave 
it the art which it now is? 

We have already spoken of the im- 
provements effected in Architecture, in 
all its utilitarian departments, and in 
the Drama, at all the points of its 
mechanism. ‘Wherever Reason pre- 
dominates, we advance; where mere 
Feeling or Taste is the guide, we remain 
as we are.” We wish now to suggest 
that, by the engrafting of Reason upon 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Feeling and Taste, we shall be able, and 
thus alone shall be able, to force the 
modern drama into the production of 
any profitable fruit. 

At present, what is it we do? Weare 
content if, with Feeling and Taste, a 
dramatist does as other dramatists have 
done. ‘The most successful of the more 
immediately modern playwrights has 
been Sheridan Knowles, and to play 
Sheridan Knowles seems to be the high- 
est ambition of our writers for the 
stage. Now the author of “The Hunch- 
back” possesses what we are weak 
enough to term the true “dramatic feel- 
ing,” and this true dramatic feeling he 
has manifested in the most preposter- 
ous series of imitations of the Eliza- 
bethan drama by which ever mankind 
were insulted and begulled. Not only 
did he adhere to the old plots, the old 
characters, the old stage conventional- 
ities throughout; but he went even so 
far as to persist in the obsolete phrase- 
ologies of the Elizabethan period—and, 
just in proportion to his obstinacy and 
absurdity at all points, did we pretend 
to like him the better, and pretend to 
consider him a great dramatist. 

Pretend—for every particle of it was 
pretence. Never was enthusiasm more 
utterly false than that which so many 
“respectable audiences” endeavoured to 
get up for these plays—endeavoured to 
get up, first, because there was a general 
desire to see the drama revive, and sec- 
ondly, because we had been all along 
entertaining the fancy that “the decline 
of the drama” meant little, if anything, 
else than its deviation from the Eliza- 
bethan routine—and that, consequently, 
the return to the Elizabethan routine 
was, and of necessity must be, the re- 
vival of the drama. 





THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


But if the principles we have been at 
some trouble in explaining are true— 
and most profoundly do we feel them 
to be so—if the spirit of imitation is, 
in fact, the real source of the drama’s 
stagnation—and if it is so because of 
the tendency in all imitation to render 
Reason subservient to Feeling and to 
Taste—it is clear that only by 
deliberate counteracting of the spirit, 
and of the tendency of the spirit, we 
can hope to succeed in the drama’s 
revival. 

The first thing necessary is to burn 
or bury the “old models,” and to forget, 
as quickly as possible, that ever a play 
has been penned. ‘The second thing is 
to consider de novo what are the capa- 
bilities of the drama—not merely what 
_ hitherto have been its conventional 
purposes. The third and last point has 
reference to the composition of a play 
(showing to the fullest extent these 
capabilities) conceived and constructed 
with Feeling and with Taste, but with 
Feeling and Taste guided and controlled 
in every particular by the details of 
Reason—of Common Sense—in a word, 
of a Natural Art. 

It is obvious, in the meantime, that 
towards the good end in view much may 
be effected by discriminative criticism 
on what has already been done. The 
held, thus stated, is, of course, practi- 
cally illimitable—and to Americans the 
American drama is the special point of 
interest. We propose, therefore, in a 
series of papers, to take a somewhat 
deliberate survey of some few of the 
most noticeable American plays. We 
shall do this without reference either to 
the date of the composition or its adap- 
tation for the closet or the stage. We 
shall speak with absolute frankness both 


1087 


of merits and defects—our principal 
object being understood not as that of 
mere commentary on the individual 
play—but on the drama in general, and 
on the American drama in especial, of 
which each individual play is a constitu- 
ent part. We will commence at once 
with 


TORTESA, THE USURER. 


This is the third dramatic attempt of 
Mr. Willis, and may be regarded as 
particularly successful, since it has re- 
ceived, both on the stage and in the 
closet, no stinted measure of commen- 
dation. ‘This success, as well as the 
high reputation of the author, will 
justify us in a more extended notice of 
the play than might, under other cir- 
cumstances, be desirable. 

The story runs thus:—Tortesa, a 
usurer of Florence, and whose character 
is a mingled web of good and evil feel- 
ings, gets into his possession the palace 
and lands of a certain Count Falcone. 
The usurer would wed the daughter 
(Isabella) of Falcone, not through love, 
but in his own words, 


To please a devil that inhabits him— 


in fact, to mortify the pride of the 
nobility, and avenge himself of their 
scorn. He therefore bargains with 
Falcone [a narrow-souled villain] for 
the hand of Isabella. The deed of the 
Falcone property is restored to the 
Count upon an agreement that the lady 
shall marry the usurer—this contract 
being invalid should Falcone change his 
mind in regard to the marriage, or 
should the maiden demur—but valid 
should the wedding be _ prevented 


1088 


through any fault of Tortesa, or 
through any accident not springing from 
the will of the father or child. The first 
scene makes us aware of this bargain, 
and introduces us to Zippa, a glover’s 
daughter, who resolves, with a view of 
befriending Isabella, to feign a love for 
Tortesa [which, in fact, she partially 
feels], hoping thus to break off the 
match. 

The second scene makes us ac- 
quainted with a young painter (Angelo), 
poor, but of high talents and ambition, 
and with his servant (Tomaso), an 
old bottle-loving rascal, entertaining no 
very exalted opinion of his master’s 
abilities. Tomaso does some injury to a 
picture, and Angelo is about to run 
him through the body when he is inter- 
rupted by a sudden visit from the Duke 
of Florence, attended by Falcone. The 
Duke is enraged at the murderous at- 
tempt, but admires the paintings in the 
studio. Finding that the rage of the 
great man will prevent his patronage if 
he knows the aggressor as the artist, 
Angelo passes off Tomaso as himself 
(Angelo), making an exchange of 
names. This is a point of some impor- 
tance, as it introduces the true Angelo 
to a job which he has long coveted— 
the painting of the portrait of Isabella, 
of whose beauty he had become 
enamoured through report. The Duke 
wishes the portrait painted. Falcone, 
however, on account of a promise to 
Tortesa, would have objected to admit 
to his daughter’s presence the handsome 
Angelo, but in regard to Tomaso has 
no scruple. Supposing Tomaso to be 
Angelo and the artist, the Count writes 
a note to Isabella, requiring her ‘‘to ad- 
mit the painter Angelo.” The real 
Angelo is thus admitted. He and the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


lady love at first sight (much in the 
manner of Romeo and Juliet), each 
ignorant of the other’s attachment. 
The third scene of the second act is 
occupied with a conversation between 
Falcone and Tortesa, during which a 
letter arrives from the Duke, who, hav- 
ing heard of the intended sacrifice of 
Isabella, offers to redeem the Count’s 
lands and palace, and desires him to 
preserve his daughter for a certain 
Count Julian. But Isabella—who, be- 
fore seeing Angelo, had been willing to 
sacrifice herself for her father’s sake, 
and who, since seeing him, had enter- 
tained hopes of escaping the hateful 
match through means of a plot entered 
into by herself and Zippa—Isabella, we 
say, is now in despair. To gain time, 
she at once feigns a love for the usurer, 
and indignantly rejects the proposal of 
the Duke. The hour for the wedding 
draws near. The lady has prepared a 
sleeping potion, whose effects resem- 
ble those of death. (Romeo and 
Juliet.) She swallows it—knowing 
that her supposed corpse would lie at 
night, pursuant to an old custom, in the 
sanctuary of the cathedral; and believ- 
ing that Angelo—whose love for herself 
she has elicited, by a stratagem, from 
his own lips—will watch by the body, 
in the strength of his devotion. Her 
ultimate design (we may suppose, for it 
is not told) is to confess all to her lover 
on her revival, and throw herself upon 
his protection—their marriage being 
concealed, and herself regarded as dead 
by the world. Zippa, who really loves 
Angelo—(her love for Tortesa, it must 
be understood, is a very equivocal feel- 
ing, for the fact cannot be denied that 
Mr. Willis makes her love both at the 


THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


same time)—Zippa, who really loves 
Angelo—who has discovered his passion 
for Isabella—and who, as well as that 
lady, believes that the painter will 
watch the corpse in the cathedral,—de- 
termines, through jealousy, to prevent 
his so doing, and with this view informs 
Tortesa that she has learned it to be 
Angelo’s design to steal the body for 
artistical purposes;—in short, as a 
model to be used in his studio. The 
usurer, in consequence, sets a guard at 
the doors of the cathedral. This guard 
does, in fact, prevent the lover from 
watching the corpse, but, it appears, 
does not prevent the lady, on her re- 
vival and disappointment in not seeing 
the one she sought, from passing un- 
perceived from the church. Weakened 
by her long sleep, she wanders aim- 


_lessly through the streets, and at length 


finds herself, when just sinking with 
exhaustion, at the door of her father. 


_ She has no resource but to knock. The 


Count, who here, we must say, acts 
very much as Thimble of old—the 
knight, we mean, of the “scolding 
wife’—maintains that she is dead, and 
shuts the door in her face. In other 
words, he supposes it to be the ghost 


of his daughter who speaks; and so the 


lady is left to perish on the steps. 
Meantime Angelo is absent from home, 
attempting to get access to the cathe- 
dral; and his servant Tomaso takes the 
opportunity of absenting himself also, 
and of indulging his bibulous propensi- 
ties while perambulating the town. He 
finds Isabella as we left her; and 
through motives which we will leave 
Mr. Willis to explain, conducts her un- 
resistingly to Angelo’s residence, and— 
deposits her in Angelo’s bed. The 
artist now returns—Tomaso is kicked 


1089 


out of doors—and we are not told, but 
left to presume, that a full explanation 
and perfect understanding are brought 
about between the lady and her lover. 
We find them, next morning, in the 
studio, where stands, leaning against 
an easel, the portrait (a full length) 
of Isabella, with curtains adjusted be- 
fore it. The stage-directions, moreover, 
inform us that “the back wall of the 
room is such as to form a natural 
ground for the picture.” While Angelo 
is occupied in retouching it, he is in- 
terrupted by the arrival of Tortesa with 
a guard, and is accused of having stolen 
the corpse from the sanctuary—the 
lady, meanwhile, having stepped behind 
the curtain. The usurer insists upon 
seeing the painting, with a view of as- 
certaining whether any new touches had 
been put upon it, which would argue 
an examination, post mortem, of those 
charms of neck and bosom which the 
living Isabella would not have unveiled. 
Resistance in vain—the curtain is torn 
down; but, to the surprise of Angelo, 
the lady herself is discovered, ‘‘with 
her hands crossed on her breast, and 
her eyes fixed on the ground, standing 
motionless in the frame which had con- 
tained the picture.” The tableau, we 
are to believe, deceives Tortesa, who 
steps back to contemplate what he sup- 
poses to be the portrait of his betrothed. 
In the meantime, the guards, having 
searched the house, find the veil which 
had been thrown over the imagined 
corpse in the sanctuary, and upon this 
evidence the artist is carried before the 
Duke. Here he is accused, not only of 
sacrilege, but of the murder of Isabella, 
and is about to be condemned to death, 
when his mistress comes forward in 
person; thus resigning herself to the 


1090 


usurer to save the life of her lover. 
But the noble nature of Tortesa now 
breaks forth; and, smitten with admira- 
tion of the lady’s conduct, as well as 
convinced that her love for himself was 
feigned, he resigns her to Angelo—al- 
though now feeling and acknowledging 
for the first time that a fervent love 
has, in his own bosom, assumed the place 
of the misanthropic ambition which, 
hitherto, had alone actuated him in 
seeking her hand. Moreover, he en- 
dows Isabella with the lands of her 
father Falcone. The lovers are thus 
made happy. The usurer weds Zippa; 
and the curtain drops upon the promise 
of the Duke to honour the double 
nuptials with his presence. 

This story, as we have given it, hangs 
better together (Mr. Willis will pardon 
our modesty), and is altogether more 
easily comprehended, than in the words 
of the play itself. We have really put 
the best face upon the matter, and pre- 
sented the whole in the simplest and 
clearest light in our power.* We mean 
to say that “Tortesa” (partaking large- 
ly, in this respect, of the drama of Cer- 
vantes and Calderon) is over-clouded— 
rendered misty—by a world of unneces- 
sary and impertinent intrigue. This 
folly was adopted by the Spanish com- 
edy, and is imitated by us, with the 
idea of imparting “action,” ‘“‘business,” 
“vivacity.” But vicacity, however de- 
sirable, can be attained in many other 
ways, and is dearly purchased, indeed, 
when the price is intelligibility. 

The truth is that cant has never at- 
tained a more owl-like dignity than in 


*The student of literature will dis- 
cover in this the seldom-used power of 
Poe in careful condensation.—Ed. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the discussion of dramatic principle. A’ 
modern stage critic is nothing, if not a 
lofty contemner of all things simple and 
direct. He delights in mystery—revels 
in mystification—has transcendental 
notions concerning P. S. and O. P., and 
talks about “stage business and stage 


-effect”’ as if he were discussing the dif- 


ferential calculus. For much of all this 
we are indebted to the somewhat over- 
profound criticisms of Augustus Wil- 
liam Schlegel. 

But the dicta of common sense are 
of universal application, and, touching 
this matter of intrigue, if, from its su- 
perabundance, we are compelled, even 
in the quiet and critical perusal of a 
play, to pause frequently and reflect 
long—to re-read passages over and over 
again, for the purpose of gathering their 
bearing upon the whole—of maintaining 
in our mind a general connection—what 
but fatigue can result from the exer- 
tion? How, then, when we come to the 
representation?—when these passages— 
trifling, perhaps, in themselves, but im- 
portant when considered in relation to 
the plot—are hurried and blurred over 
in the stuttering enunciation of some 
miserable rantipole, or omitted alto- 
gether through the constitutional lapse 
of memory so peculiar to those lights of 
the age and stage, bedight (from being 
of no conceivable use) supernumeraries? 
For it must be borne in mind that these 
bits of intrigue (we use the term in the 
sense of the German critics) appertain 
generally, indeed altogether, to the 
after thoughts of the drama—to the un- 
derplots—are met with consequently, in 
the mouth of the lackeys and chamber- 
maids—and are thus consigned to the 
tender mercies of the stelle minores. 
Of course we get but an imperfect idea 








THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


of what is going on before our eyes. 
Action after action ensues whose mys- 
tery we can not unlock without the lit- 
tle key which these barbarians have 
thrown away and lost. Our weariness 
{increases in proportion to the number 
of these embarrassments, and if the 
play escape damnation at all, it escapes 
in spite of that intrigue to which, in 
nine cases out of ten, the author attrib- 
utes his success, and which he will 
persist in valuing exactly in proportion 
to the misapplied labour it has cost him. 

But dramas of this kind are said, in 
our customary parlance, to “abound in 
plot.” We have never yet met any one, 
however, who could tell us what precise 
ideas he connected with the phrase. 
A mere succession of incidents, even 
the most spirited, will no more con- 
stitute a plot than a multiplication of 
zeros, even the most infinite, will result 
in the production of a unit. This all 
will admit—but few trouble themselves 
to think further. The common notion 
seems to be in favour of mere com- 
plexity ; but a plot, properly understood, 
is perfect only inasmuch as we shall 
find ourselves unable to detach from it 
or disarrange any single incident in- 
volved, without destruction to the mass. 

This we say is the point of perfec- 
tion—a point never yet attained, but 
not on that account unattainable. Prac- 
tically, we may consider a plot as of 
high excellence, when no one of its 
component parts shall be susceptible of 
removal without detriment to the whole. 
Here, indeed, is a vast lowering of the 


demand—and with less than this no- 


writer of refined taste should content 
himself. 

As this subject is not only in itself 
of great importance, but will have at 


1091 


all points a bearing upon what we shall 
say hereafter, in the examination of 
various plays, we shall be pardoned 
for quoting from the Democratic Re- 
view some passages (of our own) which 
enter more particularly into the ra- 
tionale of the subject :—* 

The pleasure derived from the con- 
templation of the unity resulting from 
plot is far more intense than is ordi- 
narily supposed, and, as in Nature we 
meet with no such combination of 
incident, appertains to a very lofty re- 
gion of the ideal. In speaking thus we 
have not said that plot is more than an 
adjunct to the drama—more than a 
perfectly distinct and separable source 
of pleasure. It is mot an essential. In 
its intense artificiality it may even be 
conceived injurious in a certain degree 
(unless constructed with consummate 
skill) to that real lifelikeness which is 
the soul of the drama of character. 
Good dramas have been written with 
very little plot—capital dramas might 
be written with none at all. Some plays 
of high merit, having plot, abound in 
irrelevant incident—in incident, we 
mean, which could be displaced or re- 
moved altogether without effect upon 
the plot itself, and yet are by no means 
objectionable as dramas; and for this 
reason—that the incidents are evidently 
irrelevant — obviously episodical. Of 
their disgressive nature the spectator is 
so immediately aware that he views 
them, as they arise, in the simple light 
of interlude, and does not fatigue his 
attention by attempting to establish for 
them a connection, or more than an 
illustrative connection, with the great 
interests of the subject. Such are the 


* See Contents, Eureka.—Ed. 


1092 


plays of Shakespeare. But all this is 
very different from that irrelevancy of 
intrigue which disfigures and very 
usually damns the work of the unskilful 
artist. With him the great error lies in 
inconsequence. Underplot is piled upon 
underplot (the very word is a paradox), 
and all to no purpose—to no end. The 
interposed incidents have no ultimate 
effect upon the main ones. They may 
hang upon the mass—they may even 
coalesce with it, or, as in some intricate 
cases, they may be so intimately blended 
as to be lost amid the chaos which they 
have been instrumental in bringing 
about—but still they have no portion in 
the plot, which exists, if at all, inde- 
pendently of their influence. Yet the 
attempt is made by the author to estab- 
lish and demonstrate a dependence—an 
identity; and it is the obviousness of 
this attempt which is the cause of weari- 
ness in the spectator, who, of course, 
cannot at once see that his attention is 
challenged to no purpose—that intrigues 
so obstrusively forced upon it are to be 
found, in the end, without effect upon 
the leading interests of the play. 
“Tortesa” will afford us plentiful ex- 
amples of this irrelevancy of intrigue— 
of this misconception of the nature and 
of the capacities of plot. We have said 
that our digest of the story is more 
easy of comprehension than the detail 
of Mr. Willis. If so, it is because we 
have forborne to give such portions as 
had no influence upon the whole. These 
served but to embarrass the narrative 
and fatigue the attention. How much 


was irrelevant is shown by the brevity — 


of the space in which we have recorded, 
somewhat at length, all the influential 
incidents of a drama of five acts. There 
is scarcely a scene in which is not to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


be found the germ of an underplot—a 
germ, however, which seldom proceeds 
beyond the condition of a bud, or, if 
so fortunate as to swell into a flower, 
arrives, in no single instance, at the 
dignity of fruit. Zippa, a lady alto- 
gether without character (dramatic), is 
the most pertinacious of all conceivable 
concoctors of plans never to be ma- 
tured—of vast designs that terminate 
in nothing—of cul-de-sac machinations. 
She plots in one page and counter-plots 
in the next. She schemes her way from 
P. S. to O. P., and intrigues persever- 
ingly from the footlights to the slips. 
A very singular instance of the inconse- 
quence of her manoeuvres is found to- 
wards the conclusion of the play. The 


whole of the second scene (occupying 


five pages), in the fifth act, is obviously 
introduced for the purpose of giving her 
information, through Tomaso’s means, 
of Angelo’s arrest for the murder of 
Isabella. Upon learning his danger she 
rushes from the stage, to be present at 
the trial, exclaiming that her evidence 
can save his life. We, the audience, of 
course applaud, and now look with in- 
terest to her movements in the scene of 
the judgment-hall. She, Zippa, we 
think, is somebody after all; she will 
be the means of Angelo’s salvation; she 
will thus be the chief unraveller of the 
plot. All eyes are bent, therefore, upon 
Zippa—but, alas! upon the point at 
issue, Zippa does not so much as open 
her mouth. It is scarcely too much to 
say that not a single action of this im- 
pertinent little busybody has any real 
influence upon the play;—yet she ap- 
pears upon every occasion—appearing 
only to perplex. 

Similar things abound; we should not 


after the Duke’s interposition, 
_ upon Isabella’s assurance that she really 
loved the usurer. 
_ too, of the first act, the imagination of 
_ the spectator is no doubt a little taxed 
_ when he finds Angelo, in the first mo- 





THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


have space even to allude to them all. 
~The whole conclusion of the play is 


supererogatory. The immensity of 
pure fuss with which it is overloaded 
forces us to the reflection that all of 
it might have been avoided by one word 
of explanation to the Duke—an amiable 
man who admires the talents of Angelo, 
and who, to prevent Isabella’s marrying 
against her will, had previously offered 
to free Falcone of his bonds to the 
usurer. That he would free him now, 


and thus set all matters straight, the 


spectator cannot doubt for an instant, 
and he can conceive no better reason 
why explanations are mot made than 
that Mr. Willis does not think proper 
they should be. In fact, the whole 
drama is exceedingly ill motivirt. 

We have already mentioned an inad- 
vertence, in the fourth act, where Isa- 
bella is made to escape from the sanc- 
tuary through the midst of guards who 
prevented the ingress of Angelo. An- 
other occurs where Falcone’s conscience 
is made to reprove him, upon the ap- 
pearance of his daughter’s supposed 
ghost, for having occasioned her death 
by forcing her to marry against her 
will. The author had forgotten that 
Falcone submitted to the wedding, 
only 


In the third ‘scene, 


ment of his introduction to the palace 
of Isabella, commencing her portrait 
by laying on colour after colour, before 
he has made any attempt at an outline. 
In the last act, moreover, Tortesa gives 
to Isabella a deed 


1093 


Of the Falcone palaces and lands, 
And all the money forfeit by Falcone. 


This is a terrible blunder, and the more 
important as upon this act of the usurer 
depends the development of his new- 
born sentiments of honour and virtue— 
depends, in fact, the most salient point 
of the play. Tortesa, we say, gives to 
Isabella the lands forfeited by Falcone; 
but Tortesa was surely not very gener- 
ous in giving what, clearly, was not his 
own to give. Falcone had not forfeited 
the deed, which had been restored to 
him by the usurer, and which was then 
in his (Falcone’s) possession. Here 
Tortesa :— 


He put it in the bond, 
That if, by any humour of my own, 
Or accident that came not from him- 
self, 
Or from his daughter’s will, the match 
were marred, 
His tenure stood intact. 


Now Falcone is still resolute for the 
match; but this new generous “humour” 
of Tortesa induces him (Tortesa) to 
decline it. Falcone’s tenure is then in- 
tact; he retains the deed, the usurer 
is giving away property not his own. 


As a drama of character, “Tortesa” 
is by no means open to so many objec- 
tions as when we view it in the light 
of its plot; but it is still faulty. The 
merits are so exceedingly negative, that 
it is difficult to say anything about 
them. The Duke is nobody; Falcone, 
nothing; Zippa, less than nothing. 
Angelo may be regarded simply as the 
medium through which Mr. Willis con- 
veys to the reader his own glowing 
feelings—his own refined and delicate 


1094 


fancy—(delicate, yet bold)—his own 
rich voluptuousness of sentiment—a 
voluptuousness which would offend in 
almost any other language than that 
in which it is so skilfully apparelled. 
Isabella is—the heroine of the Hunch- 
back. The revolution in the character 
of Tortesa—or rather the final triumph 
of his innate virtue—is a dramatic point 
far older than the hills. It may be 
observed, too, that although the repre- 
sentation of no human character should 
be quarrelled with for its inconsistency, 
we yet require that the inconsistencies 
be not absolute antagonisms to the ex- 
tent of neutralization: they may be per- 
mitted to be oils and waters, but they 
must not be alkalis and acids. When, 
in the course of the denouement, the 
usurer bursts forth into an eloquence 
virtue-inspired, we cannot sympathize 
very heartily in his fine speeches, since 
they proceed from the mouth of the 
self-same egotist who, urged by a dis- 
gusting vanity, uttered so many sotti- 
cisms (about his fine legs, etc.) in the 
earlier passages of the play. Tomaso 
is, upon the whole, the best personage. 
We recognize some originality in his 
conception, and conception was seldom 
more admirably carried out. 

One or two observations at random. 
In the third scene of the fifth act, To- 
maso, the buffoon, is made to assume 
paternal authority over Isabella (as 
usual, without sufficient purpose), by 
virtue of a law which Tortesa thus 
expounds :— 


“My gracious liege, there is a law in 
Florence 

That if a father, for no guilt or shame, 

Disown and shut his door upon his 
daughter, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 





She is the child of him who succours - 
her, 
Who by the shelter of a single night, | 
Becomes endowed with the authority 
Lost by the other.” 
' 


No one, of course, can be made to 
believe that any such stupid law 
as this ever existed either in Flor- | 
ence or Timbuctoo; but, on the ground 
que le vrai mest pas toujours le vrai- 
semblable, we say that even its real ex- 
istence would be no justification of Mr. | 
Willis. It has an air of the far-fetched 
—of the desperate—which a fine taste 
will avoid as a pestilence. Very much 
of the same nature is the attempt of 
Tortesa to extort a second bond from 
Falcone. The evidence which convicts 
Angelo of murder is ridiculously frail. 
The idea of Isabella’s assuming the 
place of the portrait, and so deceiving 
the usurer, is not only glaringly im- 
probable, but seems adopted from the 
“Winter’s Tale.” But in this latter- 
play, the deception is at least possible, 
for the human figure but imitates a 
statue. What, however, are we to 
make of Mr. W.’s stage direction about 
the back wall’s being “so arranged as to 
form a natural ground for the picture’’? 
Of course, the very slightest movement 
of Tortesa (and he makes many) would 
have annihilated the illusion by disar- 
ranging the perspective; and in no man- 
ner could this latter have been ar- 
ranged at all for more than one particu- 
lar point of view—in other words, for 
more than one particular person in the 
whole audience. The “asides,” more- 
over, are unjustifiably frequent. The 
prevalence of this folly (of speaking 
aside) detracts as much from the act- 
ing merit of our drama generally as any 





THE AMERICAN DRAMA ° 


other inartisticality. It utterly destroys 
_verisimilitude. People are not in the 


} habit of soliloquising aloud—at least, 


not to any positive extent; and why 
should an author have to be told, what 
the slightest reflection would teach him, 
that an audience, by dint of no imagi- 
nation, can or will conceive that what 
is sonorous in their own ears at the 
distance of fifty feet cannot be heard 
by an actor at the distance of one or 
two? 

Having spoken thus of “Tortesa” in 
terms of nearly unmitigated censure— 
our readers may be surprised to hear us 
say that we think highly of the drama 


} as a whole—and have little hesitation 


in ranking it before most of the dramas 
of Sheridan Knowles. Its leading faults 
are those of the modern drama generally 
—they are not peculiar to itself— 
while its great merits are. If in sup- 
port of our opinion we do not cite 
points of commendation, it is because 
those form the mass of the work. And 
were we to speak of fine passages, we 
should speak of the entire play. Nor 
_ by “fine passages” do we mean passages 
of merely fine language, embodying fine 
sentiment, but such as are replete with 
_ truthfulness, and teem with the loftiest 
qualities of the dramatic art. Points 
_ —capital points abound; and these have 
_ far more to do with the general excel- 
lence of a play than a too speculative 
criticism has been willing to admit. 
Upon the whole, we are proud of 
*‘Tortesa”—and here again, for the fif- 
_ tieth time at least, record our warm 
_ admiration of the abilities of Mr. Willis. 
We proceed now to Mr. Longfellow’s 


1095 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


The reputation of its author as a poet, 
and as a graceful writer of prose, is, 
of course, long and deservedly estab- 
lished—but as a dramatist he was un- 
known before the publication of this 
play. Upon its original appearance, in 
Graham’s Magazine, the general opinion 
was greatly in favour—if not exactly 
of “The Spanish Student”—at all events 
of the writer of ‘“Outre-Mer.” But this 
general opinion is the most equivocal 
thing in the world. It is never self- 
formed. It has very seldom indeed an 
original development. In regard to the 
work of an already famous or infamous 
author it decides, to be sure, with a 
laudable promptitude; making up all 
the mind that it has, by reference to the 
reception of the author’s immediately 
previous publication—making up thus 
the ghost of a mind pro tem.—a species 
of critical shadow that fully answers, 
nevertheless, all the purposes of a sub- 
stance itself until the substance itself 
shall be forthcoming. But beyond this 
point the general opinion can only be 
considered that of the public, as a man 
may call a book his, having bought it. 
When a new writer arises, the shop of 
the true, thoughtful, or critical opinion 
is not simultaneously thrown away—is 
not immediately set up. Some weeks 
elapse; and, during this interval, the 
public, at a loss where to procure an 
opinion of the debutante, have neces- 
sarily no opinion of him at all for the 
nonce. 

The popular voice, then, which ran 
so much in favour of “The Spanish 
Student,” upon its original issue, should 
be looked upon as merely the ghost 
pro tem.—as based upon critical de- 


1096 . 


cisions respecting the previous works of 
the author—as having reference in no 
manner to “The Spanish Student” itself 
—and thus as utterly meaningless and 
valueless per se. 

The few, by which we mean those 
who think, in contradistinction from the 
many who think they think—the few 
who think at first hand, and thus twice 
before speaking at all—these received 
the play with a commendation some- 
what less pronounced—somewhat more 
guardedly qualified—than Professor 
Longfellow might have desired, or may 
have been taught to expect. Still the 
composition was approved upon the 
whole. The few words of censure were 
very far indeed from amounting to con- 
demnation. The chief defect insisted 
upon was the feebleness of the denoue- 
ment, and, generally, of the concluding 
scenes, as compared with the opening 
passages. We are not sure, however, 
that anything like detailed criticism has 
been attempted in the case—nor do we 
propose now to attempt it. Neverthe- 
less, the work has interest, not only 


within itself, but as the first dramatic 


effort of an author who has remark- 
ably succeeded in almost every other 
department of light literature than that 
of the drama. It may be as well, there- 
fore, to speak of it, if not analytically, 
at least somewhat in detail; and we 
cannot, perhaps, more suitably com- 
mence than by a quotation, without 
comment, of some of the finer passages: 


And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 

Within she is a sinner; like those panels 

Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 

Painted in convents, with the Virgin 
Mary 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


On the outside, and on the inside 

Venus. 
I believe 

That woman, in her deepest degradation, 

Holds something sacred, something 
undefiled, 

Some pledge and keepsake of her higher 
nature, 

And, like the diamond in the dark, 
retains 

Some quenchless gleam of the celestial 
light. 


And we shall sit together unmolested, 

And words of true love pass from 
tongue to tongue, 

As singing birds from one bough to 
another. 


Our feelings and our thoughts 


Tend ever on and rest not in the 
Present, 

As drops of rain fall into some dark 
well, 

And from below comes a scarce audible 
sound, 

So fall our thoughts into the dark 
Hereafter, 

And their mysterious echo reaches 
US. 


Her tender limbs are still, and, on her 


breast, 

The cross she prayed to, ere she fell 
asleep, 

Rises or falls with the soft tide of 
dreams, 


Like a light barge safe moored. 


Hark! how the large and ponderous 
mace of Time 

Knocks at the golden portals of the 
day! 





THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


The lady Violante bathed in tears 

Of love and anger, like the miaid of 
Colchis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 

Having won that golden fleece, a wom- 
an’s love, 

Desertest for this Glauce. 


I read, or sit in reverie and watch 

_ The changing colour of the waves that 

: break 
Upon the 

mind. 


idle sea-shore of the 


I will forget her. All dear recollections 

_ Pressed in my heart, like flowers within 
a book, 

Shall be torn out and scattered to the 
winds. 


Oh yes! I see it now— 
Yet rather with my heart than with 
mine eyes, 
So faint it is. 
sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and 
forward urged, 
Against all stress of accident, as, in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and 
tide 
Great ships were drawn to the Mag- 
netic Mountains. } 


And all my thoughts 


But there are brighter dreams than 
those of Fame, 

Which are the dreams of Love! 
of the heart 

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 

As from some woodland fount a-spirit 
rises 

And sinks again into its silent deeps, 

Ere the enamoured knight can touch 
her robe! 

Tis this ideal that the soul of Man, 


Out 


1097 


Like the enamoured knight beside the 
fountain, 

Waits for upon the margin of Life’s 
stream ; 

Waits to behold her rise from the dark 
waters, 

Clad in a mortal shape! 
many 

Must wait in vain! The stream flows 
evermore, 

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! 

Yet I, born under a propitious star, 

Have found the bright ideal of my 
dreams. : 


Alas, how 


Yes; by the Darro’s side 

My childhood passed. I can remem- 
ber still 

The river, and the mountains capped 
with snow; 

The villages where, yet a little child, 

I told the traveller’s fortune in the 
street; 

The smuggler’s horse; the brigand and 
the shepherd; 

The march across the moor; the halt 
at noon; 

The red fire of the evening camp, that 
lighted 

The forest where we slept; and, farther 
back, 

As in a dream, or in some former life, 

Gardens and palace walls. 


This path will lead us to it, 
Over the wheatfields, where the shadows 
sail 
Across the running sea, now green, now 
blue, 
And, like an idle mariner on the ocean, 
Whistles the quail. 


These extracts will be universally ad- 
mired. They are graceful, well ex- 


1098 


pressed, imaginative, and altogether re- 
plete with the true poetic feeling. We 
quote them xzow, at the beginning of 
our review, by way of justice to the 
poet, and because, in what follows, we 
are not sure that we have more than 
a very few words of what may be 
termed commendation to bestow. 

“The Spanish Student” has an unfor- 
tunate beginning, in a most unpardon- 
able, and yet to render the matter worse, 
in a most indispensable ‘Preface’ :— 

“The subject of the following plays 
[says Mr. L.] is taken in part from the 
beautiful play of Cervantes, ‘La Gita- 
nilla. To this source, however, I am 
indebted for the main incident only, the 
love of a Spanish student for a Gipsy 
girl, and the name of the heroine, 
Preciosa. I have not followed the story 
in any of its details. In Spain this 
subject has been twice handled dra- 
matically; first by Juan Perez de Mon- 
talvan in ‘La Gitanill , and afterwards 
by Antonio de Solis y Rivadeneira in 
‘La Gitanilla de Madrid.’ The same 
subject has also been made use of by 
Thomas Middleton, an English dram- 
atist of the seventeenth century. ilis 
play is called “The Spanish Gipsy.’ The 
main plot is the same as in the Spanish 
pieces; but there runs through it a 
tragic underplot of the loves of Rodrigo 
and Dona Clara, which is taken from 
another tale of Cervantes, ‘La Fuerza 
de la Sangre.’ The reader who is ac- 
quainted with ‘La Gitanilla’ of Cer- 
vantes, and the plays of Montalvan, 
Solis, and Middleton, will perceive that 
my treatment of ine subject carers en- 
tirely from theirs.” 


Now the autorial originality, properly 
considered, is threefold. There is, first, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the originality of the general thesis; 
secondly, that of the several incidents 
or thoughts by which the thesis is de-. 
veloped; and thirdly, that of manner 
or tone, by which means alone an old 
subject, even when developed through 
hackneyed incidents or thoughts, may be 
made to produce a fully original effect 
—which, after all, is the end truly in 
view. 

But originality, as it is one of the 
highest, is also one of the rarest of 
merits. In America it is especially and 
very remarkably rare:—this through 
causes sufficiently well understood. We 
are content perforce, therefore, as a 
general thing, with either of the lower 
branches of originality mentioned above, 
and would regard with high favour in- 
deed any author who should supply 
the great desideratum in combining the 
three. Still the three should be com- 
bined; and from whom, if not from 
such men as Professor Longfellow—if 
not from those who occupy the chief 
niches in our Literary Temple—shall 
we expect the combination? But in the 
present instance, what has Professor 
Longfellow accomplished? Is he origi- 
nal at any one point? Is he original in 
respect to the first and most important 
of our three divisions? ‘The subject 
of the following play,” he says himself, 
‘is taken im part from the beautiful 
play of Cervantes, ‘La Gitanilla.” To 
this source, however, I am indebted for 
the main incident only, the love of the 
Spanish student for a Gipsy girl, and 
the name of the heroine, Preciosa.” 

The italics are our own, and the words 
italicized involve an obvious constradic- 
tion. We cannot understand how “the 
love of the Spanish student for the 
Gipsy girl” can be called an “incident,” 





THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


or even a “main incident,” at all. In 
fact, this love—this discordant and 
therefore eventful or incidentful love 
—is the true thesis of the drama of 
Cervantes. It is this anomalous “love,” 
which originates the incidents by means 
of which itself, this “love,” the thesis, 
is developed. Having based his play, 
then, upon this “love,” we cannot ad- 
mit his claim to originality upon our 
# first count; nor has he any right to say 
| that he has adopted his “subject” “in 
part.” It is clear that he has adopted 
it altogether. Nor would he have been 
entitled to claim originality of subject, 
even had he based his story upon any 
variety of love arising between parties 
naturally separated by prejudices of 
caste—such, for example, as those which 
divide the Brahmin from the Pariah, 
the Ammonite from the African, or 
even the Christian from the Jew. For 
here in its ultimate analysis, is the real 
thesis of the Spaniard. But when the 
drama is founded, not merely upon this 
general thesis, but upon this general 
thesis in the identical application given 
it by Cervantes—that is to say, upon 
the prejudice of caste exemplified in 
the case of a Catholic, and this Catholic 
a Spaniard, and this Spaniard a student, 
and this student loving a Gipsy, and 
this Gipsy a dancing-girl, and this danc- 
ing-girl bearing the name Preciosa— 
we are not altogether prepared to be 
informed by Professor Longfellow that 
he is indebted for an “incident only” to 
the “beautiful ‘Gitanilla’ of Cervantes.” 

Whether our author is original upon 
our second and third points—in the true 
incidents of his story, or in the man- 
ner and tone of their handling—will 
be more distinctly seen as we proceed. 

It is to be regretted that ‘The 


1099 


Spanish Student” was not sub-entitled 
“A Dramatic Poem,” rather than “A 
Play.” The former title would have 
more fully conveyed the intention of 
the poet; for, of course, we shall not 
do Mr. Longfellow the injustice to sup- 
pose that his design has been, in any 
respect, @ play, in the ordinary accepta- 
tion of the term. Whatever may be its 
merits in a merely poetical view, “The 
Spanish Student” could not be endured 
upon the stage. 

Its plot runs thus:—Preciosa, the 
daughter of a Spanish gentleman, is 
stolen, while an infant, by Gipsies; 
brought up as his own daughter, and as 
a dancing-girl, by a Gipsy leader, Cru- 
zado; and by him betrothed to a young 
Gipsy, Bartolome. At Madrid, Pre- 
ciosa loves and is beloved y Victorian, 
a student of Alcala, who resolves to 
marry her, notwithstanding her caste, 
rumours involving her purity, the dis- 
suasions of his friends, and his be- 
trothal to an heiress of Madrid. Pre- 
ciosa is also sought by the Count of 
Lara, a roue. She rejects him. He 
forces his way into her chamber, and is 
there seen by Victorian, who, misin- 
terpreting some words overhead, doubts 
the fidelity of his mistress, and leaves 
her in anger, after challenging the 
Count of Lara. In the duel, the Count 
receives his life at the hands of Vic- 
torian; declares his ignorance of the 
understanding between Victorian and 
Preciosa; boasts of favours received 
from the latter; and, to make good 
his words, produces a ring which she 
gave him, he asserts, as a pledge of her 
love. This ring is a duplicate of one 
previously given the girl by Victorian, 
and known to have been so given by 
the Count. -Victorian mistakes it for 


1100 


his own, believes all that has been said, 
and abandons the field to his rival, who, 
immediately afterwards, while attempt- 
ing to procure access to the Gipsy, is 
assassinated by Bartolome. Meanwhile, 
Victorian, wandering through the coun- 
try, reaches Guadarrama. Here he re- 
ceives a letter from Madrid, disclosing 
the treachery practiced by Lara, and 
telling that Preciosa, rejecting his ad- 
dresses, had been through his instru- 
mentality hissed from the stage, and 
now again roamed with the Gipsies. 
He goes in search of her; finds her in 
a wood near Guadarrama; approaches 
her, disguising his voice; she recognizes 
him, pretending she does not, and un- 
aware that he knows her innocence; a 
conversation of equivoque ensues; he 
sees his ring upon her finger; offers to 
purchase it; che refuses to part with 
it; a full eclaircissement takes place; at 
this juncture a servant of Victorian’s 
arrives with “news from court,” giving 
the first intimation of the true parent- 
age ».f Preciosa.. The lovers set out, 
forthwith, for Madrid, to see the newly 
discovered father. On the route, Bar- 
tolome dogs their steps; fires at Pre- 
ciosa; misses her; the shot is returned; 


he falls; and “The Spanish Student” 
is concluded. 
This plot, however, like that of 


“Tortesa,” looks better in our naked 
digest than amidst the details which de- 
velop only to disfigure it. The reader 
of the play itself will be astonished, 
when he remembers the name of the 
author, at the inconsequence of the in- 
cidents—at the utter want of skill— 
of art—manifested in their conception 
and introduction. In dramatic writing, 
no principle is more clear than that 
nothing should be said or done which 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


has not a tendency to develop the 
catastrophe, or the characters. But. 
Mr. Longfellow’s play abounds in> 
events and conversations that have no- 
ostensible purpose, and certainly an- 
swer no end. In what light, for ex-| 
ample, since we cannot suppose this 
drama intended for the stage, are we 
to regard the second scene of the sec- 
ond act, where a long dialogue between 
an Archbishop and a Cardinal is wound 
up by a dance from Preciosa? The 
Pope thinks of abolishing public dances 
in Spain, and the priests in question 
have been delegated to examine, per- 
sonally, the proprieties or improprieties 
of such exhibitions. With this view, 
Preciosa is summoned and required to 
give a specimen of her skill. Now this, 
in a mere spectacle, would do very well; 
for here all that is demanded is an oc- 
casion or an excuse for a dance; but 
what business has it in a pure drama? 
or in what regard does it further the 
end of a dramatic poem, intended only 
to be read? In the same manner, the 
whole of scene the eighth, in the same 
act, is occupied with s six lines of stage 
directions; as follows:— 


The theatre: the orchestra plays the 
Cachuca. Sound of castanets behind 
the scenes. The curtain rises and dis- 
covers Preciosa in the attitude of 
commencing the dance. The Ca- 
chuca. Tumult. Hisses. Cries of 
Brava! and Aguera! She falters and 
pauses. The music stops. General 
confusion. Preciosa faints. 


But the imconsequence of which we 
complain will be best exemplified by 
an entire scene. We take scene the 
fourth, act the first:— 






BAL- 
Enter 


| “An inn on the road to Alcala. 
TASAR asleep on a_ bench. 
CHISPA,” 


Chispa. And here we are, half way 
1 to Alcala, between cocks and midnight. 
_ Body o’ me! what an inn this is! The 
light out and ¢he landlord asleep! 
Hola! ancient Baltasar! 

Baltasar | waking|. Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a 
one-eyed alcalde in a town without in- 


| habitants. Bring a light, and let me 
| have supper. 

. Baltasar. Where is your master? 

| Chispa. Do not trouble yourself 


about him. We have stopped a mo- 
ment to breathe our horses; and if he 
chooses to walk up and down in the 
open air, looking into the sky as one 
who hears it rain, that dees not satisfy 
my hunger, you know. But be quick, 
for I am in a hurry, and every one 
stretches his legs according to the length 
of his coverlet. What have we here? 
Baltasar | setting alight on the table]. 
Stewed rabbit. 
Chispa [eating]. Conscience of Por- 
talegre! stewed kitten, you mean! 
Baltasar. And a pitcher of Pedro 
Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it. 
Chispa [drinking]. Ancient Baltasar, 
amigo! You know how to cry wine 
and sell vinegar. I tell you this is 
nothing but Vino Tinto of La Mancha, 
with a tang of the swine-skin. 
Baltasar. I swear to you by Saint 
Simon and Judas, it is all as I say. 
Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint 
Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such 
thing. Moreover, your supper is like 
the hidalgo’s dinner—very litle meat 
and a great deal of tablecloth. 
Baltasar. Ha! ha! ha! 


THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


W101 © 


Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 

Baltasar. Ha! ha! ha! You must 
have your joke, Master Chispa. But 
shall I not ask Don Victorian in to take 
a draught of the Pedro Ximenes? 

Chispa. No; you might as well say, 
“Don’t you want some?” to a dead man. 


Baltasar. Why does he go so often 
to Madrid? 
Chispa. For the same reason that he 


eats no supper. He is in love. Were 
you ever in love, Baltasar? 

Baltasar. I was never out of it, good 
Chispa. It has been the torment of my 
life. 

Chispa. What! are you on fire, too, 
old hay-stack? Why, we shall never be 
able to put you out. 

Victorian | without.| Chispa! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for 
the cocks are crowing. 

Victorian. Ea! Chispa! Chispa! 

Chispa. Ea! Senor. Come with me, 
ancient Baltasar, and bring water for 
the horses. I will pay for the supper 
tomorrow. [| Exeunt. | 


Now here the question occurs—what 
is accomplished? How has the subject 
been forwarded? We did not need to 
learn that Victorian was in love—that 
was known  ~efore; and all that we 
glean is that a stupid imitation of San- 
cho Panza drinks in the course of two 
minutes (the time occupied in the 
perusal of the scene) a bottle of vino 
tinto, by way of Pedro Ximenes, and 
devours a stewed kitten in place of a 
rabbit. 

In the beginning of the play this 
Chispa is the valet of Victorian; sub- 
sequently we find him the servant of 
another; and near the denouement he 
returns to his original master. No cause 


1102 


is assigned, and not even the shadow 
of an object is attained; the whole 
tergiversation being but another instance 
of the gross inconsequence which 
abounds in the play. 

The author’s deficiency of skill is 
especially evinced in the scene of the 
eclaircissement between Victorian and 
Preciosa. The former having been en- 
lightened respecting the true. character 
of the latter by means of a letter re- 
ceived at Guadarrama, from a friend at 
Madrid (how wofully inartistical is 
this!), resolves to go in search of her 
forthwith, and forthwith, also, discovers 
her in a wood close at hand. Where- 
upon he approaches, disguising fis 
voice :—yes, we are required to believe 
that a lover may so disguise his voice 
from his mistress as even to render his 
person in full view irrecognizable! He 
approaches, and each knowing the 
other, a conversation ensues under the 
hypothesis that each to the other is 
unknown—a very unoriginal, and, of 
course, a very silly source of equivoque, 
fit only for the gum-elastic imagination 
of an infant. But what we especially 
complain of here is that our poet should 
have taken so many and so obvious 
pains to bring about this position of 
equivoque, when it was impossible that 
it could have served any other purpose 


than that of injuring his intended 
effect! Read, for example, this pas- 
sage :— 

Victorian. JI never loved a maid; 


For she I loved was then a maid no 
more. 
Preciosa. How know you that?’ 
Victorian. A little bird in the air 
Whispered the secret. 
Preciosa. There, take back your gold! 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Your hand is cold like a deceiver’s 
hand! 

There is no blessing in its charity! 

Make her your wife, for you have been 
abused; 

And you shall mend your fortunes 
mending hers. 

Victorian. How like an angel’s speaks 

the tongue of woman, 

When pleading in another’s cause her 
own! 


Now here it is clear that if we under- 
stood Preciosa to be really ignorant of 
Victorian’s identity, the “pleading in 
another’s cause her own” would create 
a favourable impression upon the 
reader or spectator. But the advice— 
“Make her your wife, etc.,” takes an 
interested and selfish turn when. we 
remember that she knows to whom she 
speaks. 

Again, when Victorian says: 


That is a pretty ring upon your finger, 
Pray give it me! 


and when she replies: 


No, never from my hand 
Shall that be taken, 


we are inclined to think her only an 
artful coquette, knowing, as we do, 
the extent of her knowledge; on the 
hand we should have applauded her 
constancy (as the author intended) had 
she been represented ignorant of Vic- 
torian’s presence. The effect upon the 
audience, in a word, would be pleasant 
in place of disagreeable were the case 
altered as we suggest, while the effect 
upon Victorian would remain altogether 
untouched. 


A still more remarkable instance of 
deficiency in the dramatic tact is-to be 
found in the mode of bringing about 
} the discovery of Preciosa’s parentage. 
In the very moment of the eclaircisse- 
} ment between the lovers, Chispa arrives 
almost as a matter of course, and set- 
) tles the point in a sentence:— 





} Good news from Court; Good news! Bel- 
tran Cruzado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your 


i father, 

{But your true father has returned to 

) Spain 

* Laden with wealth. You are no more 
a Gipsy. 


Now here are three points:—first, the 
-extreme baldness, platitude, and inde- 
pendence of the incident narrated by 
Chispa. The opportune return of the 


cessively opportune) stands by itself— 
has no relation to any other event in 
the play—does not appear to arise, in 
the way of result, from any incident or 
incidents that have arisen before. It 
has the air of a happy chance, of a 
God-send, of an ultra-accident, invented 
by the play-wright by way of compro- 
mise for his lack of invention. Nec 
deus intersit, etc.—but here the god has 
interposed, and the knot is laughably 
unworthy of the god. 
The second point concerns the re- 
turn of the father “laden with wealth.” 
The lover has abandoned his mistress 
_in her poverty, and, while yet the words 
of his proffered reconciliation hang 
upon his lips, comes his own servant 
with the news that the mistress’ father 
_has returned “Jaden with wealth.” Now, 
so far as regards the audience, who are 


THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


father (we are tempted to say the ex- — 


1103 


behind the scenes and know the fidelity 
of the lover—so far as regards the 
audience, all is right; but the poet had 
no business to place his heroine in the 
said predicament of being forced, pro- 
vided she is not a fool, to suspect both 
the ignorance and the disinterestedness 
of the hero. 

The third point has reference to the 
words—“You are now no more a 
Gipsy.” The thesis of this drama, as 
we have already said, is love disregard- 
ing the prejudices of caste, and in the 
development of this thesis, the powers 
of the dramatist have been engaged, 
or should have been engaged, during 
the whole of the three acts of the play. 
The interest excited lies in our admira- 
tion of the sacrifice, and of the love 
that could make it; but this interest 
immediately and disagreeably subsides 
when we find that the sacrifice has been 
made to no purpose. “You are no 
mor. a Gipsy” dissolves the charm, and 
obliterates the whole impression which 
the author has been at so much labour 
to convey. Our romantic sense of the 
hero’s chivalry declines into a com- 
placent satisfaction with his fate. We 
drop our enthusiasm, with the enthusi- 
ast, and jovially shake by the hand the 
mere man of good luck. But is not the 
latter feeling the more comfortable of 
the two? Perhaps so; but “‘comfort- 
able” is not exactly the word Mr. Long- 
fellow might wish applied to the end 
of his drama, and then why be at the 
trouble of building up an effect through 
a hundred and eighty pages, merely to 
knock it down at the end of the hun- 
dred and eighty-first? 

We have already given, at some 
length, our conceptions of the nature 
of plot—and of that of “The Spanish 


1104 


Student” it seems almost superfluous 
to speak at all. It has nothing of con- 
struction about it. Indeed there is 
scarcely a single incident which has any 
necessary dependence upon any one 
other. Not only might we take away 
two-thirds of the whole without ruin— 
but without detriment—indeed with a 
positive benefit to the mass. And, even 
as regards the mere order of arrange- 
ment, we might with a very decided 
chance of improvement, put the scenes 
in a bag, give them a shake or two by 
way of shuffle, and tumble them out. 
The whole mode of collocation—not to 
speak of the feebleness of the incidents 
in themselves—evinces, on the part of 
the author, an utter and radical want 
of the adapting or constructive power 
which the drama so_ imperatively 
demands. 

Of the unoriginality of the thesis we 
have already spoken; and now, to the 
unoriginality of the events by which 
the thesis is developed, we need do little 
more than allude. What, indeed, could 
we say of such incidents as the child 
stolen by Gipsies—as her education as 
a danseuse—as her betrothal to a Gipsy 
—as her preference for a gentleman— 
as the rumours against her purity—as 
her persecution by a rowe—as the irrup- 
tion of the roue into her chamber— 
as the consequent misunderstanding be- 
tween her and her lover—as the duel— 
as the defeat of the rowe—as the receipt 
of his life from the hero—as his boasts 
of success with the girl—as the ruse 
of the duplicate ring—as the field, in 
consequence, abandoned by the lover— 
as the assassination of Lara while scal- 
ing the girl’s bed-chamber—as the dis- 
consolate peregrination of Victorian— 
as the eqguivoque scene with Preciosa— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


as the offering to purchase the ring and 
the refusal to part with it—as the 
“news from court,” telling of the Gipsy’s 
true parentage—what could we say of 
all these ridiculous things, except that 
we have met them, each and all, some 
two or three hundred times before, and 
that they have formed, in a great or 
less degree, the staple material of every 
Hop-O’My-Thumb tragedy since the 
flood? There is not an incident, from 
the first page of ““The Spanish Student” 
to the last and most satisfactory, which 
we would not undertake to find bodily, 
at ten minutes’ notice, in some one of 
the thousand and one comedies of in- 
trigue attributed to Calderon and Lope 
de Vega. 

But if our poet is grossly unoriginal 
in his subject, and in the events which 
evolve it, may he not be original in his 
handling or tone? We really grieve 
to say that he is not, unless, indeed, we 
grant him the need of originality for 
the peculiar manner in which he has 
jumbled together the quaint and stilted 
tone of the old English dramatists with 
the degagee air of Cervantes. But this 
is a point upon which, through want of 
space, we must necessarily permit the 
reader to judge altogether for himself. 
We quote, however, a passage from the 
second scene of the first act, by way 
of showing how very easy a matter 
it is to make a man discourse Sancho 
Panza :— 


Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a 
plague upon all lovers who ramble 
about at night, drinking the elements, 
instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. 
Every dead man to his cemetery, say 
I; and every friar to his monastery. 
Now, here’s my master Victorian, yes- 


] 
| 


| THE AMERICAN DRAMA 


| terday a cow-keeper and to-day a gen- 
_tleman; yesterday a student and to-day 
ia lover; and I must be up later than the 
nightingale, for as the abbot sings so 
must the sacristan respond. God grant 
_ he may soon be married, for then shall 
all this serenading cease. Ay, marry, 
marry, marry! Mother, what does 
marry mean? It means to spin, to bear 
children, and to weep, my daughter! 
And, of a truth, there is something 
more in matrimony than the wedding- 
ring. And now, gentlemen, Pax vo- 
biscum! as the ass said to the cabbages! 





And, we might add, as an ass only 
should say. 

In fact, throughout ‘The Spanish 
Student,” as well as throughout other 
compositions of its author, there runs 
a very obvious vein of imitation. We 
are perpetually reminded of something 
we have seen before—some old ac- 
quaintance in manner of matter; and 
even where the similarity cannot be 
said to amount to plagiarism, it is still 
injurious to the poet in the good opin- 
ion of him who reads. 

Among the minor defects of the play, 
we may mention the frequent allusion 
to book incidents not generally known, 
and requiring each a note by way of 
explanation. The drama demands that 
everything be so instantaneously evi- 
dent that he who runs may read; and 
the only impression effected by these 
notes to a play is, that the author is 
desirous of showing his reading. 5 

We may mention, also, occasional 
tautologies, such as:— 


Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night! 


1105 


Or— 
What we need 
Is the celestial fire to change the fruit 
Into transparent crystal, bright and 
clear! 


We may speak, too, of more than 
occasional errors of grammar. For ex- 
ample, page 23:— 


“Did no one see thee? None, my love, 
but thou.” 


Here “but” is not a conjunction, bul 
a preposition, and governs thee in the 
objective. ‘“‘None but thee” would be 
right; meaning none except thee, saving 
thee. At page 27, “mayst” is some- 
what incorrectly written ‘“‘may’st.” At 
page 34, we have :— 


I have no other saint than thou to pray 
to. 


Here authority and analogy are bot! 
against Mr. Longfellow. ‘Than’ also 
is here a preposition governing the ob- 
jective, and meaning save or except. 
“T have none other God than thee, etc.” 
See Horne Tooke. The Latin “quam 
te” is exactly equivalent. At page 80 
we read:— 


Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 
I have a gentle gaoler. 


Here “like thee’ (although gram- 
matical of course) does not convey the 
idea. Mr. L. does not mean that the 
speaker is like the bird itself, but that 
his condition resembles it. The true 
reading would thus be:— 


As thou I am a captive, and, as thou, 
I have a gentle gaoler. 


1106 


That is to say, as thou art and as thou 
hast. 

Upon the whole, we regret that Pro- 
fessor Longfellow has written this work, 
and feel especially vexed that he has 
committed himself by its republication. 
Only when regarded as a mere poem can 
it be said to have merit of any kind. 
For in fact it is only when we separate 
the poem from the drama that the pas- 
sages we have commended as beautiful 
can be understood to have beauty. We 
are not too sure, indeed, that a “dra- 


Long fellow’ s Ballads 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


matic poem” is not a flat contradiction | 
in terms. At all events a man of true | 
genius (and such Mr. L. unquestionably | 
is) has no business with these hybrid — 
and paradoxical compositions. Let a 
poem be a poem only; let a play be a 
play and nothing more. As for “The 
Spanish Student,” its thesis is unorig- 
inal; its incidents are antique; its plot 
is no plot; its characters have no char- 
acter; in short, it is a little better than 
a play upon words to style it “A Play” 
at all. 





(Published in Graham’s Magazine, April, 1842.—Ed.) 


“Tl y a parier,’ says Chamfort, “que 
toute idee publique, toute convention 
recue, est une sottise, car elle a con- 
venue au plus grand nombre,’—One 
would be safe in wagering that any 
given public idea is erroneous, for it 
has been yielded to the clamour of the 
majority;—and this strictly philosoph- 
ical, although somewhat French asser- 
tion, has especial bearing upon the 
whole race of what are termed maxims 
and popular proverbs; nine-tenths of 
which are the quintessence of folly. 
One of the most deplorably false of 
them is the antique adage, De gustibus 
non est disputandum—there should be 
no disputing about taste. Here the idea 
designed to be conveyed is that any one 
person has as just right to consider his 
own taste the true, as has any one 
other—that taste itself, in short, is an 
arbitrary something, amenable to no 
law, and measurable by no definite 
rules. It must be confessed, however, 


that the exceedingly vague and impotent 
treatises which are alone extant have 
much to answer for as regards confirm- 
ing the general error. Not the least im- 
portant service which, hereafter, man- 
kind will owe to Phrenology, may, per- 
haps, be recognised in an analysis of 
the real principles, and a digest of the re- 
sulting laws of taste. These principles, 
in fact, are as clearly traceable, and 
these laws as readily susceptible of sys- 
tem, as are any whatever. 

In the meantime, the insane adage 
above mentioned is in no respect more 
generally, more stupidly, and more per- 
tinaciously quoted than by the admir- 
ers of what is termed the “good old 
Pope,” or the “good old Goldsmith 
school” of poetry, in reference to the 
bolder, more natural and more ideal 
compositions of such authors as Coet- 
logon and Lamartine in France; Herder, 
Korner, and Uhland in Germany; Brun 
and Baggesen in Denmark; Bellman, 





LONGFELLOW’S BALLADS : 


Tegner, and Nyberg in Sweden; Keats, 
Shelley, Coleridge, and Tennyson in 
England; Lowell and Longfellow in 
America. “De gustibus non,” says 
these, “good-old-school” fellows; and 
we have no doubt that their mental 
translation of the phrase is—“We pity 
your taste—we pity everybody’s taste 
but our own.” 

It is our purpose to controvert the 
popular idea that the poets just men- 
_ tioned owe to novelty, to trickeries of 
| expression, and to other meretricious 
effects their appreciation by certain 
readers:—to demonstrate (for the mat- 
ter is susceptible of demonstration) 
that such poetry and such alone has 
fulfilled the legitimate office of the 
muse; has thoroughly satisfied an earn- 
est and unquenchable desire existing in 
the heart of man. 

This volume of Ballads and Tales in- 
cludes, with several brief original pieces, 
a translation from the Swedish of 
Tegner. In attempting (what never 
should be attempted) a literal version 
of both the words and the metre of 
this poem, Professor Longfellow has 
failed to do justice either to his author 
or himself. He has striven to do what 
no man ever did well, and what, from 
the nature of language itself, never 
can be well done. Unless, for example, 
we shall come to have an influx of 
spondees in our English tongue, it will 
always be impossible to construct. an 
English hexameter. Our spondees, or, 
we should say, our spondaic words, are 
rare. In the Swedish they are nearly 
as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. 
We have only “compound,” “context,” 
“footfall,” and a few other similar ones. 
This is the difficulty; and that it is so 
will become evident upon reading “The 


1107 


Children of the Lord’s Supper,” where 
the sole readable verses are those in 
which we meet with the rare spondaic 
dissyllables. We mean to say readable 
as hexameters; for many of them will 
read very well as mere English dactylics 
with certain irregularities. 

Much as we admire the genius of Mr. 
Longfellow, we are fully sensible of his 
many errors of affectation and imita- 
tion. His artificial skill is great, and 
his ideality high. But his conception 
of the aims of poesy is all wrong; and 
this we shall prove at some future 
day—to our own satisfaction, at least. 
His didactics are all out of place. He 
has written brilliant poems—by acci- 
dent; that is to say when permitting his 
genius to get the better of his conven- 
tional habit of thinking—a habit de- 
duced from German study. We do not 
mean to say that a didactic moral may 
not be well made the undercurrent of a 
poetical thesis; but that it can never be 
well put so obtrusively forth, as in the 
majority of his compositions. There is 
a young American who, with ideality 
not richer than that of Longfellow, and 
with less artistic knowledge, has yet 
composed far truer poems, merely 
through the greater propriety of his 
themes. 

We have said that Mr. Longfellow’s 
conception of the aims of poesy is 
erroneous; and that thus, labouring at a 
disadvantage, he does violent wrong to 
his own high powers; and now the ques- 
tion is, What are his ideas of the aims 
of the Muse, as we gather these ideas 
from the general tendency of his poems? 
It will be at once evident that, imbued 
with the peculiar spirit of German song 
(a pure conventionality), he regards the 
inculcation of a moral as essential. 


1108 


Here we find it necessary to repeat that 
we have reference only to the general 
tendency of his compositions; for there 
are some magnificent exceptions, where, 
as if by accident, he has permitted his 
genius to get the better of his conven- 
tional prejudice. But didacticism is the 
prevalent tone of his song. His inven- 
tion, his imagery, his all, is made sub- 
servient to the elucidation of some one 
or more points (but rarely of more 
than one) which he looks upon as éruth. 
And that this mode of procedure will 
find stern defenders should never excite 
surprise, so long as the world is full to 
overflowing with cant and conventicles. 
There are men who will scramble on all 
fours: through the muddiest sloughs of 
vice to pick up a single apple of virtue. 
There are things called men who, so 
long: as the sun rolls, will greet with 
snuffling huzzas every figure that takes 
upon itself the semblance of truth, even 
although the figure, in itself only a 
“stuffed Paddy,” be as much out of 
place as a toga on the statue of Wash- 
ington, or out of season as rabbits in 
the days of the dog-star. 

Now, with as deep a reverence for 
“the true’ as ever inspired the bosom 
of mortal man, we would limit, in many 
respects, its modes of inculcation. We 
would limit, to enforce them. We 
would not render them impotent by dis- 


sipation. The demands of truth are 
severe. She has no sympathy with the 
myrtles. All that is indispensable in 


song is all with which she has nothing 
to do. To deck her in gay robes is to 
render her a harlot. It is but making 
her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her 
in gems and flowers. Even in stating 
this our present proposition, we verify 
our own words—we feel the necessity, 


‘mutual 


: WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in enforcing this truth, of descending 
from metaphor. Let us then be simple 
and distinct. To convey “the true” 
we are required to dismiss from the at- 
tention all inessentials. We must be 
perspicuous, precise, terse. We need 
concentration rather than expansion of 
mind. We must be calm, unimpas- 
sioned, unexcited—in a word, we must 
be in that peculiar mood which, as 
nearly as possible, is the exact con- 
verse of the poetical. He must be blind 
indeed who cannot perceive the radical 
and chasmal difference between the 
truthful and the poetical modes of in- 
culcation. He must be grossly wedded 
to conventionalisms who, in spite of 
this difference, shall still attempt to 
reconcile the obstinate oils and waters 
of Poetry and Truth. 

Dividing the world of mind into its 
most obvious and immediately recog- 
nisable distinctions, we have the pure 
intellect; taste and the moral sense. We 
place taste between the intellect and the 
moral sense, because it is just this inter- 
mediate space which, in the minds, it 
occupies. It is the connecting link in 
the triple chain. It serves to sustain a 
intelligence between the ex- 
tremes. It appertains, in strict appre- 
ciation, to the former, but is distin- 
guished from the latter by so faint a 
difference that Aristotle has not hesi- 
tated to class some of its operations 
among the Virtues themselves. But the 
offices of the trio are broadly marked. 
Just as conscience, or the moral sense, 
recognises duty; just as the intellect 
deals with truth; so is it the part of 
taste alone to inform us of BEAUTY. 
And Poesy is the handmaiden but of 
Taste. Yet we would not be misunder- 
stood. This handmaiden is not for- 








of the Beautiful. 


LONGFELLOW’S BALLADS 


_bidden to moralise—in her own fashion. 
She is not forbidden to depict—but to 
reason and preach of virtue. As of this 

latter, conscience recognises the obliga- 
tion, so intellect teaches the expediency, 
while taste contents herself with dis- 
playing the beauty; waging war with 
vice merely on the ground of its incon- 
sistency with fitness, harmony, propor- 
_ tion—in a word with To Kalon (Gr.). 


An important condition of man’s im- 
mortal nature is thus, plainly, the sense 
This it is which min- 


-isters to his delight in the manifold 
forms and colours and sounds and sen- 


timents amid which he exists. 


And, 


just as the eyes of Amaryllis are re- 
_ peated in the mirror, or the living lily 
in the lake, so is the mere record of 
_ these forms and colours and sounds and 
--sentiments—so is their mere oral or 


above. 


-moth for the star. 


written repetition a duplicate source of 
delight. But this repetition is not 
Poesy. He who shall merely sing with 
whatever rapture, in however harmoni- 


ous strains, or with however vivid a 
truth of imitation, of the sights and 
sounds which greet him in common with 


all mankind—he, we say, has yet failed 
to prove his divine title. There is still 
a longing unsatisfied, which he has been 


impotent to fulfil. There is still.a thirst 


unquenchable, which to allay he has 
shown us no crystal springs. This 
burning thirst belongs to the immortal 
essence of man’s nature. It is equally 
a consequence and an indication of his 
perennial life. It is the desire of the 
It is not the mere 
appreciation of the beauty before us. 
It is a wild effort to reach the beauty 
It is a forethought of the love- 
liness to come. It is a passion to be 
satiated by no sublunary sights, or 


1109 


sounds, or sentiments, and the soul thus 
athirst strives to allay its fever in futile 
efforts at creation. Inspired with a 
prescient ecstasy of the beauty beyond 
the grave, it struggles by multiform 
novelty of combination among the 
things and thoughts of Time, to antici- 
pate some portion of that loveliness 
whose very elements, perhaps, apper- 
tain solely to Eternity; and the result 
of such effort, on the part of souls fit- 
tingly constituted, is alone what man- 
kind have agreed to denominate Poetry. 

We say this with little fear of con- 
tradiction. Yet the spirit of our asser- 
tion must be more heeded than the let- 
ter. Mankind have seemed to define 
Poesy in a thousand, and in a thousand 
conflicting, definitions. But the war is 
one only of words. Induction is as 
well applicable to. this subject a6 to 
the most palpable and utilitarian; and 
by its sober processes we find that, in 
respect to compositions which have 
been really received as poems, the 
imaginative, or, more popularly, the 
creative portions alone have ensured 
them to be so received. Yet these 
works, on account of these portions, 
having once been so received and so 
named, it has happened naturally and 
inevitably, that other portions totally 
unpoetic have not only come to be 
regarded by the popular voice as poetic, 
but have been made to serve as false 
standards of perfection in the adjust- 
ment of other poetical claims. What- 
ever has been found in whatever has 
been received as a poem, has been 
blindly regarded as ex statu poetic. And 
this is a species of gross error which 
scarcely could have made its way into 
any less intangible topic. In fact that 


1110 


license which appertains to the Muse 
herself, it has been thought decorous, 
if not sagacious, to indulge in all exam- 
ination of her character. 

Poesy is thus seen to be a response— 
unsatisfactory it is true—but still in 
some measure a response, to a natural 
and irrepressible demand. Man being 
what he is, the time could never have 
been in which poesy was not. Its first 
element is the thirst for supernal 
BEAUTY—a beauty which is not afforded 
the soul by any existing collocation of 
earth’s forms—a beauty which, perhaps, 
no possible combination of these forms 
would fully produce. Its second ele- 
ment is the attempt to satisfy this 
thirst by novel combinations among 
those forms of beauty which already 
exist—or by novel combinations. of 
those combinations which our predeces- 
sors, toiling in chase of the same phan- 
tom, have already set in order. We 
thus clearly deduce the novelty, the 
originality, the invention, the imagina- 
tion, or lastly the creation of BEAUTY 
(for the terms as here employed are 
synonymous), as the essence. of all 
Poesy. Nor is this idea so much at 
variance with ordinary opinion as, at 
first sight, it may appear. A multitude 
of antique dogmas on this topic will 
be found, when divested of extrinsic 
speculation, to be easily resoluble into 
the definition now proposed. We do 
nothing more than present tangibly the 
vague clouds of the world’s idea. We 
recognise the idea itself floating, unset- 
tled, indefinite, in every attempt which 
has yet been made to circumscribe the 
conception of “Poesy” in words.. A 
striking instance of this is observable 
in the fact that no definition exists in 
which either the “beautiful,” or some 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


one of those qualities which we have 
above designated synonymously with 
“creation,” has not been pointed out as 
the chief attribute of the Muse. ‘“In- 
vention,” however, or “imagination,” is 
by far more commonly insisted upon. 
The word Poiaesis (Gr.)* itself (crea- 
tion) speaks volumes upon this point. 
Neither will it be amiss here to mention 
Count Bielfeld’s definition of poetry as 
“L’art d’exprimer les pensees par la 
fiction.” With this definition (of which 
the philosophy is profound to a certain 
extent) the German terms Dichtkunst, 
the art of fiction, and Dichten, to feign, 
which are used for “poetry” and “to 
make verses,” are in full and remarka- 
ble accordance. It is, nevertheless, in 
the combination of the two omnipreva- 
lent ideas that the novelty and, we 
believe, the force of our own proposi- 
tion is to be found. 

So far we have spoken of Poesy as 
of an abstraction alone. As such, it is 
obvious that it may be applicable in 
various moods. The sentiment may 
develop itself in Sculpture, in Painting, 
in Music, or otherwise. But our pres- 
ent business is with its development in 
words—that development to which, in 
practical acceptation, the world has 
agreed to limit the term. And at this 
point there is one consideration which 
induces us to pause. We cannot make 
up our minds to admit (as some have 
admitted) the inessentiality of rhythm. 
On the contrary, the universality of its 
use in the earliest poetical efforts of 
all mankind would be sufficient to as- 
sure us, not merely of its congeniality 





* To judge Poe, some appreciation of 
Greek literature is essential Many 
critics are deficient in this respect —Ed. 


} 
: 
4 


_ indispensable importance. 


LONGFELLOW’S BALLADS 


with the Muse, or of its adaptation to 
her purposes, but of its elementary and 
But here we 


- must, perforce, content ourselves with 
- mere suggestion; for this topic is of a 
character which would lead us too far. 
We have already spoken of Music as 











creation of supernal beauty. 
_be, indeed, that this august aim is here 
even partially or imperfectly attained, 
in fact. 
which is felt in sound, may be the 
mutual or common heritage of Earth 
and Heaven. 
combination it is thus not impossible 
that a harp may strike notes not unfa- 
_miliar to the angels. 
the wonder may well be less that all 
attempts at defining the character or 
sentiment of the deeper musical im- 
pressions have been found absolutely 
futile. 
with the firm conviction that music (in 
_its modifications of rhythm and rhyme) 
is of so vast a moment in Poesy as 
never to be neglected by him who is 


with music, in its popular sense. 
old Bards and Minnesingers possessed, 
in the fullest perfection, the finest and 


one of the moods of poetical develop- 
/ ment. 


It is in Music, perhaps, that 
the soul most nearly attains that end 
upon which we have commented—the 
It may 


The elements of that beauty 


In the soul’s struggles at 


And in this view 


Contenting ourselves, therefore, 


truly poetical—is of so mighty a force 
in furthering the great aim intended 
that he is mad who rejects its assist- 


-ance—content with this idea we shall 


not pause to maintain its absolute es- 
sentiality, for the mere sake of round- 
ing a definition. We will but add, at 
this point, that the highest possible 
development of the Poetical Sentiment 
is to be found in the union of song 
The 


truest elements of Poesy; and Thomas 


1111 


Moore, singing his own ballads, is but 
putting the final touch to their compie- 
tion as poems. 

To recapitulate, then, we would define 
in brief the Poetry of words as the 
Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Be- 
yond the limits of Beauty its province 
does not extend. Its sole arbiter is 
Taste. With the Intellect or with the 
Conscience it has only collateral rela- 
tions. It has no dependence, unless 
incidentally, upon either Duty or Truth. 
That our definition will necessarily 
exclude much of what, through a 
supine toleration, has been hitherto 
ranked as poetical, is a matter which 
affords us not even momentary concern. 
We address but the thoughtful, and 
heed only their approval—with our 
own. If our suggestions are truthful, 
then ‘after many days” shall they be 
understood as truth, even though found 
in contradiction of all that has been 
hitherto so understood. If false, shall 
we not be the first to bid them die? 

We would reject, of course, all such 
matters as “Armstrong on Health,” a 
revolting production; Pope’s “Essay on 
Man,” which may well be content with 
the title of an “Essay in Rhyme”; 
“Fudibras,” and other merely humorous 
pieces. We do not gainsay the peculiar 
merits of either of these latter compo- 
sitions—but deny them the position 
they have held. In a notice of Brain- 
ard’s Poems, we took occasion to show 
that the common use of a certain in- 
strument (rhythm) had tended, more 
than aught else, to confound humorous 
verse with poetry. The observation is 
now recalled to corroborate what we 
have just said in respect to the vast 
effect or force of melody in itself—an 
effect which could elevate into even 


1112 


momentary confusion with the highest 
efforts of mind, compositions such as 
are the greater number of satires or 
burlesques. 

Of the poets who have appeared most 
fully instinct with the principles now 
developed, we may mention Keats as 
the most remarkable. He is the sole 
British poet who has never erred in 
his themes. Beauty is always his aim. 

We have thus shown our ground of 
objection to the general themes of Pro- 
fessor Longfellow. In common with 
all who claim the sacred title of poet, 
he should limit his endeavours to the 
creation of novel moods of beauty, in 
form, in colour, in sound, in sentiment; 
for over all this wide range has the 
poetry of words dominion. To what 
the world terms prose may be safely 
and properly left all else. The artist 
who doubts of his thesis, may always 
resolve his doubt by the single ques- 
tion—‘‘might not this matter be as well 
or better handled in prose?” If it may, 
then is it no subject for the Muse. In 
the general acceptation of the term 
Beauty we are content to rest; being 
careful only to suggest that, in our 
peculiar views, it must be understood 
as inclusive of the sublime. 

Of the pieces which constitute the 
present volume there are not more than 
one or two thoroughly fulfilling the 
idea above proposed; although the vol- 
ume as a whole is by no means so 
chargeable with didacticism as Mr. 
Longfellow’s previous book. We would 
mention as poems nearly true, “The 
Village Blacksmith,” “The Wreck -of 
the Hesperus,’ and especially “The 
Skeleton in Armour.” In the first- 
mentioned we have the beauty of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


simple-mindedness as a genuine thesis; 
and this thesis is inimitably handled 
until the concluding stanza, where the 
spirit of legitimate poesy is aggrieved 
in the pointed antithetical deduction of 
a moral from what has gone before. 
In “The Wreck of the Hesperus” we 
have the beauty of child-like confidence 
and innocence, with that of the father’s 
courage and affection. But, with slight 
exception, those particulars of the 
storm here detailed are not poetic sub- 
jects. Their thrilling horror belongs to 
prose, in which it could be far more 
effectively discussed, as Professor 
Longfellow may assure himself at any 
moment by experiment. There are 
points of a tempest which afford the 
loftiest and truest poetical themes— 
points in which pure beauty is found, 
or, better still, beauty heightened into 
the sublime, by terror. But when we 
read, among other similar things, that 


The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
The salt tears in her eyes. 


we feel, if not positive disgust, at least 
a chilling sense of the inappropriate. 
In “The Skeleton in Armour” we find 
a pure and perfect thesis artistically 
treated. We find the beauty of bold 
courage and self-confidence, of love and 
maiden devotion, of reckless adventure, 
and finally the life-contemning grief. 
Combined with all this, we have numer- 
ous points of beauty apparently insu- 
lated, but all aiding the main effect or 
impression. The heart is stirred, and 
the mind does not lament its mal- 


instruction. The metre is simple, 
sonorous, well-balanced, and __ fully 
adapted to the subject. Upon the 


whole, there are few truer poems than 








LONGFELLOW’S BALLADS 


tant one. The prose remarks prefacing 
' the narrative are really necessary. But 
' every work of art should contain within 
itself all that is requisite for its own 
- comprehension. And this remark is 
_ especially true of the ballad. In poems 
| of magnitude the mind of the reader 
is not, at all times, enabled to include, 
in one comprehensive survey, the pro- 
portions and proper adjustment of the 
whole. He is pleased, if at all, with 
particular passages; and the sum of his 
pleasure is compounded of the sums of 
the pleasurable sentiments inspired by 
_ these individual passages in the progress 
of perusal. But, in pieces of less extent, 
the pleasure is unique, in the proper 
acceptation of this term—the under- 
_ standing is employed, without difficulty, 
in the contemplation of the picture 
as a whole; and thus its effect will 
depend, in great measure, upon the per- 
- fection of its finish, upon the nice adap- 
- tation of its constituent parts, and espe- 
cially, upon what is rightly termed by 
Schlegel the unity or totality of interest. 
But the practice of prefixing explana- 
tory passages is utterly at variance with 
such unity. By the prefix, we are either 
put in possession of the subject of the 
poem, or some hint, historic fact, or 
suggestion, is thereby afforded, not 
included in the body of the piece, 
which, without the hint, is incompre- 
hensible. In the latter case, while 
perusing the poem, the reader must 
revert, in mind at least, to the prefix, 
for the necessary explanation. In the 
former, the poem being a mere para- 
phrase of the prefix, the interest is 
divided between the prefix and the 
paraphrase. In either instance the 
totality of effect is destroyed. 


1113 


Of the other original poems in the 
volume before us there is none in which 
the aim of instruction, or truth, has 
not been too obviously substituted for 
the legitimate aim, beauty. We have 
heretofore taken occasion to say that 
a didactic moral might be happily made 
the under-current of a poetical theme, 
and we have treated this point at length 
in a review of Moore’s ‘Alciphron”’; 
but the moral thus conveyed is invari- 
ably an ill effect when obtruding beyond 
the upper-current of the thesis itself. 
Perhaps the worst specimen of this 
obtrusion is given us by our poet in 
“Blind Bartimeus” and the ‘Goblet of 
Life,’ where it will be observed that 
the sole interest of the upper-current 
of meaning depends upon its relation 
or reference to the under. What we 
read upon the surface would be vox et 
preterea nihil in default of the moral 
beneath. The Greek finales of “Blind 
Bartimeus” are an affectation altogether 
inexcusable. What the small, second- 
hand, Gibbonish pedantry of Byron 
introduced, is unworthy the imitation 


‘of Longfellow. 


Of the translations we scarcely think 
it necessary to speak at all. We regret 
that our poet will persist in busying 
himself about such matters. His time 
might be better employed in original 
conception. - Most of these versions are 
marked with the error upon which we 
have commented. This error is, in 
fact, essentially Germanic. ‘The Luck 
of Edenhall,” however, is a truly beau- 
tiful poem; and we say this with all 
that deference which the opinion of the 
Democratic Review demands. This 
composition appears to us one of the 
very finest. It has all the free, hearty, 
obvious movement of the true ballad- 


1114 


legend. The greatest force of language 
is combined in it with the richest imag- 
ination, acting in its most legitimate 
province. Upon the whole, we prefer 
it even to the ‘““Sword-Song” of Korner. 
The pointed moral with which it termi- 
nates is so exceedingly natural—so per- 
fectly fluent from the incidents—that 
we have hardly heart to pronounce it 
in ill-taste. We may observe of this 
ballad, in conclusion, that its subject is 
more physical than is usual in Germany. 
Its images are rich rather in physical 
than in moral beauty. And this tend- 
ency in Song is the true one. It is 
chiefly, if we are not mistaken—it is 
chiefly amid forms of physical loveli- 
ness (we use the word forms in its 
widest sense as embracing modifications 
of sound and colour) that the soul 
seeks the realisation of its dreams of 
Beauty. It is to her demand in this 
sense especially, that the poet, who is 
wise, will most frequently and most 
earnestly respond. 

“The Children of the Lord’s Supper” 
is, beyond doubt, a true and most 


beautiful poem in great part, while, in 


some particulars, it is too metaphysical 
to have any pretension to the name. We 
have already objected, briefly, to its 
metre—the ordinary Latin or Greek 
Hexameter—dactyls and spondees at 
random, with a spondee in conclusion. 
We maintain that the hexameter can 
never be introduced into our language, 
from the nature of that language itself. 
This rhythm demands, for English ears, 
a preponderance of natural spondees. 
Our tongue has few. Not only does 
the Latin and Greek, with the Swedish, 
and some others, abound in them; but 
the Greek and Roman ear had become 
reconciled (why or how is unknown) 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


to the reception of artificial spondees— 
that is to say, spondaic words formed 
partly of one word and partly of an- 
other, or from an excised part of one 
word. In short, the ancients were con- 
tent to read as they scanned, or nearly 
so. It may be safely prophesied that 
we shall never do this; and thus we 
shall never admit English hexameters. 
The attempt to introduce them, after 
the repeated failures of Sir Philip Sid- 
ney and others, is perhaps somewhat 
discreditable to the scholarship of 
Professor Longfellow. The Democratic 
Review, in saying that he has tri- 
umphed over difficulties in this rhythm, 
has been deceived, it is evident, by 
the facility with which some of these 
verses may be read. In glancing over 
the poem, we do not observe a single 
verse which can be read, to English 
ears, as a Greek hexameter. There are 
many, however, which can be well read 
as mere English dactylic verses; such, 
for example, as the well-known lines 
of Byron,* commencing 


Know ye the | land where the k cypress 
and | myrtle. 


These lines (although full of irregu- 
larities) are, in their perfection, formed 
of three dactyls and a cesura—just as 
if we should cut short the initial verse 
of the Bucolics thus— 


Tityre | tu patu | le recu | bans— 
The “myrtle,” at the close of Byron’s 
line, is a double rhyme, and must be 


understood as one syllable. 


*See Contents, “Rationale of 
Verse,’’—Ed. 





LONGFELLOW’S BALLADS 


Now a great number of Professor 
Longfellow’s hexameters are merely 
these dactylic lines, continued for two 


feet. For example— 

Whispered the | race of the | flowers 
and | merry on | balancing | 
branches. 


In this example, also, “branches,” 
which is a double ending, must be 
regarded as the cesura, or one syllable, 
of which alone it has the force. 

As we have already alluded, in one 
or two regards, to a notice of these 
poems which appeared in the Demo- 
cratic Review, we may as well here 
proceed with some few further com- 
ments upon the article in question— 
with whose general tenor we are happy 
te agree. 

The Review speaks of ‘‘Maidenhood” 
as a poem, “not to be understood but 
at the expense of more time and trouble 
than a song can justly claim.” We are 
scarcely less surprised at this opinion 
from Mr. Langtree than we were at 
the condemnation of “The Luck of 
Edenhall.” 

‘“Maidenhood”’ is faulty, it appears to 
us, only on the score of its theme, 
which is somewhat didactic. Its 
meaning seems simplicity itself. A 
maiden on the verge of womanhood, 
hesitating to enjoy life (for which she 
has a strong appetite) through a false 
idea of duty, is bidden to fear nothing, 
having purity of heart as her lion of 
Una. 

What Mr. Langtree styles “an unfor- 
tunate peculiarity” in Mr. Longfellow, 
resulting from “adherence to a false 
system,” has really been always re- 
garded by us as one of his idiosyncratic 


1115 


merits. “In each poem,” says the critic, 
“he has but ome idea, which, in the 
progress of his song, is gradually un- 
folded, and at last reaches its full 
development in the concluding lines: 
this singleness of thought might lead 
a harsh critic to suspect intellectual 
barrenness.” It leads ws, individually, 
only to a full sense of the artistical 
power and knowledge of the poet. We 
confess that now, for the first time, we 
hear unity of conception objected to 
as a defect. But Mr. Langtree seems 
to have fallen into the singular error 
of supposing the poet to have abso- 
lutely but one idea in each of his bal- 
lads. Yet how “one idea” can be 
“oradually unfolded” without other 
ideas is, to us, a mystery of mysteries. 
Mr. Longfellow, very properly, has but 
one leading idea which forms the basis 
of his poem; but to the aid and devel- 
opment of this one there are innumer- 
able others, of which the rare excellence 
is that all are in keeping, that none 
could be well omitted, that each tends 
to the one general effect. It is unneces- 
sary to say another word upon this 
topic. : 

In speaking of “Excelsior,” Mr. 
Langtree (are we wrong in attributing 
the notice to his very forcible pen?) 
seems to labour under some similar 
misconception. “It carries along with 
it,’ says he, “a false moral which 
greatly diminishes its merit in our eyes. 
The great merit of a picture, whether 
made with the pencil or pen, is its 
truth; and this merit does not belong 
to Mr. Longfellow’s sketch. Men of 
genius may, and probably do, meet with 
greater difficulties in their struggles 
with the world than their fellow-men 
who are less highly gifted; but their 


1116 


power of overcoming obstacles is pro- 
portionably greater, and the result of 
their laborious suffering is not death 
but immortality.” 

That the chief merit of a picture is 
its truth, is an assertion deplorably 
erroneous. Even in Painting, which is, 
more essentially than Poetry, a mimetic 
art, the proposition cannot be sustained. 
Truth is not even the aim. Indeed it 
is curious to observe how very slight a 
degree of truth is sufficient to satisfy 
the mind, which acquiesces in the 
absence of numerous essentials in the 
thing depicted. An outline frequently 
stirs the spirit more pleasantly than the 
most elaborate picture. We need only 
refer to the compositions of Flaxman 
and of Retzsch. Here all details are 
omitted—nothing can be farther from 
truth. Without even colour the most 
thrilling effects are produced. In statues 
we are rather pleased than disgusted 
with the want of the eyeball. The hair 
of the Venus de Medicis was gilded. 
Truth indeed! The grapes of Zeuxis 
as well as the curtain of Parrhasius 
were received as indisputable evidence 
of the truthful ability of these artists— 
but they were not even classed among 
their pictures. If truth is the highest 
aim of either Painting or Poesy, then 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Jan Steen was a greater artist than 
Angelo, and Crabbe is a nobler poet 
than Milton. 

But we have not quoted the observa- 
tion of Mr. Langtree to deny its philos- 
ophy; our design was simply to show 
that he has misunderstood the poet. 
“Excelsior” has not even a remote 
tendency to the interpretation assigned 
it by the critic. It depicts the earnest 
upward impulse of the soul—an impulse 
not to be subdued even in Death. De- 
spising danger, resisting pleasure, the 
youth, bearing the banner inscribed 
“Excelsior!” (higher still!) struggles 
through all difficulties to an Alpine 
summit. Warned to be content with 
the elevation attained, his cry is still 
“Excelsior!” and even in falling dead 
on the highest pinnacle, his cry is still 
“Excelsior! There is yet an immortal 
height to be surmounted—an ascent in 
Eternity. The poet holds in view the 
idea of never-ending progress. That he 
is misunderstood is rather the misfor- 
tune of Mr. Langtree than the fault of 
Mr. Longfellow. There is an old adage 
about the difficulty of one’s furnishing 
an auditor both with matter to be com- 
prehended and brains for its compre- 
hension. 


Critics and Criticism 


(Published in Graham’s Magazine, January, 1850.—Ed.) 


Our most analytic, if not altogether 
our best critic (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, 
excepted), is Mr. William A. Jones, 
author of “The Analyst.” How he 
would write elaborate criticisms I can- 
not say; but his summary judgments 


of authors are, in general, discrimina- 
tive and profound. In fact, his papers 
on Emerson and Macaulay, published 
in Arcturus, are better than merely 
“profound,” if we take the word in its 
now desecrated sense; for they are at 


l 





CRITICS AND CRITICISM 


once pointed, lucid, and just:—as sum- 
maries, leaving nothing to be desired. 

Mr. Whipple has less analysis, and 
far less candour, as his depreciation of 
“Jane Eyre” will show; but he excels 
Mr. Jones in sensibility to Beauty, and 
is thus the better critic of Poetry. I 
have read nothing finer in its way than 
his eulogy on Tennyson. I say “eulogy”’ 
—for the essay in question is unhappily 
little more—and Mr. Whipple’s paper 
on Miss Barrett was nothing more. He 
has less discrimination than Mr. Jones, 
and a more obtuse sense of the critical 
office. In fact, he has been infected 
with that unmeaning and _ transparent 
heresy—the can’t of critical Boswellism, 
by dint of which we are to shut our 
eyes tightly to all autorial blemishes, 
and open them, like owls, to all autorial 
merits. Papers thus composed may be 
good in their way, just as an imperti- 
nent cicerone is good in his way; and 
the way, in either case, may still be a 
small one. 

Boccalini, in his “Advertisements 
from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus 
once presented Apollo with a very 
caustic review of a very admirable 
poem. The god asked to be shown the 
beauties of the work; but the critic 
replied that he troubled himself only 
about the errors. Hereupon Apollo 
gave him a sack of unwinnowed wheat 
—hbidding him pick out all the chaff for 
his pains. 

Now this fable does very well as a 
hit at the critics; but I am by no means 
sure that the Deity was in the right. 
The fact is, that the limits of the strict 
critical duty are grossly misapprehended. 
We may go so far as to say that, while 
the critic is permitted to play, at times, 
the part of the mere commentator— 


Lib? 


while he is allowed, by way of merely 
interesting his readers, to put in the 
fairest light the merits of his author— 
his Jegitimate task is still, in pointing 
out and analysing defects and showing 
how the work might have been im- 
proved, to aid the general cause of 
Letters, without undue heed of the in- 
dividual literary men. Beauty, to be 
brief, should be considered in the light 
of an axiom, which, to become at once 
evident, needs only to be distinctly put. 
It is not Beauty, if it require to be 
demonstrated as such:—and thus to 
point out too particularly the merits of 
a work is to admit that they are not 
merits altogether. 

When I say that both Mr. Jones and 
Mr. Whipple are, in some degree, imi- 
tators of Macaulay, I have no design 
that my words should be understood as 
disparagement. The style and general 
conduct of Macaulay’s critical papers 
could scarcely be improved. To call 
his manner ‘conventional,’ is to do it 
gross injustice. The manner of Carlyle 
is conventional—with himself. The 
style of Emerson is conventional—with 
himself and Carlyle. The style of Miss 
Fuller is conventional—with herself and 
Emerson and Carlyle:—that is to say, 
it is a triple-distilled conventionality— 
and by the word “conventionality,” as 
here used, I mean very nearly what, as 
regards personal conduct, we style “af- 
fectation”’—that is, an assumption of 
airs or tricks which have no basis in 
reason or common sense. The quips, 
quirks, and curt oracularities of the 
Emersons, Alcotts, and Fullers, are sim- 
ply Lily’s Euphuisms revived. Very 
different, indeed, are the peculiarities of 
Macaulay. He has his mannerisms; but 
we see that, by dint of them, he is en- 


1118 


abled to accomplish the extremes of 
unquestionable excellences—the extreme 
of clearness, of vigour (dependent upon 
clearness), of grace, and very especially 
of thoroughness. For his short sen- 
tences, for his antitheses, for his modu- 
 Jations, for his climaxes—for everything 
that he does—a very slight analysis 
suffices to show a distinct reason. His 
manner, thus, is simply the perfection 
of that justifiable rhetoric which has its 
basis in common sense; and to say that 
such rhetoric is never called in to the 
aid of genius, is simply to disparage 
genius, and by no means to discredit 
the rhetoric. It is nonsense to assert 
that the highest genius would not be 
benefited by attention to its modes of 
manifestation—by availing itself of that 
Natural Art which it too frequently 
despises. Is it not evident that the 
more intrinsically valuable the rough 
diamond, the more gain accrues to it 
from polish? 

Now, since it would be nearly impos- 
sible to vary the rhetoric of Macaulay, 
in any material degree, without de- 
terioration in the essential particulars 
of clearness, vigour, etc., those who 
write after Macaulay have to choose 
between the two horns of a dilemma:— 
they must be weak and original, or 
imitative and strong; and since imita- 
tion in a case of this kind is merely 
adherence to Truth and Reason as 
pointed out by one who feels their 
value, the author who should forego the 
advantages of the “imitation” for the 
mere sake of being erroneously original 
“west pas si sage quwil croit.” 

The true course to be pursued’ by 
our criticis—justly sensible of Macau- 
lay’s excellences—is not, however, to 
be content with tamely following in his 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


footsteps—but to outstrip him in his 
own path—a path not so much his as 
Nature’s. We must not fall into the 
error of fancying that he is perfect 
merely because he excels (in point of 
style) all his British contemporaries. 
Some such idea as this seems to have 
taken possession of Mr. Jones, when 
he says:— 

“Macaulay’s style is admirable—full 
of colour, perfectly clear, free from all 
obstructions, exactly English, and as 
pointedly antithetical as possible. We 
have marked two passages on Southey 
and Byron, so happy as to defy im- 
provement. The one is a sharp epi- 
grammatic paragraph on Southey’s po- 
litical bias:— 


Government is to Mr. Southey one 
of the fine arts. He judges of a theory 
or a public measure, of a religion, a 
political party, a peace or a. war, as men 
judge of a picture or a statue, by the 
effect produced on his imagination. A 
chain of associations is to him what a 
chain of reasoning is to other men; and 
what he calls his opinions are, in fact, 
merely his tastes. 


The other a balanced character of Lord 
Byron :— 


In the rank of Lord Byron, in his un- 
derstanding, in his character, in his very 
person, there was a strange union of 
opposite extremes. He was born to all 
that men covet and admire. But in 
every one of those eminent advantages 
which he possessed over others, there 
was mingled something of misery and 
debasement. He was sprung from a 
house, ancient indeed and noble, but 
degraded and impoverished by a series 








CRITICS AND CRITICISM 


of crimes and follies, which had at- 
tained a scandalous publicity. The 
kinsman whom he had succeeded had 
died poor, and but for merciful judges, 
_would have died upon the gallows. The 
young peer had great intellectual pow- 
ers; yet there was an unsound part in 
his mind. He had naturally a generous 
and tender heart; but his temper was 
wayward and irritable. He had a head 
which statuaries loved to copy, and a 
foot the deformity of which the beg- 
gars in the street mimicked. 


Let us now look at the first of these 
paragraphs. The opening sentence is 
inaccurate at all points. The word 
“government” does not give the au- 
thor’s idea with sufficient definitiveness; 
for the term is more frequently ap- 
plied to the system by which the affairs 
of a nation are regulated than to the 
act of regulating. “The government,” 
we say, for example, “does so and so” 
-—meaning those who govern. But 
Macaulay intends simply the act, or 
acts called “governing,” and this word 
should have been used as a matter 
of course. The “Mr.” prefixed to 
“Southey,” is superfluous; for no sneer 
is designed; and, in mistering a well- 
known author, we hint that he is not 
entitled to that exemption which we 
accord to Homer, Dante, or Shake- 
_speare. “To Mr. Southey,” would have 
been right, had the succeeding words 
_ been “government seems one of the fine 
arts”:—but, as the sentence stands, 
“With Mr. Southey” is demanded. 
“Southey,” too, being the principal sub- 
ject of the paragraph, should precede 
“Government,” which is mentioned only 
in its relation to Southey. “One of the 


1119 


fine arts” is pleonastic, since the phrase 
conveys nothing more than “a fine art” 
would convey. 

The second sentence is quite aS 
faulty. Here Southey loses his prece- 
dence as the subject; and thus the 
“He,” should follow “a theory,” ‘‘a pub- 
lic measure,’ etc. By “religion” is 
meant a “creed”’:—this latter word 
should therefore be used. The conclu- 
sion of the sentence is very awkward. 
Southey is said to judge of a peace or 
war, etc., as men judge of a picture of 
a statue, and the words which succeed 
are intended to explain how men judge 
of a picture or a statue:—these words 
should, therefore, run thus—‘“by the 
effect produced on their imaginations.” 
“Produced,” moreover, is neither so ex- 
act nor so “English” as “wrought.” In 
saying that Southey judges of a po- 
litical party, etc., as men judge of a 
picture, etc., Southey is quite excluded 
from the category of “men.” “Other 
men,” was no doubt originally written, 
but “other” erased, on account of the 
“other men” occurring in the sentence 
below. 

Coming to this last, we find that “a 
chain of associations” is not properly 
paralleled by “a chain of reasoning.” 
We must say either “‘a chain of associa- 
tion,” to meet the “reasoning” or “a 
chain of reasons,” to meet the “‘associa- 
tions.” The repetition of “what” is 
awkward and unpleasant. The entire 
paragraph should be thus remodelled :— 


With Southey, governing is a fine art. 
Of a theory or a public measure—of a 
creed, a political party, a peace or a 
war—he judges by the imaginative et- 
fect; as only such things as pictures or 


1120 


statues are judged of by other men. 
What to them a chain of reasoning is, 
to him is a chain of association; and, as 
to his opinions, they are nothing but 
his tastes. 


The blemishes in the paragraph about 
Byron are more negative than those in 
the paragraph about Southey. The 
first sentence needs vivacity. The ad- 
jective “opposite” is superfluous:—so 
is the particle ‘“‘there.”” The second and 
third sentences are, properly, one. 
“Some” would fully supply the place of 
“something of.” The whole phrase 
“which he possessed over others” is 
supererogatory. ‘‘Was sprung,” in place 
of “sprang,” is altogether unjustifiable. 
The triple repetition of “and,” in the 
fourth sentence, is awkward. ‘Notori- 
ous crimes and follies” would express all 
that is implied in “crimes and follies 
which had attained a scandalous pub- 
licity.” The fifth sentence might be 
well curtailed; and, as it stands, has 
an unintentional and unpleasant sneer. 
“Tntellect” would do as well as “‘intel- 
lectual powers”; and this (the sixth) 
sentence might otherwise be shortened 
advantageously. The whole paragraph, 
in my opinion, would be better thus 
expressed :— 


In Lord Byron’s rank, understand- 
ing, character—even in his person—we 
find a strange union of extremes. What- 
ever men covet and admire, became his 
by right of birth; yet debasement and 
misery were mingled with each of his 
eminent advantages. He sprang from a 
house, ancient it is true, and noble, 
but degraded and impoverished by a 
series of notorious crimes. But for 
merciful judges, the pauper kinsman 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


whom he succeeded would have been 
hanged. The young peer had an intel- 
lect great, perhaps, yet partially un- 
sound. His heart was generous, but his 
temper wayward; and while statuaries 
copied his head, beggars mimicked the 
deformity of his foot. 


In these remarks, my object is not 
so much to point out inaccuracies in 
the most accurate stylist of his age, as 
to hint that our critics might surpass 
him on his own ground, and yet leave 
themselves something to learn in the 
moralities of manner. 

Nothing can be plainer than that 
our position, as a literary colony of 
Great Britain, leads us into wronging, 
indirectly, our own authors by exag- 
gerating the merits of those across the 
water. Our most reliable critics extol 
—and extol without discrimination— 
such English composition as, if written 
in America, would be either passed 
over without notice or unscrupulously 
condemned. Mr. Whipple, for ex- 
ample, whom I have mentioned in this 
connection with Mr. Jones, is decidedly 
one of our most “reliable” critics. His 
honesty I dispute as little as I doubt 
his courage or his talents—but here is 
an instance of the want of common dis- 
crimination into which he is occasion- 
ally hurried, by undue reverence for 
British intellect and British opinion.* 
In a review of “The Drama of Exile 


* That Poe was not only a patriotic 
American but a critic and author whose 
genius was given to his country as 
that of no other is proven by such 
passages as these.—Ed. 








J. FENIMORE COOPER 


and other Poems,’ by Miss Barrett 
(now Mrs. Browning), he speaks of the 
following passage as “in every respect 
faultless—sublime”’ :— 


Hear the steep generations how they 
fall 
Adown the visionary stairs of Time, 


1121 

Like supernatural 

near, 

Sowing their fiery echoes through the 
hills! * 


thunders—far yet 


* For criticism here see Contents 
Elizabeth Barrett Barrett. It is verbally 
identical.—Ed. 


J. Fenimore Cooper 


(Published in Graham’s Magazine, November, 1843.—Ed.) 


“WyANDOTTE, or The Hutted Knoll,” 
is, in its general features, precisely simi- 
lar to the novels enumerated in the 
title.* It is a forest subject; and, when 
we say this, we give assurance that the 
story is a good one; for Mr. Cooper 
has never been known to fail, either 
in the forest or upon the sea. The 
interest, as usual, has no reference to 
plot, of which, indeed, our novelist 
seems altogether regardless, or inca- 
pable, but depends, first upon the na- 
ture of the theme; secondly, upon a 
Robinson-Crusoe-like detail in its man- 
agement; and thirdly, upon the fre- 
quently repeated portraiture of the half- 
civilized Indian. In saying that the 
interest depends, first, upon the nature 
of the theme, we mean to suggest that 
this theme—life in the wilderness—is 
one of intrinsic and universal interest, 
appealing to the heart of man in all 
phases; a theme, like that of life upon 
the ocean, so unfailingly omniprevalent 
in its power of arresting and absorbing 


* “Wyandotte, or the Hutted Knoll,” 
a tale, by the author of “The Path- 
finder,” “Deerslayer,” etc. 


attention, that while success or popu- 
larity is, with such a subject, expected 
as a matter of course, a failure might 
be properly regarded as_ conclusive 
evidence of imbecility on the part 
of the author. The two theses in 
question have been handled usque ad 
nauseam—and this through the _ ins- 
tinctive perception of the universal in- 
terest which appertains to them. A 
writer, distrustful of his powers, can 
scarcely do better than discuss either 
one or the other. A man of genius will 
rarely, and should never, undertake 
either; first, because both are ex- 
cessively hackneyed; and, secondly, be- 
cause the reader never fails, in form- 
ing his opinion of a book, to make dis- 
count, either wittingly or unwittingly, 
for that intrinsic interest which is in- 
separable from the subject and inde- 
pendent of the manner in which it is 
treated. Very few and very dull indeed 
are those who do not instantaneously 
perceive the distinction; and thus there 
are two great classes of fictions—a 
popular and widely circulated class, 
read with pleasure, but without admira- 
tion—in which the author is lost or for- 


1122 


gotten, or remembered, if at all, with 
something very nearly akin to con- 
tempt; and then, a class, not so popu- 
lar, nor so widely diffused, in which, 
at every paragraph, arises a distinctive 
and highly pleasurable interest, spring- 
ing from our perception and apprecia- 
tion of the skill employed, or the genius 
evinced in the composition. After 
perusal of the one class, we think solely 
of the book—after reading the other, 
chiefly of the author. The former class 
leads to popularity—the latter to fame. 
In the former case, the books sometimes 
live, while the authors usually die; in 
the latter, even when the works perish, 
the man survives. Among American 
writers of the less generally circulated, 
but more worthy and more artistical 
fictions, we may mention Mr. Brockden 
Brown, Mr. John Neal, Mr. Simms, 
Mr. Hawthorne; at the head of the 
more popular division we may place 
Mr. Cooper. 

“The Hutted Knoll,’ without pre- 
tending to detail facts, gives a narrative 
of fictitious events, similar in nearly all 
respects to occurrences which actually 
happened during the opening scenes of 
the Revolution, and at other epochs of 
our history. It pictures the dangers, 
difficulties, and distresses of a large 
family, living, completely insulated, in 
the forest. The tale commences with 
a description of the ‘“‘region which lies 
in the angle formed by the junction of 
the Mohawk with the Hudson, extend- 
ing as far south as the line of Pennsyl- 
vania, and west to the verge of that 
vast rolling plain which composes West- 
ern New York’—a region of which the 
novelist has already frequently written, 
and the whole of which, with a trivial 
exception, was a wilderness before the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Revolution. Within this district, and 
on a creek running into the Unadilla, a 
certain Captain Willoughby purchases 
an estate or ‘“‘patent,” and there retires, 
with his family and dependents, to pass 
the close of his life in agricultural pur- — 
suits. He has been an officer in the 
British army, but, after serving many 
years, has sold his commission, and pur- 
chased one for his only son, Robert, 


who alone does not accompany the 


party into the forest. This party con- 
sists of the captain himself; his wife; 
his daughter, Beulah; an adopted daugh- 
ter, Maud Meredith; an invalid ser- 
geant, Joyce, who had served under the 
captain; a Presbyterian preacher, Mr. 
Woods; a Scotch mason, Jamie Allen; 
an Irish labourer, Michael O’Hearn; a 
Connecticut man, Joel Strides; four 
negroes, Old Plin and Young Plin, Big 
Smash and Little Smash; eight axe- 
men; a house-carpenter; a mill-wright, 
etc., etc. Besides these, a Tuscarora 
Indian called Nick, or Wyandotte, ac- 
companies the expedition. This Indian, 
who figures largely in the story, and 
gives it its title, may be considered 
as the principal character—the one 
chiefly elaborated. He is an outcast 
from his tribe, has been known to Cap- 
tain Willoughby for thirty years, and is 
a compound of all the good and bad 
qualities which make up the character 
of the half-civilized Indian. He does 
not remain with the settlers; but ap- 
pears and re-appears at intervals upon 
the scene. 

Nearly the whole of the first volume 
is occupied with a detailed account of 
the estate purchased (which is termed 
“The Hutted Knoll,’ from a natural 
mound upon which the principal house 
is built) and of the progressive arrange- 





J. FENIMORE COOPER 


_ ments and improvements. Towards the 
close of the volume the Revolution 
commences; and the party at the 
“Knoll” are besieged by a band of sav- 
ages and “rebels,” with whom an under- 
standing exists, on the part of Joel 
Strides, the Yankee. This traitor, in- 
stigated by the hope of possessing Cap- 
tain Willoughby’s estate, should it be 
| confiscated, brings about a series of de- 
| fections from the party of the settlers, 
and finally, deserting himself, reduces 
the whole number to six or seven ca- 
| pable of bearing arms. Captain Wil- 
loughby resolves, however, to defend 
his post. His son at this juncture pays 
him a clandestine visit, and, endeavour- 
ing to reconnoitre the position of the 
Indians, is made captive. The captain, 
in an attempt at rescue, is murdered 
by Wyandotte, whose vindictive pas- 
sions had been aroused by ill-timed allu- 
sions, on the part of Willoughby, to 
floggings previously inflicted, by his 
orders, upon the Indian. Wyandotte, 
however, having satisfied his personal 
vengeance, is still the ally of the set- 
tlers. He guides Maud, who is beloved 
by Robert, to the hut in which the 
latter is confined, and effects his escape. 
Aroused by this escape, the Indians 
precipitate their attack upon the Knoll, 
which, through the previous treachery 
of Strides in ill-hanging a gate, is im- 
mediately carried. Mrs. Willoughby, 
Beulah, and others of the party, are 
killed. Maud is secreted, and thus 
saved by Wyandotte. At the last mo- 
' ment, when all is apparently lost, a re- 
-inforcement appears under command 
of Evert Beekman, the husband of 
Beulah; and the completion of the 
massacre is prevented. Woods, the 
preacher, had left the Knoll, and made 


1123 


his way through the enemy, to inform 
Beekman of the dilemma of his friends. 
Maud and Robert Willoughby are, of 
course, happily married. The conclud- 
ing scene of the novel shows us Wyan- 
dotte repenting the murder of Wil- 
loughby, and converted to Christianity 
through the agency of Woods. 

It will be at once seen that there is 
nothing original in this story. On the 
contrary, it is even excessively com- 
mon-place. The lover, for example, 
rescued from captivity by the mistress; 
the Knoll carried through the treachery 
of an inmate; and the salvation of the 
besieged, at the very last moment, by 
a reinforcement arriving, in consequence 
of a message borne to a friend by one 
of the besieged, without the cognizance 
of the others; these, we say, are inci- 
dents which have been the common 
property of every novelist since the in- 
vention of letters. And as for plot, 
there has been no attempt at anything 
of the kind. The tale is a mere suc- 
cession of events, scarcely any one of 
which has any necessary dependence 
upon any one other. Plot, however, is 
at best an artificial effect, requiring, like 
music, not only a natural bias, but long 
cultivation of taste for its full apprecia- 
tion; some of the finest narratives in 
the world—‘“Gil Blas” and “Robinson 
Crusoe,” for example—have been writ- 
ten without its employment; and “The 
Hutted Knoll,” like all the sea and 
forest novels of Cooper, has been made 
deeply interesting, although depending 
upon this peculiar source of interest not 
at all. Thus the absence of plot can 
never be critically regarded as a defect; 
although its judicious use, in all cases 
aiding and in no case injuring other 


1124 


effects, must be regarded as of a very 
high order of merit. 

There are one or two points, how- 
ever, in the mere conduct of the story 
now before us, which may, perhaps, be 
considered as defective. For instance, 
there is too much obviousness in all 
that appertains to the hanging of the 
large gate. In more than a dozen in- 
stances Mrs. Willoughby is made to 
allude to the delay in the hanging; so 
that the reader is too positively and 
pointedly forced to perceive that this 
delay is to result in the capture of the 
Knoll. As we are never in doubt of the 
fact, we feel diminished interest when 
it actually happens. A single vague 
allusion, well managed, would have been 
in the true artistical spirit. 

Again: we see too plainly from the 
first that Beekman is to marry Beulah, 
and that Robert Willoughby is to marry 
Maud. The killing of Beulah, of Mrs. 
Willoughby, and Jamie Allen, produces, 
too, a painful impression, which does 
not properly appertain to the right 
fiction. Their deaths affect us as re- 
volting and supererogatory; since the 
purposes of the story are not thereby 
furthered in any regard. To Willough- 
by’s murder, however, distressing, the 
reader makes no. similar objection, 
merely because in his decease is fulfilled 
a species of poetical justice. We may 
observe here, nevertheless, that his re- 
peated references to his flogging the 
Indian seem unnatural, because we have 
otherwise no reason to think him a fool 
or a madman, and these references, 
under the circumstances, are absolutely 
insensate. We object, also, to the man- 
ner in which the general interest is 
dragged out or suspended. The besieg- 
ing party are kept before the Knoll so 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


long, while so little is done, and so 
many opportunities of action are lost, 
that the reader takes it for granted 
that nothing of consequence will occur 
—that the beseiged will be finally de- 
livered. He gets so accustomed to the 
presence of danger that its excitement 
at length departs. The action is not 
sufficiently rapid. There is too much 
procrastination. There is too much 
talk for talk’s sake. The interminable 
discussions between Woods and Cap- 
tain Willoughby are, perhaps, the worst 
feature of the book, for they have not 
even the merit of referring to the mat- 
ters on hand. In general, there is quite 
too much colloquy for the purpose of 
manifesting character, and too little 
for the explanation of motive. The 
characters of the drama would have 
been better made out by action; while 
the motives to action, the reasons for 
the different courses of conduct adopted 
by the dramatis persone, might have 
been made to proceed more satisfac- 
torily from their own mouths, in casual 
conversations, than from that of the 
author in person. To conclude our re- 
marks upon the head of ill-conduct in 
the story, we may mention occasional 
incidents of the merest melodramatic 
absurdity; as, for example, at page 156 
of the second volume, where “Wil- 
loughby had an arm round the waist 
of Maud, and bore her forward with a 
rapidity to which her own strength was 
entirely unequal.” We may be _per- 
mitted to doubt whether a young lady, 
of sound health and limbs, exists, 
within the limits of Christendom, who 
could not run faster, on her own proper 
feet, for any considerable distance, than 
she could be carried upon one arm of 





J. FENIMORE COOPER 


either the Cretan Milo or of the 
Hercules Farnese. 

On the other hand, it would be easy 
to designate many particulars which are 
admirably handled. The love of Maud 
Meredith for Robert Willoughby is 
painted with exquisite skill and truth. 
The incident of the trees of hair and 
box is naturally and effectively con- 
ceived. A fine collateral interest is 
thrown over the whole narrative by the 
connection of the theme with that of 
the Revolution; and, especially, there 
is an excellent dramatic point, at page 
124 of the second volume, where Wyan- 
dotte, remembering the stripes inflicted 
upon him by Captain Willoughby, is 
about to betray him to his foes, when 
his purpose is arrested by a casual 
glimpse, through the forest, of the hut 
which contains Mrs. Willoughby, who 
had preserved the life of the Indian, by 
inoculation for the smallpox. 

In the depicting of character, Mr. 
Cooper has been unusually successful 
in Wyandotte. One or two of his 
personages, to be sure, must be regarded 
as little worth. Robert Willoughby, 
like most novel heroes, is a nobody; 
that is to say, there is nothing about 
him which may be looked upon as dis- 
tinctive. Perhaps he is rather silly than 
otherwise; as, for instance, when he 
confuses all his father’s arrangements 
for his concealment, and bursts into 
the room before Strides—afterwards 
insisting upon accompanying that per- 
son to the Indian encampment, without 
any possible or impossible object. 


Woods, the parson, is a sad bore, upon . 


the Dominie Sampson plan, and _ is, 
moreover, caricatured. Of Captain 
Willoughby we have already spoken— 


1125 


he is too often on stilts. Evert Beek- 
man and Beulah are merely episodical. 
Joyce is nothing in the world but Cor- 
poral Trim—or, rather, Corporal Trim 
and water. Jamie Allen, with his prate 
about Catholicism, is insufferable. But 
Mrs. Willoughby, the humbie, shrinking, 
womanly wife, whose whole existence 
centres in her affections, is worthy of 
Mr. Cooper. Maud Meredith is still 
better. In fact, we know no female 
portraiture, even in Scott, which sur- 
passes her; and yet the world has been 
given to understand, by the enemies of 
the novelist, that he is incapable of 
depicting a woman. Joel Strides will 
be recognised by all who are conversant 
with his general prototypes of Connec- 
ticut. Michael O’Hearn, the County 
Leitrim man, is an Irishman all over, 
and his portraiture abounds in humour; 
as, for example, at page 31 of the 
first volume, where he has a difficulty 
with a skiff, not being able to account 
for its revolving upon its own axis, 
instead of moving forward! or, at page 
132, where, during divine service, to ex- 
clude at least a portion of the heretical 
doctrine, he stops one of his ears with 
his thumb; or, at page 195, where a 
passage occurs so much to our purpose 
that we will be pardoned for quoting it in 
full. Captain Willoughby is drawing his 
son up through a window, from his ene- 
mies below. The assistants, placed at a 
distance from this window to avoid ob- 
servation from without, are ignorant 
of what burthen is at the end of the 
rope :— 


The men did as ordered, raising their 
load from the ground a foot or two 
at a time. In this manner the burthen 
approached, yard after yard, until it 


1126 


was evidently drawing near the window. 

“Tt’s the captain hoisting up the big 
baste of a hog, for provisioning the 
hoose again a saige,’ whispered Mike 
to the negroes, who grinned as they 
tugged; “and, when the craitur squails, 
see to it that ye do not squail vour- 
selves.” At that moment the head and 
shoulders of a man appeared at the 
window. Mike let go the rope, seized 
a chair, and was about to knock the 
intruder upon the head; but the captain 
arrested the blow. 

“Tt’s one o’ the vagabone Injins that 
has undermined the hog and come up 
in its stead,” roared Mike. 

“Tt’s my son,” said the captain; 
that you are silent and secret.” 


is 


see 


The negroes are, without exception, 
admirably drawn. The Indian, Wyan- 
dotte, however, is the great feature 
of the book, and is, in every respect, 
equal to the previous Indian creations 
of the author of “The Pioneer.” In- 
deed, we think this “forest gentleman” 
superior to the other noted heroes of 
his kind—the heroes who have been 
immortalised by our novelist. His keen 
sense of the distinction, in his own 
character, between the chief, Wyan- 
dotte, and the drunken vagabond, Sassy 
Nick; his chivalrous delicacy toward 
Maud, in never disclosing to her that 
knowledge of her real feelings toward 
Robert Willoughby, which his own 
Indian intuition had discovered; his 
enduring animosity toward Captain 
Willoughby, softened, and for thirty 
years delayed, through his gratitude to 
the wife; and then, the vengeance con- 
summated, his pity for that wife con- 
flicting with his exultation at the deed 
—these, we s2v. are all traits of a lofty 


‘upon the subject. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


excellence indeed. Perhaps the most 
effective passage in the book, and that 
which most distinctively brings out the 
character of the Tuscarora, is to be 
found at pages 50, 51, 52, and 53, of 
the second volume, where, for some 
trivial misdemeanor, the captain threat- 
ens to make use of the whip. The 
manner in which the Indian harps upon 
the threat, returning to it again and 
again in every variety of phrase, forms 
one of the finest pieces of mere charac- 
ter-painting with which we have any 
acquaintance. 

The most obvious and most unac- 
countable faults of ‘““The Hutted Knoll” 
are those which appertain to the style 
—to the mere grammatical construc- 
tion;—for, in other and more important 
particulars of style, Mr. Cooper, of late 
days, has made a very manifest im- 
provement. His sentences, however, 
are arranged with an awkwardness so 
remarkable as to be a matter of absolute 
astonishment, when we consider the 
education of the author, and his long 
and continual practice with the pen. 
In minute descriptions of localities, any 
verbal inaccuracy or confusion becomes 
a source of vexation and misunder- 
standing, detracting very much from 
the pleasure of perusal; and in these 
inaccuracies ‘‘Wyandotte” abounds. 
Although, for instance, we carefully 
read and re-read that portion of the 
narrative which details the situation of 
the Knoll, and the construction of the 
buildings and walls about it, we were 
forced to proceed with the story with- 
out any exact or definite impressions 
Similar difficulties, 
from similar causes, occur passim 
throughout the book. For example, at 
page 41, vol. i.:—‘““The Indian gazed 





J. FENIMORE COOPER 


at the house, with that fierce intentness 
which sometimes glared, in a manner 
that had got to be, in its ordinary 
aspects, dull and besotted.” This it is 
utterly impossible to comprehend. We 
presume, however, the intention is to 
say that although the Indian’s ordinary 
manner (of gazing) had “got to be” 
dull and besotted, he occasionally gazed 
with an intentness that glared, and that 
he did so in the instance in question. 
The “‘got to be” is atrocious—the whole 
sentence no less so. 

Here at page 9, vol. i., is something 
excessively vague: “Of the latter char- 
acter is the face of most of that region 
which lies in the angle formed by the 
junction of the Mohawk with the Hud- 
son,” etc., etc. The Mohawk, joining 
the Hudson, forms two angles, of 
course—an acute and an obtuse one; 
and, without further explanation, it is 
difficult to say which is intended. 

At page 55, vol. i., we read: ‘The 
captain, owing to his English education, 
had avoided straight lines, and formal 
paths; giving to the little spot the im- 
provement on nature which is a conse- 
quence of embellishing her works with- 
out destroying them. On each side of 


this lawn was an orchard, thrifty and 


young, and which were already begin- 
ning to show signs of putting forth their 
blossoms.” Here we are tautologically 
informed that improvement is a conse- 
quence of embellishment, and super- 
erogatorily told that the rule holds good 
only where the embellishment is not 
accompanied by destruction. Upon the 
“each orchard were” it is needless to 
comment. 

At page 30, vol. i., is something simi- 
lar, where Strides. is represented as 
“never doing anything that required a 


1127 


particle more than the exertion and 
strength that were absolutely necessary 
to effect his object.” Did Mr. C. ever 
hear of any labour that required more 
exertion than was necessary? He 
means to say that Strides exerted him- 
self no further than was necessary— 
that’s all. 

At page 59, vol. i., we find this sen- 
tence: ‘He was advancing by the only 
road that was ever travelled by the 
stranger as he approached the Hut; or, 
he came up the val'ey.” This is merely 
a vagueness of speech. “Or” is in- 
tended to imply “that is to say.” The 
whole would be clearer thus—‘“He was 
advancing by the valley—the only road 
travelled by a stranger approaching the 
Hut.” We have here sixteen words, 
instead of Mr. Cooper’s twenty-five. 

At page 8, vol. ii., is an unpardonable 
awkwardness, although an awkwardness 
strictly grammatical. “TI was a favour- 
ite, I believe, with, certainly was much 
petted by, both.” Upon this we need 
make no further observation. It speaks 
for itself. 

We are aware, however, that there is 
a certain air of unfairness, in thus 
quoting detached passages, for animad- 
version of this kind; for however 
strictly at random our quotations may 
really be, we have, of course, no means 
of proving the fact to our readers; and 
there are mo authors, from whose works 
individual inaccurate sentences may not 
be culled. But we mean to say that 
Mr. Cooper, no doubt through haste 
or neglect, is remarkably and especially 
inaccurate, as a general rule; and, by 
way of demonstrating this assertion, we 
will dismiss our extracts at random, and 
discuss some entire page of his com- 
position. More than this: we will en- 


1128 


deavour to select that particular page 
upon which it might naturally be sup- 
posed he would bestow the most careful 
attention. The reader will say at once: 
“Let this be his first page—the first 
page of his Preface.” This page, then, 
shall be taken of course:— 


“The history of the borders is filled 
with legends of the sufferings of isolated 
families, during the troubled scenes of 
colonial warfare. Those which we now 
offer to the reader, are distinctive in 
many of their leading facts, if not rig- 
idly true in the details. The first alone 
is necessary to the legitimate objects 
of fiction. 


“Abounds with legends’ would be 
better than ‘‘is filled with legends”; for 
it is clear that if the history were filled 
with legends, it would be all legend 
and no history. The word “of,” too, 
occurs in the first sentence, with an 
unpleasant frequency. The “those” 
commencing the second sentence gram- 
matically refers to the noun “scenes,” 
immediately preceding, but is intended 
for “legends.” The adjective “distinc- 
tive’ is vaguely and altogether im- 
properly employed. Mr. C., we believe, 
means to say, merely, that although the 
details of his legends may not be strictly 
true, facts similar to his leading ones 
have actually occurred. By use of the 
word “distinctive,’ however, he has 
contrived to convey a meaning nearly 
converse. In saying that his legend 
is “distinctive” in many of the leading 
facts, he has said what he clearly did 
not wish to say—viz., that his legend 
contained facts which distinguished it 
from all other legends—in other words, 
facts never before discussed in other 
legends, and belonging peculiarly to his 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


own. That Mr. C. did mean what we 
suppose, is rendered evident by the 
third sentence—‘‘The first alone is 
necessary to the legitimate objects of 
fiction.” This third sentence itself, 
however, is very badly constructed. 
“The first” can refer, grammatically, 
only to “facts”; but no such reference 
is intended. If we ask the question— 
what is meant by “the first?” what 
“alone is necessary to the legitimate 
objects of fiction?”—the natural reply 
is “that facts similar to the leading 
ones have actually happened.” The 
circumstance is alone to be cared for— 
this consideration “alone is necessary 
to the legitimate objects of fiction.” 
“One of the misfortunes of a nation 
is to hear nothing besides its own 
praises.” This is the fourth sentence, 
and is by no means lucid. The design 
is to say that individuals composing a 
nation, and living altogether within the 
national bounds, hear from each other 
only praises of the nation, and that 
this is a misfortune to the individuals, 
since it misleads them in regard to-the 
actual condition of the nation. Here 
it will be seen that, to convey the 
intended idea, we have been forced to 
make distinction between the nation 
and its individual members; for it is 
evident that a nation is considered as 
such only in reference to other nations; 
and thus, as a nation, it hears very 
much “besides it own praises’; that is 
to say, it hears the detractions of other 
rival nations. In endeavouring to com- 
pel his meaning within the compass of 
a brief sentence, Mr. Cooper has com- 
pletely sacrificed its intelligibility. 
The fifth sentence runs thus:—“Al- 
though the American Revolution was 
probably as just an effort as was ever 





_ properly called an “effort.” 
_ was the cause, of which the Revolution 


“inroad of oppression” 


human struggles.” 
_ fluous. 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


made by a people to resist the first 
inroads of oppression, the cause had 
its evil aspects, as well as all other 
human struggles.” 

The American Revolution is here im- 
The effort 


was the result. A rebellion in an 
“effort” to effect a revolution. An 
involves an 
untrue metaphor; for “inroad’” apper- 
tains to aggression, to attack, to active 
assault. ‘The cause had its evil aspects 
as well as all other human struggles” 
implies that the cause had not only its 
evil aspects, but had also all other 
human struggles. If the words must 


be retained at all, they should be thus 


arranged—‘“The cause, like [or as well 


as] all other human struggles, had its 
evil aspects”; 


or better thus—‘‘The 
cause had its evil aspect, as have all 
“Other” is super- 


The sixth sentence is thus written:— 


_ “We have been so much accustomed to 


1129 


hear everything extolled of late years 
that could be dragged into the remotest 
connection with that great event, and 
the principles which led to it, that 
there is danger of overlooking truth in 
a pseudo-patriotism.” The “of late 
years,” here, should follow the ‘“accus- 
tomed” or precede the ‘“‘We have been”’; 
and the Greek “pseudo” is objection- 
able, since its exact equivalent is to 
be found in the English “false.” ‘Spu- 
rious” would be better, perhaps, than 
either. 

Inadvertences such as these sadly 
disfigure the style of “The Hutted 
Knoll’; and every true friend of its 
author must regret his inattention to 
the minor morals of the Muse. But 
these “minor morals,’ it may be said, 
are trifles at best. Perhaps so. At 
all events, we should never have 
thought of dwelling so pertinaciously 
upon the unessential demerits of “Wy- 
andotte,” could we have discovered any 
more momentous upon which to com- 
ment. 


Lhe Literati of New York 


(Published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, May, 1846.——Ed.) 


IN a criticism of Bryant, I was at 
some pains in pointing out the distinc- 
tion between the popular ‘‘opinion” of 
the merits of ‘contemporary authors, 
and that held and expressed of them 
in private literary society. The former 
species of “opinion” can be called 
“opinion” only. by courtesy. It is the 
public’s own, just as we consider a 
book our own when we have bought it. 
In general, this opinion is adopted from 
the journals of the day, and I have 
endeavoured to show that the cases are 


rare indeed in which these journals 
express any other sentiment about 
books than such as may be attributed 
directly or indirectly to the authors of 
the books. The most “popular,” the 
most “successful” writers among us 
(for a brief period, at least), are, 
ninety-nine times out of a hundred, 
persons of mere address, perseverance, 
effrontery—in a word, busy-bodies, 
toadies, quacks. These people easily 
succeed in boring editors (whose atten- 
tion is too often entirely engrossed by 


1130 


politics or other “business” matter) 
into the admission of favourable no- 
tices, written or caused to be written 
by interested parties—or, at least, into 
the admission of some notice where, 
under ordinary circumstances, vo notice 
would be given at all. In this way 
ephemeral “reputations” are manufac- 
tured, which, for the most part, serve 
all the purposes designed—that is to 
say, the putting money into the purse 
of the quack and the quack’s publisher; 
for there never was a quack who could 
be brought to comprehend the value of 
mere fame. Now, men of genius will 
not resort to these manceuvres, because 
genius involves in its very essence a 
scorn of chicanery; and thus for a 
time the quacks always get the advan- 
tage of them, both in respect to pecuni- 
ary profit and what appears to be public 
esteem. 

There is another point of view, too. 
Your literary quacks court, in especial, 
the personal acquaintance of those 
“connected with the press.”’ Now these 
latter, even when penning a voluntary, 
that is to say, an uninstigated notice 
of the book of an acquaintance, feel 
as if writing not so much for the eye 
of the public as for the eye of the 
acquaintance, and the notice is fash- 
ioned accordingly. The bad points of 
the work are slurred over, and the good 
ones brought out in the best light, all 
this through a feeling akin to that 
which makes it unpleasant to speak ill 
of one to one’s face. In the case of 
men of genius, editors, as a general 
rule, have no such delicacy—for the 
simple reason that, as a general rule, 
they have no acquaintance with these 
men of genius, a class proverbial for 
shunning society. 


~WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


But the very editors who hesitate at 
saying in print an ill word of an author 
personally known, are usually the most 
frank in speaking about him privately. 
In literary society, they seem bent upon 
avenging the wrongs self-inflicted upon 
their own consciences. Here, accord- 
ingly, the quack is treated as he de- 
serves—by way of striking a balance. 
True merit, on the same principle, is 
apt to be slight overrated; but, upon 
the whole, there is a close approxima- 
tion to absolute honesty of opinion; 
and this honesty is further secured by 
the mere trouble to which it puts one 
in conversation to model one’s coun- 
tenance to a falsehood. We place on 
paper without hesitation a tissue of 
flatteries, to which in society we could 
not give utterance for our lives, with- 
out either blushing or laughing outright. 

For these reasons there exists a very 
remarkable discrepancy between the 
apparent public opinion of any given 


- author’s merits, and the opinion which 


is expressed of him orally by those 
who are best qualified to judge. For 
example, Mr. Hawthorne, the author of 
“Twice-Told Tales,” is scarcely recog- 
nised by the press or by the public, 
and when noticed at all, is noticed 
merely to be damned by faint praise. 
Now, my own opinion of him is that, 
although his walk is limited, and he is 
fairly to be charged with mannerism, 
treating all subjects in a similar tone 
of dreamy innuendo, yet in this walk 
he evinces extraordinary genius, having 
no rival either in America or else- 
where—and this opinion I have never 
heard gainsaid by any one literary per- 
son in the country. That this opinion, 
however, is a spoken and not a written 
one, is referable to the facts, first, that 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


} Mr. Hawthorne is a poor man, and, 


second, that he zs mot a ubiquitous 
— quack. 
Again, of Mr. Longfellow, who al- 
though a little quacky per se, has, 
through his social and literary position 
as a man of property and a professor 
at Harvard, a whole legion of active 
quacks at his control—of him what is 
the apparent popular opinion? Of 
course, that he is a poetical phenome- 
non, as entirely without fault as is the 
luxurious paper upon which his poems 
are invariably borne to the public eye. 
In private society he is regarded with 
one voice as a poet of far more than 
usual ability, a skilful artist, and a 
well-read man, but as less remarkable 
in either capacity than as a determined 
imitator and a dexterous adapter of 
the ideas of other people. For years 
I have conversed with no literary per- 
son who did not entertain precisely 
these ideas of Professor L.; and, in 
fact, on all literary topics there is in 
society a seemingly wonderful coinci- 
dence of opinion. The author accus- 
tomed to seclusion, and mingling for 
the first time with those who have been 
associated with him only through their 
works, is astonished and delighted at 
finding common to all whom he meets 
conclusions which he had blindly fan- 
-cied were attained by himself alone, 
and in opposition to the judgment of 
mankind. 

In the series of papers which I now 
propose, my design is, in giving my 
own unbiased opinion of the Jiterati 
(male and female) of New York, to 
give at the same time very closely, if 
not with absolute accuracy, that of 
conversational society in literary circles. 


{ft must be expected, of course, that, 


PIi3st 


in innumerable particulars, I shall dif- 
fer from the voice, that is to say, from 
what appears to be the voice of the 
public—but this is a matter of no 
consequence whatever. 

New York literature may be taken 
as a fair representation of that of the 
country at large. The city itself is 
the focus of American letters. Its 
authors include, perhaps, one-fourth of 
all in America, and the influence they 
exert on their brethren, if seemingly 
silent, is not the less extensive and 
decisive. As I shall have to speak of 
many individuals, my limits will not 
permit me to speak of them otherwise 
than in brief; but this brevity will be 
entirely consistent with the design, 
which is that of simple opinion, with 
little of either argument or detail. 
With one or two exceptions, I am well 
acquainted with every author to be 
introduced, and I shall avail myself of 
the acquaintance to convey, generally, 
some idea of the personal appearance 
of all who, in this regard, would be 
likely to interest my readers. As any 
precise order or arrangement seems 
unnecessary and may be inconvenient, 
I shall maintain none. It will be under- 
stood that, without reference to sup- 
posed merit or demerit, each individual 
is introduced absolutely at random. 


GEORGE BUSH 


Tue Rev. Georce Busu is Professor 
of Hebrew in the University of New 
York, and has long been distinguished 
for the extent and variety of his attain- 
ments in Oriental literature; indeed, as 
an Oriental linguist, it is probable that 
he has no equal among us. He has 
published a great deal, and his books 


1132 


have always the good fortune to attract 
attention throughout the civilised 
world. His “Treatise on the Millen- 
nium” is, perhaps, that of his earlier 
compositions by which he is most ex- 
tensively as well as most favourably 
known. Of late days he has created a 
singular commotion in the realm of 
theology by his ‘“‘Anastasis, or the Doc- 
trine of the Resurrection: in which it 
is shown that the Doctrine of the Res- 
urrection of the Body is not sanctioned 
by Reason or Revelation.” This work 
has been zealously attacked, and as 
zealously defended by the _ professor 
and his friends. There can be no doubt 
that up to this period, the Bushites 
have had the best of the battle. The 
“Anastasis’” is lucidly, succinctly, vig- 
orously, and logically written, and 
proves, in my opinion, everything that 
it attempts—provided we admit the 
imaginary axioms from which it starts; 
and this is as much as can be well said 
of any theological disquisition under 
the sun. It might be hinted, too, in 
reference as well to Professor Bush as 
to his opponents, “que la plupart des 
sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie 
de ce quelles avancent, mais non pas 
en ce qwelles nient.” A subsequent 
work on “The Soul,” by the author of 
*“Anastasis,’ has made nearly as much 
noise as the ‘“‘Anastasis’” itself. 

Taylor, who wrote so ingeniously 
“The Natural History of Enthusiasm,” 
might have derived many a valuable 
hint from the study of Professor Bush. 
No man is more ardent in his theories; 
and these latter are neither few nor 
commonplace. He is a Mesmerist and 
a Swedenborgian—has lately been en- 
gaged in editing Swedenborg’s works, 
publishing them in numbers. He con- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


verses with fervour, and often with 
eloquence. Very probably he will 
establish an independent Church. 

He is one of the most amiable men in 
the world, universally respected and be- 
loved. His frank, unpretending sim- 
plicity of demeanour is_ especially 
winning. 

In person he is tall, nearly six feet, 
and spare, with large bones. His coun- 
tenance expresses rather benevolence 
and profound earnestness, than high 
intelligence. The eyes are piercing; 
the other features, in general, massive. 
The forehead, phrenologically, indicates 
causality and comparison, with deficient 
ideality—the organisation which induces 
strict logicality from insufficient prem- 


ises. He walks with a slouching gait 
and with an air of abstraction. His 
dress is exceedingly plain. In respect 


to the arrangements about his study, he 
has many of the Magliabeccian habits, 
He is, perhaps, fifty-five years of age, 
and seems to enjoy good health. 


NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 


WHATEVER may be thought of Mr. 
Willis’ talents, there can be no doubt 
about the fact that, both as an author 
and as a man, he has made a good deal 
of noise in the world—at least for an 
American. His literary life, in espe- 
cial, has been one continual emeute; 
but then his literary character is modi- 
fied or impelled in a very remarkable 
degree by this personal one. His suc- 
cess (for in point of fame, if of nothing 
else, he has certainly been successful) 
is to be attributed, one-third to his 
mental ability and two-thirds to his 
physical temperament—the latter goad- 


ing him into the accomplishment of 








THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


what the former merely gave him the 
means of accomplishing. 

At a very early age Mr. Willis seems 
to have arrived at an understanding 
that, in a republic such as ours, the 
mere man of letters must ever be a 
cipher, and endeavoured, accordingly, 
to unite the eclat of the litterateur with 
that of the man of fashion or of so- 
ciety. He “pushed himself,” went 
much into the world, made friends with 
the gentler sex, “delivered” poetical 
addresses, wrote “scriptural” poems, 
travelled, sought the intimacy of noted 
women, and got into quarrels with 
notorious men. All these things served 
his purpose—if, indeed, I am right in 
supposing that he had any purpose at 
all. It is quite probable that, as before 
hinted, he acted only in accordance 
with his physical temperament; but, be 
this as it may, his personal greatly 
advanced, if it did not altogether estab- 
lish, his literary fame. I have often 
carefully considered whether, without 
the physique of which I speak, there 
is that in the absolute morale of Mr. 
Willis which would have earned him 
reputation as a man of letters, and my 
conclusion is, that he could not have 
failed to become noted in some degree 
under almost any circumstances, but 
that about two-thirds (as above stated) 
of his appreciation by the public should 
be attributed to those adventures which 
grew immediately out of his animal 
constitution. 

He received what is usually regarded 
as a “good education”—that is to say, 
he graduated at college; but his edu- 
cation, in the path he pursued, was 
worth to him, on account of his extraor- 
dinary savoir faire, fully twice as much 
as would have been its value in any 


1133 


common case. No man’s knowledge is 
more available, no man has exhibited 
greater tact in the seemingly casual 
display of his wares. With him, at 
least, a little learning is zo dangerous 
thing. He possessed at one time, I 
believe, the average quantum of Ameri- 
can collegiate lore—‘‘a little Latin and 
less Greek,’ a smattering of physical 
and metaphysical science, and (I 
should judge) a very little of the 
mathematics—but all this must be con- 
sidered as mere guess on my part. Mr. 
Willis speaks French with some fluency, 
and Italian not quite so well. 

Within the ordinary range of belley 
lettres authorship he has evinced much 
versatility. If called on to designate 
him by any general literary title, I 
might term him a magazinist—for his 
compositions have invariably the species 
of effect, with the brevity which the 
magazine demands. We may view him 
as a paragraphist, an essayist, or rather 
“sketcher,”’ a tale-writer, and a poet. 

In the first capacity he fails. His 
points, however good when deliberately 
wrought, are too recherches to be put 
hurriedly before the public eye. Mr. 
W. has by no means the readiness 
which the editing a newspaper demands. 
He composes (as did Addison, and as 
do many of the most brilliant and seem- 
ingly dashing writers of the present 
day) with great labour and frequent 
erasure and interlineation. His MSS., 
in this regard, present a very singular 
appearance, and indicate the vacillation 
which is, perhaps, the leading trait of 
his character. A newspaper, too, in 
its longer articles—its ‘“leaders”—very 
frequently demands argumentation, and 
here Mr. W. is remarkably out of his 
element. His exuberant fancy leads 


1134 


him over hedge and ditch—anywhere 
from the main-road; and, besides, he 
is far too readily self-dispossessed. 
With time at his command, however, 
his great tact stands him instead of all 
argumentative power, and enables him 
to overthrow an antagonist without per- 
mitting the latter to see how he is 
overthrown. A fine example of this 
“management” is to be found in Mr. 
W.’s reply to a very inconsiderate 
attack upon his social standing, made 
by one of the editors of the New York 
Courier and Inquirer. I have always 
regarded this reply as the highest evi- 
dence of its author’s ability, as a mas- 
terpiece of ingenuity if not of absolute 
genius. The skill of the whole lay in 
this—that without troubling himself to 
refute the charges themselves brought 
against him by Mr. Raymond, he put 
forth his strength in rendering them 
null, to all intents and purposes, by 
obliterating, incidentally and without 
letting his design be perceived, all the 
impression these charges were calcu- 
lated to convey. But this reply can 
be called a newspaper article only on 
the ground of its having appeared in 
a newspaper. 

As a writer of “sketches,” properly 
so called, Mr. Willis is unequalled. 
Sketches—especially of society—are his 
forte, and they are so for no other 
reason than that they afford him the 
best opportunity of introducing the 
personal Willis—or, more distinctly, 
because this species of composition is 
most susceptible of impression from 
his personal character. The degage 
tone of this kind of writing, too, best 
admits and encourages that fancy which 
Mr. ‘W. possesses in the most extraor- 
dinary degree; it is in fancy that he 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


reigns supreme: this, more than any 
one other quality, and, indeed, more 
than all his other literary qualities com- 
bined, has made him what he is. It is 
this which gives him the originality, 
the freshness, the point, the piquancy, 
which appear to be the immediate, but 
which are, in fact, the mediate sources 
of his popularity. 


FANCY 


As, by metaphysicians and in ordi- 
nary discourse, the word fancy is used 
with very little determinateness of 
meaning, I may be pardoned for repeat- 
ing here what I have elsewhere said 
on this topic.* 

I shall thus be saved much misappre- 
hension in regard to the term—one 
which will necessarily be often em- 
ployed in the course of this series. 

Imagination, fancy, fantasy, and hu- 
mour, have in common the elements 
combination and novelty. The imagina- 
tion is the artist of the four. From 
novel arrangements of old forms which 
present themselves to it, it selects such 
only as are harmonious; the result, of 
course, is beauty itself—using the word 
in its most extended sense and as inclu- 
sive of the sublime. The pure imagina- 
tion chooses, from either beauty or 
deformity, only the most combinable 
things hitherto uncombined; the com- 
pound, as a general rule, partaking in 
character of sublimity or beauty in the 
ration of the respective sublimity or 
beauty of the things combined, which 
are themselves still to be considered as 
atomic—that is to say, as previous 


* See Contents, Criticism, Thomas 
Moore.—Ed. 

















THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


combinations. But, as often analo- 
_ gously happens in physical chemistry, 
so not unfrequently does it occur in 
this chemistry of the intellect, that the 
admixture of two elements will result 
in a something that shall have nothing 
of the quality of one of them—or even 
nothing of the qualities of either. The 
_ range of imagination is thus unlimited. 
Its materials extend throughout the 
universe. Even out of deformities it 
fabricates that beauty which is at once 
its sole object and its inevitable test. 
But, in general, the richness of the 
matters combined, the facility of dis- 
covering combinable novelties worth 
combining, and the absolute “chemical 
combination’ of the completed mass, 
are the particulars to be regarded in 
our estimate of imagination. It is this 
thorough harmony of an imaginative 
work which so often causes it to be 
undervalued by the undiscriminating, 
through the character of obviousness 
which is superinduced. We are apt to 
find ourselves asking why it is that 
these combinations have never been 
imagined before. 

Now, when this question does not 
occur, when the harmony of the com- 
bination is comparatively neglected, 
and when, in addition to the element 
of novelty, there is introduced the sub- 
element of wnexpectedness—when, for 
example, matters are brought into com- 
bination which not only have never 
been combined, but whose combination 
strikes us as a difficulty happily over- 
come, the result then appertains to the 
fancy, and is, to the majority of man- 
kind, more grateful than the purely 
harmonious one—although, absolutely, 
it is less beautiful (or grand) for the 
reason that it is less harmonious. 


1135 


Carrying its errors into excess—for, 
however enticing, they are errors still, 
or nature lies—fancy is at length found 
infringing upon the province of fantasy. 
The votaries of this latter delight not 
only in novelty and unexpectedness of 
combination, but in the avoidance of 
proportion. The result is therefore 
abnormal, and, to a healthy mind, . 
affords less of pleasure through its 
novelty than of pain through its inco- 
herence. When, proceeding a step far- 
ther, however, fancy seeks not merely 
disproportionate but incongruous or 
antagonistic elements, the effect is 
rendered more pleasurable by its greater 
positiveness, there is a merry effort of 
truth to shake from her that which is 
no property of hers, and we laugh out- 
right in recognising humour. 

The four faculties in question seem 
to me all of their class; but when either 
fancy or humour is expressed to gain 
an end, is pointed at a purpose—when- 
ever either becomes objective in place 
of subjective, then it becomes also pure 
wit or sarcasm, just as the purpose is 
benevolent or malevolent. 


In tales (written with deliberation 
for the magazines) he has shown greater 
constructiveness than JI should have 
given him credit for had I not read 
his compositions of this order—for in 
this faculty all his other works indicate 
a singular deficiency. The chief charm 
even of these tales, however, is still 
referable to fancy. 

As a poet, Mr. Willis is not entitled, 
I think, to so high a rank as he may 
justly claim through his prose; and 
this for the reason that, although fancy 
is not inconsistent with any of the 
demands of those classes of prose com- 


1136 


position which he has attempted, and, 
indeed, is a vital element of most of 
them, still it is at war (as will be under- 
stood from what I have said in the 
footnote) with that purity and perfec- 
tion of beauty which are the soul of 
the poem proper. I wish to be under- 
stood as saying this generally of our 
author’s poems. In some _ instances, 
seeming to feel the truth of my propo- 
sition (that fancy should have no place 
in the loftier poesy), he has denied it 
a place, as in “Melanie,” and his Scrip- 
tural pieces; but, unfortunately, he has 
been unable to supply the void with 
the true imagination, and these poems 
consequently are deficient in vigour, in 
stamen. ‘The Scriptural pieces are quite 
“correct,” as the French have it, and 
are much admired by a certain set of 
readers, who judge of a poem, not by 
its effect on themselves, but by the 
effect which they imagine it might have 
upon themselves were they not unhap- 
pily soulless, and by the effect which 
they take it for granted it does have 
upon others. It cannot be denied, how- 
ever, that these pieces are, in general, 
tame, or indebted for what force they 
possess to the Scriptural passages of 
which they are merely paraphrastic. I 
quote what, in my opinion, and in that 
of nearly all my friends, is really the 
truest poem ever written by Mr. 
Willis.* 

In classifying Mr. W.’s writings I did 
not think it worth while to speak of 
him as a dramatist, because, although 
he has written plays, what they have 
of merit is altogether in their character 
of poem. Of his “Bianca Visconti” I 
have little to say;—it deserved to fail, 


* See Contents essay, “The Poetic 
Principle.” —-Ed. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and did, although it abounded in elo- 
quent passages. ‘“Tortesa” abounded 
in the same, but had a great many 
dramatic points well calculated to tell 
with a conventional audience. Its char- 
acters, with the exception of Tomaso, 
a drunken buffoon, had no character 
at all, and the plot was a tissue of 
absurdities, inconsequences, and incon- 
sistencies; yet I cannot help thinking 
it, upon the whole, the best play ever 
written by an American. 

Mr. Willis has made very few at- 
tempts at criticism, and those few 
(chiefly newspaper articles) have not 
impressed me with a high idea of his 
analytic abilities, although with a very 
high idea of his taste and discrimination. 

His style proper may be called ex- 
travagant, bizarre, pointed, epigram- 
matic without being antithetical (this 
is very rarely the case), but, through 
all its whimsicalities, graceful, classic, 
and accurate. He is very seldom to be 
caught tripping in the minor morals. 
His English is correct; his most out~- 


rageous imagery is, at all events, 
unmixed. 
Mr. Willis’s career has naturally 


made him enemies among the envious 
host of dunces whom he has outstripped 
in the race for fame; and these his 
personal manner (a little tinctured with 
reserve, brusquerie, or even haughti- 
ness) is by no means adapted to con- 
ciliate. He has innumerable warm 
friends, however, and is himself a warm 
friend. He is impulsive, generous, bold, 
impetuous, vacillating, irregularly ener- 
getic—apt to be hurried into error, but 
incapable of deliberate wrong. 

He is yet young, and, without being 
handsome, in the ordinary sense, is a 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


remarkably well-looking man. In 
height he is, perhaps, five feet eleven, 
and justly proportioned. His figure is 
put in the best light by the ease and 
assured grace of his carriage. His 
whole person and personal demeanour 
bear about them the traces of ‘‘good 
society.” His face is somewhat too 
full, or rather heavy, in its lower pro- 
portions. Neither his nose nor his 
forehead can be defended; the latter 
would puzzle phrenology. His eyes are 
a dull bluish grey, and small. His hair 


is of a rich brown, curling naturally, 


and luxuriantly. His mouth is well 
cut; the teeth fine; the expression of 
the smile intellectual and winning. He 
converses little, well rather than flu- 
ently, and in a subdued tone. The por- 
_ trait of him published about three years 
ago in Graham’s Magazine, conveys by 
no means so true an idea of the man 
as does the sketch (by Lawrence) 
inserted as frontispiece to a late collec- 
tion of his poems. 


JOHN W. FRANCIS 


_ Doctor Francis, although by no 
means a lUitterateur, cannot well - be 
_ omitted in an account of the New York 
_ literati. In his capacity of physician 
' and medical lecturer he is far too well 
_ known to need comment. He was the 
_ pupil, friend, and partner of Hossack— 
_ the pupil of Abernethy—connected in 
| some manner with everything that has 

been well said or done medicinally in 
_ America. As a medical essayist he has 
_ always commanded the highest respect 
and attention. Among the points he 
has made at. various times, I may men- 
tion his ‘Anatomy and Drunkenness,” 
his views of the Asiatic Cholera, his 


1137 


analysis of the Avon waters of the 
state, his establishment of the com- 
parative immunity of the constitution 
from a second attack of yellow fever, 
and his pathological propositions on the 
changes wrought in the system by 
specific poisons through their assimila- 
tion—propositions remarkably sustained 
and enforced by recent discoveries of 
Liebig. 

In unprofessional letters Doctor 
Francis has also accomplished much, 
although necessarily in a_ discursive 
manner. His biography of Chancellor 
Livingston, his Horticultural Discourse, 
his Discourse at the opening of the 
new hall of the New York Lyceum of 
Natural History, are (each in its way) 
models of fine writing, just sufficiently 
toned down by an indomitable common 
sense. I had nearly forgotten to men- 
tion his admirable sketch of the per- 
sonal associations of Bishop Berkley, 
of Newport. 

Doctor Francis is one of the old 
spirits of the New York Historical So- 
ciety. His philanthropy, his active, 
untiring beneficence, will for ever ren- 
der his name a household word among 
the truly Christian of heart. His pro- 
fessional services and his purse are 
always at the command of the needy; 
few of our wealthiest men have ever 
contributed to the relief of distress so 
bountifully—none certainly with greater 
readiness or with warmer sympathy. 

His person and manner are richly 
peculiar. He is short and stout, proba- 
bly five feet eight in height; limbs of 
great muscularity and strength; the 
whole frame indicating prodigious vital- 
ity and energy—the latter is, in fact, 
the leading trait in his character. His 
head is large, massive—the features in 


1138 


keeping; complexion dark florid; eyes 
piercingly bright; mouth exceedingly 
mobile and expressive; hair grey, and 
worn in matted locks about the neck 
and shoulders—eyebrows to correspond, 
jagged and ponderous. His age is about 
fifty-eight. His general appearance is 
such as to arrest attention. 

His address is the most genial that 
can be conceived, its bonhomie irre- 
sistible. He speaks in a loud, clear, 
hearty tone, dogmatically, with his head 
thrown back and his chest out; never 
waits for an introduction to anybody; 
slaps a perfect stranger on the back 
and calls him “Doctor” or ‘Learned 
Theban”; pats every lady on the head, 
and (if she be pretty and petite) desig- 
nates her by some such title as “My 
Pocket Edition of the Lives of the 
Saints.” His conversation proper is a 


sort of Roman punch, made up of ' 


tragedy, comedy, and the broadest of 
all possible farce. He has a natural, 
felicitous flow of talk, always over- 
swelling its boundaries, and sweeping 
everything before it right and left. He 
is very earnest, intense, emphatic; 
thumps the table with his fist; shocks 
the nerves of the ladies. His forte, 
after all, is humour, the richest con- 
ceivable—a compound of Swift, Rabe- 
lais, and the clown in the pantomime. 
He is married. 


ANNA CORA MOWATT 


Mrs. Mowartvr is in some respects a 
remarkable woman, and has undoubt- 
edly wrought a deeper impression upon 
the public than any one of her sex in 
America. | 

She became first known through her 
recitations. To these she drew large 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


and discriminating audiences in Boston, 
New York, and elsewhere to the north 
and east. Her subjects were much in 
the usual way of these exhibitions, 
including comic as well as_ serious 
pieces, chiefly in verse. In her selec- 
tions she evinced no very refined taste, 
but was probably influenced by the 
elocutionary rather than by the literary 
value of her programmes. She read 
well; her voice was melodious; her 
youth and general appearance excited 
interest, but, upon the whole, she pro- 
duced no great effect, and the enter- 


prise may be termed unsuccessful, 


although the press, as is its wont, spoke 
in the most sonorous tone of her 
success. 

It was during these recitations that 
her name, prefixed to occasional tales, 
sketches, and brief poems in the maga- 
zines, first attracted an attention that, 
but for the recitations, it might not 
have attracted. 

Her sketches and tales may be said 
to be cleverly written. They are lively, 
easy, conventional, scintillating with a 
species of sarcastic wit, which might 
be termed good were it in any respect 
original. In point of style—that is to 
say, of mere English, they are very 
respectable. One of the best of her 
prose papers is entitled ““Ennui and its 
Antidote,” published in The Columbian 
Magazine for June, 1845. The subject, 
however, is an exceedingly hackneyed 
one. 

In looking carefully over her poems, 
I find no one entitled to commendation 
as a whole; in very few of them do I 
observe even noticeable passages, and - 
I confess that I am surprised and dis- 
appointed at this result of my inquiry; 
nor can I make up my mind that there 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


is not much latent poetical power in 
Mrs. Mowatt. From some lines ad- 
dressed to Isabel M , 1 copy the 
opening stanza as the most favourable 
specimen which I have seen of her 
verse :— 





For ever vanished from thy cheek 

Is life’s unfolding rose— 

For ever quenched the flashing smile 
That conscious beauty knows! 

Thine orbs are lustrous with a light 
Which ne’er illumes the eye 

Till heaven is bursting on the sight 
And earth is fleeting by. 


In this there is much force, and the 
idea in the concluding quatrian is so well 
put as to have the air of originality. 
Indeed, I am not sure that the thought 
of the last two lines is not original;— 
at all events it is exceedingly natural 
and impressive. I say “natural,” be- 
cause, in any imagined ascent from the 
orb we inhabit, when heaven should 
“burst on the sight”—in other words, 
when the attraction of the planet should 
be superseded by that of another 
sphere, then instantly would the “earth” 
have the appearance of ‘fleeting by.” 
The versification, also, is much better 
_ here than is usual with the poetess. In 
| general she is rough, through excess of 
_ harsh consonants. The whole poem is 
of higher merit than any which I can 
_ find with her name attached; but there 
is little of the spirit of poesy in any- 
| thing she writes. She evinces more feel- 
_ ing than ideality. 
| Her first decided success was with 
her comedy, “Fashion,” although much 
of this success itself is referable to the 
_ interest felt in her as a beautiful woman 
and an authoress. 


1139 


The play is not without merit. It 
may be commended especially for its 
simplicity of plot. What the Spanish 
playwrights mean by dramas of intrigue 
are the worst acting dramas in the 
world; the intellect of an audience can 
never safely be fatigued by complexity. 
The necessity for verbose explanation, 


-however, on the part of Trueman, at 


the close of the play, is in this regard a 
serious defect. A denouement should in 
all cases be taken up with action—with 
nothing else. Whatever cannot be ex- 
plained by such action should be com- 
municated at the opening of the story. 

In the plot, however estimable for 
simplicity, there is of course not a par- 
ticle of originality of invention. Had 
it, indeed, been designed as a burlesque 
upon the arrant conventionality of stage 
incidents in general, it might have been 
received as a palpable hit. There is not 
an event, a character, a jest, which is 
not a well-understood thing, a matter 
of course, a stage-property time out of 
mind. The general tone is adopted from 
“The School for Scandal,” to which, in- 
deed, the whole composition bears just 
such an affinity as the shell of a locust 
to the locust that tenants it—as the 
spectrum of a Congreve rocket to the 
Congreve rocket itself. In the man- 
agement of her imitation, nevertheless, 
Mrs. Mowatt has, I think, evinced a 
sense of theatrical effect or point whick 
may lead her, at no very distant day, 
to compose an exceedingly taking, al- 
though it can never much aid her in 
composing a very meritorious, drama. 
“Fashion,” in a word, owes what it had 
of success to its being the work of a 
lovely woman who had already excited 
interest, and to the very commonplace- 
hess or spirit of conventionality which 


1140 


rendered it readily comprehensible and 
appreciable by the public proper. It 
was much indebted, too, to the carpets, 
the ottomans, the chandeliers, and the 
conservatories, which gained so decided 
a popularity for that despicable mass of 
inanity, the “London Assurance” of 
Boucicault. 


Since “Fashion,” Mrs. Mowatt has 


published one or two brief novels in 
pamphlet form, but they have no par- 
ticular merit, although they afford 
glimpses (I cannot help thinking) of a 
genius as yet unrevealed, except in her 
capacity of actress. 

In this capacity, if she be but true 
to herself, she will assuredly win a very 
enviable distinction. She has done well, 
wonderfully well, both in tragedy and 
comedy; but if she knew her own 
strength, she would confine herself 
nearly altogether to the depicting (in 
letters not less than‘on the stage) the 
more gentle sentiments and the most 
profound passions. Her sympathy with 
the latter is evidently intense. In the 
utterance of the truly generous, of the 
really noble, of the unaffectedly pas- 
sionate, we see her bosom heave, her 
cheek grow pale, her limbs tremble, her 
lip quiver, and nature’s own tear rush 
impetuously to the eye. It is this fresh- 
ness of the heart which will provide for 
her the greenest laurels. It is this en- 
thusiasm, this well of deep feeling, 
which should be made to prove for her 
an inexhaustible source of fame. As an 
actress, it is to her a mine of wealth 
worth all the dawdling instruction in 
the world. Mrs. Mowatt, on hei’ first 
appearance as Pauline, was quite as 
able to give lessons in stage routine to 
any actor or actress in America, as was 
any actor or actress to give lessons to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


her. Now, at least, she should throw 
all “support” to the winds, trust proudly 
to her own sense of art, her own rich 


‘and natural elocution, her beauty, which 


is unusual, her grace, which is queenly, 
and be assured that these qualities, as 
she mow possesses them, are all suffi- 
cient to render her a great actress, 
when. considered simply as the means 
by which the end of natural acting is to 
be attained, as the mere instruments by 
which she may effectively and unim- 
pededly lay bare to the audience the 
movements of her own passionate heart. 
Indeed, the great charm of her man- 
ner is its naturalness. She looks, speaks, 
and moves, with a well-controlled im- 
pulsiveness, as different as can be con- 
ceived from the customary rant and 
cant, the hack conventionality of the 
stage. Her voice is rich and volumin- 
ous, and although by no means power- 
ful, is so well managed as to seem so. 
Her utterance is singularly distinct, its 
sole blemish being an occasional Angli- 
cism of accent, adopted probably from 
her instructor, Mr. Crisp. Her read- 
ing could scarcely be improved. Her 
action is distinguished by an ease and 
self-possession which would do credit 
to a veteran. Her step is the perfection 
of grace. Often have I watched her for 
hours with the closest scrutiny, yet 
never for an instant did I observe her 
in an attitude of the least awkwardness 
or even constraint, while many of her 
seemingly impulsive gestures spoke in 
loud terms of the woman of genius, of 
the poet imbued with the profoundest 
sentiment of the beautiful in motion. 
Her figure is slight, even fragile. Her 
face is a remarkably fine one, and of 
that precise character best adapted to 
the stage. The forehead is, perhaps, 























THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


the least prepossessing feature, although 
it is by no means an unintellectual one. 
Hair light auburn, in rich profusion, 
and always arranged with exquisite 
taste. The eyes are grey, brilliant, and 
expressive, without being full. The nose 
is well formed, with the Roman curve, 
and indicative of energy. This quality 
is also shown in the somewhat excessive 
prominence of the chin. The mouth is 
large, with brilliant and even teeth and 
flexible lips, capable of the most instan- 
taneous and effective variations of ex- 
pression. A more radiantly beautiful 
smile it is quite impossible to conceive. 


- GEORGE B. CHEEVER 


THE REVEREND GEORGE B. CHEEVER 
created at one time something of an ex- 
citement by the publication of a little 
brochure entitled “Deacon Giles’ Distil- 
lery.” He is much better known, how- 
ever, as the editor of “The Common- 
place Book of American Poetry,” a 
work which has at least the merit of not 
belying its title, and zs exceedingly com- 
monplace. I am ashamed to say that 
for several years this compilation af- 
forded to Europeans the only material 
from which it was possible to form an 
estimate of the poetical ability of Amer- 
icans. The selections appear to me ex- 
ceedingly injudicious, and have all a 
marked leaning to the didactic. Dr. 
Cheever is not without a certain sort of 
negative ability as critic, but works of 
this character should be undertaken by 
poets or not at all. The verses which I 
have seen attributed to im are unde- 
niably mediocres. 

His principal publications, in addition 
to those mentioned above, are ‘‘God’s 
Hand in America,’ “Wanderings of a 


1141 


Pilgrim under the Shadow of Mont 
Blanc,” ‘Wanderings of a Pilgrim under 
the Shadow of Jungfrau,” and, lately, 
a “Defence of Capital Punishment.” 
This ‘Defence’ is at many points well 
reasoned, and as a clear resume of all 
that has been already said on its own 
side of the question, may be considered 
as commendable. Its premises, how- 
ever (as well as those of all reasoners 
pro or con on this vexed topic), are ad- 
mitted only very partially by the world 
at large—a fact of which the author 
affects to be ignorant. Neither does he 
make the slightest attempt at bringing 
forward one novel argument. Any man 
of ordinary invention might have ad- 
duced and maintained a dozen. 

The two series of “Wanderings” are, 
perhaps the best works of the writer. 
They are what is called “eloquent”; a 
little too much in that way, perhaps, 
but nevertheless entertaining. 

Dr. Cheever is rather small in stature, 
and his countenance is vivacious; in 
other respects, there is nothing very ob- 
servable about his personal appearance. 
He has been recently married. 


CHARLES ANTHON 


Doctor CHARLES ANTHON is the 
well-known Jay Professor of the Greek 
and Latin languages in Columbia Col- 
lege, New York, and Rector of the 
Grammar School. If not absolutely the 
best, he is at least generally considered 
the best, classicist in America. In 
England, and in Europe, at large, his 
scholastic acquirements are more sin- 
cerely respected than those of any of 
our countrymen. His additions to Lem- 
piere are there justly regarded as 
evincing a nice perception of method, 


1142 


and accurate as well as extensive eru- 
dition, but his ‘Classical Dictionary” 
has superseded the work of the French- 
man altogether. Most of Professor An- 
thon’s publications have been adopted 
as textbooks at Oxford and Cambridge 
—an honour to be properly understood 
only by those acquainted with the many 
high requisites for attaining it. As a 
commentator (if not exactly as a critic) 
he may rank with any of his day, and 
has evinced powers very unusual in men 
who devote their lives to classical lore. 
His accuracy is very remarkable; in this 
particular he is always to be relied upon. 
The trait manifests itself even in his 
MS., which is a model of neatness and 
symmetry, exceeding in these respects 
anything of the kind with which I am 
acquainted. It is somewhat too neat, 
perhaps, and foo regular, as well as di- 
minutive, to be called beautiful; it 
might be mistaken at any time, how- 
ever, for very elaborate copperplate en- 
graving. 

But his chirography, although fully 
in keeping, so far as precision is con- 
cerned, with his mental character, is, 
in its entire freedom from ficurish or 
superfluity, as much out of keeping 
with his verbal style. In his notes to 
the Classics he is singularly Ciceronian 
—if, indeed, not positively Johnsonese. 

An attempt was made not long ago 
to prepossess the public against his 
‘Classical Dictionary,’ the most impor- 
tant of his works, by getting up a hue 
and cry of plagiarism—in the case of 
all similar books the most preposterous 
accusation in the world, although, from 
its very preposterousness, one not easily 
rebutted. Obviously, the design in any 
such compilation is, in the first place, 
to make a useful school-book or book 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


of reference, and the scholar who should 
be weak enough to neglect this indis- 
pensable point for the mere purpose of 
winning credit with a few bookish men 
for originality, would deserve to be 
dubbed, by the public at least, a dunce. 
There are very few points of classical 
scholarship which are not the common 
property of ‘the learner’ throughout the 
world, and in composing any book of 
reference recourse is unscrupulously and 
even necessarily had in all cases to sim- 
ilar books which have preceded. In 
availing themselves of these latter, how- 
ever, it is the practice of quacks to 
paraphrase page after page, rearranging 
the order of paragraphs, making a slight 
alteration in point of fact here and 
there, but preserving the spirit of the 
whole, its information, erudition, etc., 
etc., while everything is so completely 
rewritten as to leave no room for a di- 
rect charge of plagiarism; and this is 
considered and lauded as _ originality 
Now, he who, in availing himself of the 
labours of his predecessors (and it is 
clear that all scholars must avail them- 
selves of such labours)—he who shall 
copy verbatim the passages to be de- 
sired, without attempt at palming off 
their spirit as original with himself, is 
certainly no plagiarist, even ii he fail to 
make direct acknowledgment of indebt- 
edness—is unquestionably Jess of the 
plagiarist than the disingenuous and 
contemptible quack who wriggles him- 
self, as above explained, into a reputa- 
tion for originality, a reputation quite 
out of place in a case of this kind— 
the public, of course, never caring a 
straw whether he be original or not. 
These atacks upon the New York pro- 
fessor are to be attributed to a clique 
of pedants in and about Boston, gentle- 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


men envious of his success, and whose 
own compilations are noticeable only 
for the singular patience and ingenuity 
with which their dovetailing chicanery 
is concealed from the public eye. 

Doctor Anthon is, perhaps, forty- 
eight years of age; about five feet eight 
inches in height; rather stout; fair com- 
plexion; hair light and inclined to curl; 
forehead remarkably broad and high; 
eye grey, clear, and penetrating; mouth 
well formed with excellent teeth—the 
lips having great flexibility, and conse- 
quent power of expression; the smile 
particularly pleasing. His address in 
general is bold, frank, cordial, full of 
bonhomie. His whole air is distingue 
in the best understanding of the term— 
that is to say, he would impress any one 
at first sight with the idea of his being 
no ordinary man. He has qualities, in- 
deed, which would have ensured him 
eminent success in almost any pursuit; 
and there are times in which his friends 
are half disposed to regret his exclusive 
devotion to classical literature. He was 
one of the originators of the late New 
York Review, his associates in the con- 
duct and proprietorship being Doctor 
F. L. Hawkes and Professor R. C. 
Henry. By far the most valuable pa- 
pers, however, were those of Doctor 
Anthon. 


RALPH HOYT 


Tue REVEREND RatpH Hoyt is 
known chiefly—at least, to the world of 
letters—by ‘The Chaunt of Life and 
other Poems, with Sketches and Es- 
says.” The publication of this work, 
however, was never completed, only a 
portion of the poems having appeared, 
and none of the essays or sketches. It 


1143 


is hoped that we shall yet have these 
latter. 

Of the poems issued, one, entitled 
“Old,” had so many peculiar excellences 
that I copied the whole of it, although 
quite long, in The Broadway Journal. 
It will remind every reader of Durand’s 
fine picture, ‘““An Old Man’s Recollec- 
tions,” although between poem and 
painting there is no more than a very 
admissible similarity. 

I quote a stanza from “Old” (the 
opening one) by way of bringing the 
piece to the remembrance of any who 
may have forgotten it:— 


By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing; 
Oft I marked him sitting there alone, 
All the landscape like a page perus- 
ing ; 
Poor unknown. 
By the wayside on a mossy stone. 


The quaintness aimed at here is, so 
far as a single stanza is concerned, to 
be defended as a legitimate effect, con- 
ferring high pleasure on a numerous 
and cultivated class of minds. Mr. 
Hoyt, however, in his continuous and 
uniform repetition of the first line in 
the last of each stanza of twenty-five, 
has by much exceeded the proper limits 
of the quaint and impinged upon the 
ludicrous. The poem, nevertheless, 
abounds in lofty merit, and has, in es- 
pecial, some passages of rich imagin- 
ation and exquisite pathos. For ex- 
ample :— 


Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
No one sympathising, no one heeding, 


None to love him for his thin grey hair. 


1144 


One sweet spirit broke the silent spell— 
Ah, to me her name was always 
Heaven! 
She besought him all his grief to tell— 
(I was then thirteen and she eleven) 
Isabel! 
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 


“Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old; 
Earthly hope no longer hath a mor- 


row: 

Why I sit here thou shalt soon be 
told”— 

(Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sor- 
row— 


Down it rolled—) 
“Angel,” said he sadly, “J am old!” 


It must be confessed that some por- 
tions of “Old” (which is by far the best 
of the collection) remind us forcibly of 
the “Old Man” of Oliver Wendell 
Holmes. 

“Proemus”’ is the concluding poem of 
the volume, and itself concludes with an 
exceedingly vigorous stanza, putting me 
not a little in mind of Campbell in his 
best days:— 


O’er all the silent sky 

A dark and scowling frown— 
But darker scowled to die— 
When all resolved to die— 

When (night of dread renown!) 

A thousand stars went down. 


Mr. Hoyt is about forty years of age, 
of the medium height, pale complexion, 
dark hair and eyes. His countenance 
expresses sensibility and benevolence. 
He converses slowly and with perfect 
deliberation. He is married. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


FREEMAN HUNT 


Mr. Hunt is the editor and propri- 
etor of the well-known Merchants’ 
Magazine, ohne of the most useful of our 
monthly journals, and decidedly the 
best “property” of any work of its class. 
In its establishment he evinced many 
remarkable traits of character. He was 
entirely without means, and even much 
in debt, and otherwise embarrassed, 
when by one of those intuitive percep- 
tions which belong only to genius, but 
which are usually attributed to “good 
luck,” the “happy” idea entered his head 
of getting up a magazine devoted to the 
interests of the influential class of mer- 
chants. The chief happiness of this 
idea, however (which no doubt had been 
entertained and discarded by a hundred 
projectors before Mr. H.), consisted in 
the method by which he proposed to 
carry it into operation. Neglecting the 
hackneyed modes of advertising largely, 
circulating flashy prospectuses and send- 
ing out numerous “agents,” who, in gen- 
eral, merely serve the purpose of bor- 
ing people into a very temporary sup- 
port of the work in whose behalf they 
are employed, he took the whole matter 
resolutely into his own hands; called 
personally, in the first place, upon his 
immediate mercantile friends; explained 
to them, frankly and succinctly, his ob- 
ject; put the value and necessity of 
the contemplated publication in the 
best light—as he well knew how to do— 
and in this manner obtained to head his 
subscription list a good many of the 
most eminent business men in New 
York. Armed with their names and 
with recommendatory letters from many 
of them, he now pushed on to the other 
chief cities of the Union, and thus, in 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


less time than is taken by ordinary men 
_to make a preparatory flourish of trump- 
ets, succeeded in building up for him- 
self a permanent fortune and for the 
public a journal of immense interest and 
value. In the whole proceeding he 
evinced a tact, a knowledge of mankind, 
and a self-dependence which are the 
_ staple of even greater achievements than 
the establishment of a five-dollar mag- 
azine. In the subsequent conduct of the 
work he gave evidence of equal ability. 
Having, without aid, put the magazine 
upon a satisfactory footing as regards 
its circulation, he also, without aid, un- 
dertook its editorial and business con- 
duct—from the first germ of the con- 
ception to the present moment having 
kept the whole undertaking within his 
own hands. His subscribers and regu- 
lar contributors are now among the 
most intelligent and influential in Amer- 
ica; the journal is regarded as absolute 
authority in mercantile matters, circu- 
Jates extensively not only in this coun- 
try, but in Europe, and even in regions 
more remote, affording its worthy and 
enterprising projector a large income, 
which no one knows better than himself 
how to put to good use. 

The strong points, the marked pecu- 
liarities of Mr. Hunt could not have 
failed in arresting the attention of all 
observers of character; and Mr. Willis 
in especial has made him the subject of 
repeated comment. I copy what fol- 
lows from the New York Mirror :— 

“Hunt has been glorified in the Hong- 
Kong Gazette, is regularly compli- 
mented by the English mercantile au- 
thorities, has every bank in the world 
for an eager subscriber, every consul, 
every ship-owner, and navigator; is filed 
away as authority in every library, and 


1145 


thought of in half the countries of the 
world as early as No. 3 in their enum- 
eration of distinguished Americans, yet 
who seeks to do him honour in the city 
he does honour tor The Merchants’ 
Magazine, though a prodigy of perse- 
verance and industry, is not an acciden- 
tal development of Hunt’s energies. He 
has always been singularly sagacious 
and original in devising new works and 
good ones. He was the founder of the 
first Ladies’ Magazine, of the first chil- 
dren’s periodical; he started the Amer- 
ican Magazine of Useful and Entertain- 
ing Knowledge, compiled the best known 
collection of American anecdotes, and 
is an indefatigable writer—the author, 
among other things, of ‘Letters about 
the Hudson.’ 

“Aunt was a playfellow of ours in 
round-jacket days, and we have always 
looked at him with a reminiscent inter- 
est. His luminous, eager eyes, as he 
goes along the street, keenly bent on his 
errand, would impress any observer 
with an idea of his genius and determin- 
ation, and we think it quite time his 
earnest head was in the engraver’s hand, 
and his daily passing by a mark for the 
digito monstrart. Few more worthy or 
more valuable citizens are among us.” 

Much of Mr. Hunt’s character is in- 
cluded in what I have already said and 
quoted. He is “earnest,” “eager,” com- 
bining in a very singular manner general 
coolness and occasional excitability. He 
is a true friend, and the enemy of no 
man. His heart is full of the warmest 
sympathies and charities. No one in 
New York is more universally popular. 

He is about five feet eight inches in 
height, well-proportioned; complexion 
dark florid; forehead capacious; chin 
massive and projecting, indicative (ac- 


1146 


cording to Lavater and general expe- 
rience) of that energy which is, in fact, 
the chief point of his character; hair 
light brown, very fine, of a weblike tex- 
ture, worn long and floating about the 
face; eyes of wonderful brilliancy and 
intensity of expression; the whole 
countenance beaming with sensibility 
and intelligence. He is married, and is 
about thirty-eight years of age. 


LAUGHTON OSBORN 


PERSONALLY, Mr. Osborn is little 
known as an author, either to the pub- 
lic or in literary society, but he has 
made a great many “sensations” anony- 
mously, or with a nom de plume. I 
am not sure that he has published any- 
thing with his own name. 

One of his earliest works—if not his 
earliest—was “The Adventures of Jer- 
emy Levis, by Himself,” in one volume, 
a kind of medley of fact, fiction, satire, 
criticism, and novel philosophy. It is a 
dashing, reckless brochure, brimful of 
talent and audacity. Of course it was 
covertly admired by the few, and loudly 
condemned by all of the many who can 
fairly be said to have seen it at all. It 
had no great circulation. There was 
something wrong, I fancy, in the mode 
of its issue. 

“Jeremy Levis” was followed by “The 
Dream of Alla-Ad-Deen,”’ from the ro- 
mance of Anastasia, by Charles Erskine 
White, D.D. This is a thin pamphlet 
of thirty-two pages, each page contain- 
ing about a hundred and forty words. 
Alla-Ad-Deen is the son of Aladdin, of 
“wonderful lamp” memory, and the 
story is in the “Vision of Mirza” or 
“Rasselas” way. The design is to rec- 
oncile us to death and evil, on the some- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


what unphilosophical ground that com- 
paratively we are of little importance 
in the scale of creation. The author 
himself supposes this scale to be infi- 
nite, and thus his argument proves too 
much; for if evil should be regarded by 
man as of no consequence because, 
“comparatively,” he is of none, it must 
be regarded as of no consequence by 
the angels for a similar reason—and so 
on in a never-ending ascent. In other 
words, the only thing proved is the 
rather bullish proposition that evil is 
no evil at all. I do not find that the 
“Dream” elicited any attention. It 
would have been more appropriately 
published in one of our magazines. 

Next in order came, I believe, “The 
Confessions of a Poet, by Himself.” 
This was in two volumes, of the ordi- 
nary novel form, but printed very 
openly. It made much noise in the lit- 
erary world, and no little curiosity was 
excited in regard to its author, who was 
generally supposed to be John Neal. 
There were some grounds for this sup- 
position, the tone and matter of the 
narrative bearing much resemblance to 
those of “Errata” and ‘“Seventy-Six,” 
especially in the points of boldness and 
vigour. “The Confessions,’ however, 
far surpassed any production of Mr. 
Neal’s in a certain air of cultivation (if 
not exactly of scholarship) which per- 
vaded it, as well as in the management 
of its construction—a particular in 
which the author of “The Battle of Ni- 
agara”’ invariably fails; there is no pre- 
cision, no finish, about anything he does 
—always an excessive force but little 
of refined art. Mr. N. seems to be de- 
ficient in a sense of completeness. He 
begins well, vigorously, startlingly, and 
proceeds by fits, quite at random, now 


|= 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


prosing, now exciting vivid interest, but 
his conclusions are sure to be hurried 
and indistinct, so that the reader per- 
ceives a falling off, and closes the book 
with dissatisfaction. He has done 
nothing which, as a whole, is even re- 
spectable, and “The Confessions’ are 
quite remarkable for their artistic unity 
and perfection. But in higher regards 
they are to be commended. I do not 
think, indeed, that a better book of its 
kind has been written in America. To 
be sure, it is not precisely the work to 
place in the hands of a lady, but its 
scenes of passion are intensely wrought, 
its incidents are striking and original, 
its sentiments audacious and suggestive 
at least, if not at all times ten- le. In 
a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of 
power without rudeness. Its spirit, in 
general, resembles that of ‘Miserri- 
mus” and ‘Martin Faber.” 

Partly on account of what most per- 
sons would term their licentiousness, 
partly, also, on account of the preva- 
lent idea that Mr. Neal (who was never 
very popular with the press) had writ- 
ten them, “The Confessions,” by the 
newspapers, were most unscrupulously 
misrepresented and abused. The Com- 
mercial Advertiser of New York was, it 
appears, foremost in condemnation and 
Mr. Osborn thought proper to avenge 
his wrongs by the publication of a bulky 
satirical poem, levelled at the critics in 
general, but more especially at Colonel 
Stone, the editor of the Commercial. 
This satire (which was published in ex- 
quisite style as regards print and paper) 
was entitled “The Vision of Rubeta.” 
Owing to the high price necessarily set 
upon the book, no great many copies 
were sold, but the few that got into 
circulation made quite a hubbub, and 


1147 


with reason, for the satire was not only 
bitter but personal in the last degree. 
It was, moreover, very censurably in- 
decent—jfilthy is, perhaps, the more 
appropriate word. ‘The press, without 
exception, or nearly so, condemned it 
in loud terms, without taking the trou- 
ble to investigate its pretensions as a 
literary work. But as ““The Confessions 
of a Poet” was one of the best novels 
of its kind ever written in this country, 
so “The Vision of Rubeta” was decid- 
edly the best satire. For its vulgarity 
and gross personality there is no de- 
fence, but its mordacity cannot be gain- 
said. In calling it, however, the best 
American satire, I do not intend any 
excessive commendation—for it is, in 
fact, the only satire composed by an 
American. ‘Trumbull’s clumsy work is 
nothing at all, and then we have Hal- 
leck’s ‘“‘Croakers,” which is very feeble 
—but what is there besides? “The Vis- 
ion” is our best satire, and still a sadly 
deficient one. It was bold enough and 
bitter enough, and well constructed and 
decently versified, but it failed in sar- 
casm, because its malignity was per- 
mitted to render itself evident. The au- 
thor is never very severe because he is 
never sufficiently cool. We laugh not so 
much at the objects of his satire as we 
do at himself for getting into so great 
a passion. But, perhaps, under no cir- 
cumstances is wit the forte of Mr. Os- 
born. He has few equals at downright 
invective. ‘‘The Vision” was succeeded 
by “Arthur Carryl and other Poems,” 
including an additional canto of the 
satire, and several happy although not 
in all cases accurate or comprehensive 
imitations in English of the Greek and 
Roman metres. “Arthur Carryl” is a 
fragment, in the manner of “‘Don Juan.” 


1148 


I do not think it especially meritorious. 
It has, however, a truth-telling and dis- 
criminative preface, and its notes are 
well worthy perusal. Some opinions 
embraced in these latter on the opic 
of versification I have examined in one 
of the series of articles called ‘‘Margin- 
alia.” 

I am not aware that since “Arthur 
Carryl” Mr. Osborn has written any- 
thing more than a “Treatise on Oil 
Painting,” issued not long ago by 
Messrs. Wiley and Putnam. This work 
is highly spoken of by those well qual- 
ified to judge, but is, I believe, prin- 
cipally a compilation or compendium. 

In personal character, Mr. O. is one 
of the most remarkable men I ever yet 
had the pleasure of meeting. He is un- 
doubtedly one of ‘‘Nature’s own noble- 
men,” full of generosity, courage, hon- 
our—chivalrous in every respect, but, 
unhappily, carrying his ideas of chiv- 
alry, or rather of independence, to the 
point of Quixotism, if not of absolute 
insanity. He has no doubt been misap- 
prehended, and therefore wronged by 
the world; but he should not fail to re- 
member that the source of the wrong 
lay in his own idiosyncrasy—one al- 
together unintelligible and wunappreci- 
able by the mass of mankind. 

He is a member of one of the oldest 
and most influential, formerly one of 
the wealthiest, families in New York. 
His acquirements and accomplishments 
are many and unusual. As poet, painter, 
and musician, he has succeeded nearly 
equally well, and absolutely succeeded 
as each. His scholarship is extensive. 
In the French and Italian languages 
he is quite at home, and in everything 
he is thorough and accurate. His crit- 
ical abilities are to be highly respected, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


although he is apt to swear somewhat 
too roundly by Johnson and Pope. Im- 
agination is not Mr. Osborn’s forte. 

He is about thirty-two or three— 
certainly not more than thirty-five years 
of age. In person he is well made, 
probably five feet ten or eleven, mus- 
cular and active. Hair, eyes, complex- 
ion, rather light; fine teeth; the whole 
expression of the countenance manly, 
frank, and prepossessing in the highest 
degree. 


FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 


THE name of Halleck is at least as 
well established in the poetical world 
as that of any American. Our princi- 
pal poets are, perhaps, the most fre- 
quently named in this order—Bryant, 
Halleck, Dana, Sprague, Longfellow, 
Willis, and so on—Halleck coming sec- 
ond in the series, but holding, in fact, 
a rank in the public opinion quite equal 
to that of Bryant. The accuracy of 
the arrangement as above made may, 
indeed, be questioned. For my own 
part, I should have it thus—Longfellow, 
Bryant, Halleck, Willis, Sprague, Dana; 
and, estimating rather the poetic ca- 
pacity than the poems actually accom- 
plished, there are three or four compar- 
atively unknown writers whom I would 
place in the series between Bryant and 
Halleck, while there are about a dozen 
whom I should assign a position between 
Willis and Sprague. Two dozen at 
least might find room between Sprague 
and Dana—this latter, I fear, owing a 
very large portion of his reputation to 
his quondam editorial connection with 
The North American Review. One or 
two poets, now in my mind’s eye, I 
should have no hesitation in posting 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


above even Mr. Longfellow—still not 
intending this as very extravagant 
praise. 

It is noticeable, however, that, in the 
arrangement which I attribute to the 
popular understanding, the order ob- 
served is nearly, if not exactly, that of 
the ages—the poetic ages—of the indi- 
vidual poets. Those rank first who were 
first known. The priority has estab- 
lished the strength of impression. Nor 
is this result to be accounted for by 
mere reference to the old saw—that 
first impressions are the strongest. 
Gratitude, surprise, and a species of 
hyper-patriotic triumph have been 
blended, and finally confounded, with 
admiration or appreciation in regard to 
the pioneers of American literature, 
among whom there is not one whose 
productions have not been grossly over- 
rated by his countrymen. Hitherto we 
have been in no mood to view with 
calmness and discuss with discrimination 
the real claims of the few who were 
first in convincing the mother country 
that her sons were not all brainless, as 
at one period she half affected and 
wholly wished to believe. Is there any 
one so blind as not to see that Mr. 
Cooper, for example, owes much, and 
Mr. Paulding nearly all, of his reputa- 
tion as a novelist to his early occupa- 
tion of the field? Is there any one so 
dull as not to know that fictions which 
neither of these gentlemen could have 
written are written daily by native au- 
thors, without attracting much more of 
commendation than can be included in 
a newspaper paragraph? And, again, 
is there any one so prejudiced as not to 
acknowledge that all this happens be- 


cause there is no longer either reason or 


ly from the public eye. 


1149 


wit in the query, “Who reads an Amer- 
ican book?” 

I mean to say, of course, that Mr. 
Halleck, in the apparent public esti- 
mate, maintains a somewhat better po- 
sition than that to which, on absolute 
grounds, he is entitled. There is some- 
thing, too, in the bonhomie of certain 
of his ccmpositions—something alto- 
gether distinct from poetic merit— 
which had aided to establish him; and 
much, also, must be admitted on the 
score of his personal popularity, which 
is deservedly great. With all these al- 
lowances, however, there will still be 
found a large amount of poetical fame 
to which he is fairly entitled. 

He has written very little, although 
he began at an early age—when quite a 
boy, indeed. His “juvenile” works, 
however, have been kept very judicious- 
Attention. was 
first called to him by his satires, signed 
“Croaker” and ‘“‘Croaker and Co.,” pub- 
lished in The New York Evening Post, 
in 1819. Of these the pieces «ith the 
signature “Croaker and Co.” were the 
joint work of Hall ck and his friend 
Drake. The ; olitical and personal fea- 
tures of the e jeux Vesprit gave them a 
consequence and a notoriety to which 
they are entitled sn 10 other account. 
They are not without a species of droll- 
ery, but are loosely and no doubt care- 
lessly written. 

Neither was “Fanny,” which closely 
followed the ‘Croakers,” constructed 
with any great deliberation. “It was 
printed,’ say the ordinary memoirs, 
“within three weeks from its com- 
mencement;” but the truth is, that a 
couple of days would have been an am- 
ple allowance of time for any such com- 


1150 
position. If we except a certain gen- 
tlemanly ease and imnsouciance, with 


some fancy of illustration, there is really 
very little about this poem to be ad- 
mired. There has been no _ positive 
avowal of its authorship, although there 
can be no doubt of its having been 
written by Halleck. He, I presume, does 
not esteem it very highly. It is a mere 
extravaganza, in close imitation of 
“Don Juan”—a vehicle for squibs at 
contemporary persons and things. 

Our poet, indeed, seems to have been 
much impressed by “Don Juan,” and 
attempts to engraft its farcicalities even 
upon the grace and delicacy of “Aln- 
wick Castle,” as, for example — 


Men in the coal and cattle line, 

From Teviot’s bard and hero land, 

From royal Berwick’s beach of sand, 

From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 


These things may lay claim to oddity 
but no more. They «re totally out of 
keeping with the tone of the sweet poem 
into which they are thus clumsily intro- 
duced, and serve no other purpose than 
to deprive it of all unity of effect. Ifa 
poet must be farcical, let him be just 
that; he can be nothing better at the 
same moment. To be drolly sentimen- 
tal, or even sentimentally droll, is in- 
tolerable to men and gods and columns. 

“Alnwick Castle” is distinguished, in 
general, by that air of quiet grace, both 
in thought and expression, which is the 
prevailing feature of the muse of Hal- 
leck. Its second stanza is a good speci- 
men of this manner. The commence- 
ment of the fourth belongs to a very 
high order of poetry:— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Wild roses by the Abbey towers 
Are gay in their young bud and 
bloom— 
They were born of a race of funeral 
flowers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
A Templar’s knightly tomb. 


This is gloriously imaginative, and the 
effect is singularly increased by the 
sudden transition from iambuses to an- 
apests. The passage is, I think, the 
noblest to be found in Halleck, and I 
would be at a loss to discover its par- 
allel in all American poetry. 

“Marco Bozzaris’ has much lyrical, 
without any great amount of deal 
beauty. Force is its prevailing feature 
—force resulting rather from well-or- 
dered metre, vigorous rhythm, and a 
judicious disposal of the circumstances 
of the poem, than from any of the truer 
lyric material. I should do my con- 
science great wrong were I to speak of 
“Marco Bozzaris” as it is the fashion to 
speak of it, at least in print. Even asa 
lyric or ode it is surpassed by many 
American and a multitude of foreign 
compositi ns of a similar character. 

“Burns” has numerous passages ex- 
emplifying its author’s felicity of ex- 
pression; as, for instance— 


Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines— 
Shrines to no code or creed confined— 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 


And, again— 


There have been loftier themes than his, 
And longer scrolls and louder lyres, 
And lays lit up with Poesy’s 
Purer and holier fires. 


B| 
| 
; 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


But to the sentiment involved in this 
last quatrain I feel disposed to yield an 
assent more thorough than might be 
expected. Burns, indeed, was the pup- 
pet of circumstance. As a poet, no per- 
son on the face of the earth has been 


_ more extravagantly, more absurdly over- 
_ rated. 


“The Poet’s Daughter” is one of the 
most characteristic works of Halleck, 
abounding in his most distinctive traits, 


grace, expression, repose, imsouciance. 


The vulgarity of 


I’m busy in the cotton trade 
and sugar line, 


_ has, I rejoice to see, been omitted in the 


late editions. The eleventh stanza is 
certainly not English as it stands, and, 


_ besides, is quite unintelligible. What is 
_ the meaning of thisP— 


But her who asks, though first among 

The good, the bear tiful, the young, 

The birthright of a spell more strong 
Than these have brought her. 


The “Lines on the Death of Joseph 
Rodman Drake” is, as a whole, one of 
the best poems of its author. Its sim- 
plicity and delicacy of sentiment will 
recommend it to all readers. It is, how- 
ever, carelessly written, and the first 
quatrain— 


Green be the turf above thee, 
Friend of my better days— 

None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise— 


althvugh beautiful, bears too close a re- 
semblance to the still more beautiful 
lines of Wordsworth— 


1151 


She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove, 

A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love! 


In versification, Mr. Halleck is much 
as usual, although in this regard Mr. 
Bryant has paid him numerous compli- 
ments. ‘Marco Bozzaris” has certain- 
ly some vigour of rhythm, but its au- 
thor, in short, writes carelessly, loosely, 
and, as a matter of course, seldom effec- 
tively so far as the outworks of liter- 
ature are concerned. 

Of late days he has nearly given up 
the muses, and we recognise his ex- 
istence as a poet chiefly by occasional 
translations from the Spanish or Ger- 
man. 

Personally, he is a man to be admired, 
respected, but more especially beloved. 
His address has all the captivating bon- 
homie which is the leading feature of 
his poetry and, indeed, of his whole 
moral nature. With his friends he is 
all ardour, enthusiasm, and cordiality, 
but to the world at large he is reserved, 
shunning society, into which he is se- 
duced only with difficulty, and upon rare 
occasions. The love of solitude seems 
to have become with him a passion. 

He is a good modern linguist, and an 
excellent belles lattres scholar; in gen- 
eral, has read a great dea., although 
very discursively. He is what the world 
calls ultra in most of his opinions, more 
particularly about literature and poli- 
tics, and is fond of broaching and sup- 
porting paradoxes. He converses flu- 
ently, with animation and zeal; is choice 
and accurate in his language, exceed- 
ingly quick at repartee, and apt at an- 
ecdote. His manners are courteous, 
with dignity and a little tincture of Gal- 


1152 


licism. His age is about fifty. In 
height he is probably five feet seven. 
He has been stout, but may now be 
called well-proportioned. His forehead 
is a noble one, broad, massive, and in- 
tellectual, a little bald about the tem- 
ples; eyes dark and brilliant, but not 
large; nose Grecian; chin prominent; 
mouth finely chiselled and full of ex- 
pression, although the lips are thin;— 
his smile is peculiarly sweet. 

In Graham’s Magazine for September, 
1843, there appeared an engraving of 
Mr. Halleck from a painting by Inman. 
The likeness conveys a good general 
idea of the man, but is far too stout 
and youthful-looking for his appear- 
ance at present. 

His usual pursuits have been commer- 
cial, but he is now the principal super- 
intendent of the business of Mr. John 
Jacob Astor. He is unmarried. 


ANN S. STEPHENS 


Mrs. STEPHENS has made no collec- 
tion of her works, but has written much 
for the magazines, and well. Her com- 
positions have been brief tales, with 
occasional poems. She made her first 
“sensation” in obtaining a premium of 
four hundred dollars, offered for “the 
best prose story” by some one of our 
journals, her “Mary Derwent” proving 
the successful article. The amount of 
the prize, however—a much larger one 
than it has been the custom to offer— 
had more to do with the eclat of the 
success than had the positive merit of 
the tale, although this is very consid- 
erable. She has subsequently written 
several better things—‘Malina Gray,” 
for example, ‘“‘Alice Copley,” and “The 
Two Dukes.’ These are on serious sub- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


jects. In comic ones she has compara- 
tively failed. She is fond of the bold, 
striking, trenchant—in a word, of the 
melodramatic; has a quick appreciation 
of the picturesque, and is not unskilful 
in delineations of character. She seizes 
adroitly on salient incidents and pre- 
sents them with vividness to the eye, 
but in their combinations or adaptations 
she is by no means so thoroughly at 
home—that is to say, her plots are not 
so good as are their individual items. 
Her style is what the critics usually 
term “powerful,” but lacks real power 
through its verboseness and floridity. It 
is, in fact, generally turgid—even bom- 
bastic—involved, needlessly parentheti- 
cal, and superabundant in epithets, al- 
though these latter are frequently well 
chosen. Her sentences are, also, for 
the most part too long; we forget their 
commencements ere we get at their ter- 
minations. Her faults, nevertheless, 
both in matter and manner, belong to 
the effervescence of high talent, if not 
exactly of genius. 

Of Mrs. Stephens’ poetry I have seen 
so very little that I feel myself scarcely 
in condition to speak of it. 

She began her literary life, I believe, 
by editing The Portland Magazine, and 
has since been announced as editor of 
The Ladies’ Companion, a monthly jour- 
nal published some years ago in New 
York, and also, at a later period, of 
Graham’s Magazine, and subsequently, 
again, of Peterson’s National. Magazine. 
These announcements were announce- 
ments and no more; the lady had noth- 
ing to do with the editorial control of 
either of the three last-named works. 

The portrait of Mrs. Stephens which 
appeared in Graham’s Magazine for 
November, 1844, cannot fairly be con- 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


sidered a likeness at all. She is tall and 
slightly inclined to embonpoint—an 
1 English figure. Her forehead is some- 
what low, but broad; the features gen- 
erally massive, but full of life and intel- 
lectuality. The eyes are blue and bril- 
liant; the hair blonde and very luxu- 
riant. 


EVERT A. DUYCKINCK 


Mr. DuycKINCcK is one of the most 
influential of the New York littera- 
teurs, and has done a great deal for the 
interests of American letters. Not the 
least important service rendered by him 
was the projection and editorship of 
Wiley and Putnam’s “Library cf Choice 
Reading,” a series which brought to 
public notice many valuable foreign 
works which had been suffering under 
_ neglect in this country, and at the same 
_ time afforded unwonted encouragement 
to native authors by publishing their 
_ books, in good style and in good com- 
pany, without trouble or risk to the au- 
thors themselves, and in the very teeth 
of the disadvantages arising from the 
want of an international copyright law. 
At one period it seemed that this happy 
scheme was to be overwhelmed by the 
competition of rival publishers— 
taken, in fact, quite out of the hands of 
those who, by “right of discovery,” were 
entitled at least to its first fruits. A 
great variety of “Libraries,” in imita- 
tion, were set on foot, but whatever 
may have been the temporary success of 
any of these latter, the original one has 
already too well established itself in the 
public favour to be overthrown, and 
thus has not been prevented from prov- 
ing of great benefit to our literature at 
large. 


1153 


Mr. Duyckinck has slyly acquired 
much fame and numerous admirers un- 
der the nom de plume of ‘‘Felix Merry.” 
The various essays thus signed have at- 
tracted attention everywhere from the 
judicious. The style is remarkable for 
its very unusual blending of purity and 
ease, with a seemingly inconsistent or- 
iginality, force, and independence. 

“Felix Merry,” in connection with Mr. 
Cornelius Mathews, was one of the ed- 
itors and originators of Arcturus, de- 
cidedly the very best magazine in many 
respects ever published in the United 
States. A large number of its most in- 
teresting papers were the work of Mr. 
D. The magazine was, upon the whole, 
a little too good to enjoy extensive 
popularity—although I am here using 
an equivocal phrase, for a better jour- 
nal might have been far more accept- 
able to the public. I must be under- 
stood, then, as employing the epithet 
“good” in the sense of the literary qui- 
etists. The general taste of Arcturus 
was, I think, excessively tasteful; but 
this character applies rather more to its 
external or mechanical appearance than 
to its essential quahues. Unhappily, 
magazines and other similar publica- 
tions, are, in the beginning, judged 
chiefly by externals. People saw Arc- 
turus looking very much like other 
works which had failed through noto- 
tious dulness, although admitted as ar- 
bitri elegantiarum in all points of what 
is termed taste or decorum; and they, 
the people, had no patience to examine 
any further. Cesar’s wife was required 
not only to be virtuous but to seem so, 
and in letters it is demanded not only 
that we be not stupid, but that we do 
not array ourselves in the habiliments of 
stupidity. . 


1154 


It cannot be said of Arcturus exactly 
that it wanted force. It was deficient 
in power of impression, and this de- 
ficiency is to be attributed mainly to the 
exceeding brevity of its articles—a 
brevity that degenerated into mere par- 
agraphism, precluding dissertation or 
argument, and thus all permanent effect. 
The magazine, in fact, had some of the 
worst or most inconvenient features 
without any of the compensating ad- 
vantages of a weekly literary news- 
paper. The mannerism to which I re- 
fer seemed to have its source in undue 
admiration and consequent imitation of 
The Spectator. 

In addition to his more obvious lit- 
erary engagements, Mr. Duyckinck 
writes a great deal, editorially and 
otherwise, for The Democratic Review, 
The Morning News, and other period- 
icals. 

In character he is remarkable, distin- 
guished for the bonhomie of his man- 
ner, his simplicity and single-minded- 
ness, his active beneficence, his hatred 
of wrong done even to any enemy, and 
especially for an almost Quixotic fidel- 
ity to his friends. He seems in perpet- 
ual good humour with all things, and I 
have no doubt that in his secret heart 
he is an optimist. 

In person he is equally simple as in 
character—the one is a pendent of the 
other. He is about five feet eight inches 
high, somewhat slender. The forehead, 
phrenologically, is a good one; eyes and 
hair light; the whole expression of the 
face that of serenity and benevolence, 
contributing to give an idea of youth- 
fulness. He is probably thirty, but does 
not seem to be twenty-five. His dress, 
also, is in full keeping with his charac- 
ter, scrupulously neat but plain, and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


conveying an instantaneous conviction 
of the gentleman. He is a descendant 
of one of the oldest and best Dutch 
families in the state. Married. 


JAMES ALDRICH 


Mr. ALpRicH has written much for 
the magazines, etc., and at one time as- 
sisted Mr. Park Benjamin in the con- 
duct of The New World. He also or- 
iginated, I believe, and edited a not very 
long-lived or successful weekly paper, 
called The Literary Gazette, an imita- 
tion in its external appearance of the 
London journal of the same name. I 
am not aware that he has made any col- 
lection of his writings. His poems 
abound in the true poetic spirit, but 
they are frequently chargeable with 
plagiarism, or something much like it. 
True, I have seen but three of Mr. Al- 
crich’s compositions in verse—the three 
(or perhaps there are four of them) in- 
cluded by Mr. Griswold in his “Poets 
and Poetry of America.” Of these three 
(or four), however, there are two which 
I cannot help regarding as palpable 
plagiarisms. Of one of them, in es- 
pecial, “A Death-Bed,” it is impossible 
to say a plausible word in defence. Both 
in matter and manner it is nearly iden- 
tical with a little piece entitled “The 
Death-Bed,” by Thomas Hood. 

The charge of plagiarism, neverthe- 
less, is a purely literary one; and a 
plagiarism even distinctly proved by 
no means necessarily involves any moral 
delinquency. This proposition applies 
very especially to what appear to be 
poetical thefts. The poetic sentiment 
presupposes a keen appreciation of the 
beautiful with a longing for its assim- 
ilation into the poetic identity. What 
the poet intensely admires becomes, 


- tially, a portion of his own soul. 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


_ thus, in very fact, although only par- 
With- 
in this soul it has a secondary origina- 
tion; and the poet, thus possessed by 
_ another’s thought, cannot be said to 
- take of it possession. But in either 
_ view he thoroughly feels it as his own; 
_ and the tendency to this feeling is coun- 
teracted only by the sensible presence 
of the true, palpable origin of the 
thought in the volume when he has 
_ derived it—an origin which, in the long 
lapse of years, it is impossible mot to 
_ forget, should the thought itself, as it 
often is, be forgotten. But the frailest 
association will regenerate it; it springs 
up with all the vigour of a new birth; 
its absolute originality is not with the 
poet a matter even of suspicion; and 
when he has written it and printed it, 
and on its account is charged with 
_ plagiarism, there will be no one more 
entirely astounded than himself. Now, 
_ from what I have said, it appears that 
the liability to accidents of this char- 
acter is in the direct ratio of the poetic 
sentiment, of the susceptibility to the 
- poetic impression; and, in fact, all lit- 
erary history demonstrates that, for 
the most frequent and palpable pla- 
_ giarisms, we must search the works of 
_ the most eminent poets. 

Since penning the above I have 
found five quatrains by Mr. Aldrich, 
with the heading ‘Molly Gray.” These 
_ verses are in the fullest exemplification 
of what I have just said of their author, 
evincing at once, in the most remark- 
able manner, both his merit as an im- 
_ aginative poet and his unconquerable 
proneness to imitation. I quote the 
two concluding quatrains. 


1155 


Pretty, fairy Molly Gray! 
What may thy fit emblems be? 
Stream or star or bird or flower— 
They are all too poor for thee. 


No type to match thy beauty 

My wandering fancy brings— 
Not fairer than its chrysalis 

Thy soul with its golden wings! 


Here the “Pretty, fairy Molly Gray!” 
will put every reader in mind of Ten- 
nyson’s “Airy, fairy Lillian!” by which 
Mr. Aldrich’s whole poem has been 
clearly suggested; but the thought in 
the finale is, as far as I know anything 
about it, original, and is not more happy 
than happily expressed. 

Mr. Aldrich is about thirty-six years 
of age. In regard to his person there 
is nothing to be especially noted. 


CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 


THE REVEREND C. P. CRANCH is one 
of the least intolerable of the school of 
Boston transcendentalists—and, in fact, 
I believe that he has at last “come out 
from among them,” abandoned their 
doctrines (whatever they are), and 
given up their company in disgust. He 
was at one time one of the most noted, 
and undoubtedly one of the least ab- 
surd contributors to The Dial, but has 
reformed his habits of thought and 
speech, domiciliated himself in New 
York, and set up the easel of an artist 
in one of the Gothic chambers of the 
University. 

About two years ago a volume of 
“Poems by Christopher Pearse Cranch” 
was published by Carey and Hart. It 
was most unmercifully treated by the 
critics, and much injustice, in my opin- 


1156 


ion, was done to the poet. He seems 
to me to possess unusual vivacity of 
fancy and dexterity of expression, while 
his versification is remarkable for its 
accuracy, vigour, and even for its origi- 
nality of effect. I might say, perhaps, 
rather more than all this, and maintain 
that he has imagination if he would only 
condescend to employ it, which he will 
not, or would not until lately—the word 
compounders and quibble concoctors of 
Frogpondium having inoculated him 
with a preference for Imagination’s 
half-sister, the Cinderella Fancy. Mr. 
Cranch has seldom contented himself 
with harmonious combinations of 
thought. There must always be, to af- 
ford him perfect satisfaction, a certain 
amount of the odd, of the whimsical, 
of the affected, of the bizarre. He is as 
full of absurd conceits as Cowley or 
Donne, with this difference, that the 
conceits of these latter are Euphuisms 
beyond redemption—flat, irremediable, 
self-contented nonscnsicalities, and in so 
much are good of their kind; but the 
conceits of Mr. Cranch are, for the 
most part, conceits intentionally manu- 
factured, for conceit’s sake, out of the 
material for properly imaginative, har- 
monious, proportionate, or poetical 
ideas. We see every moment that he 
has been at uncommon pains to make 
a fool of himself. 

But perhaps I am wrong in supposing 
that I am at all in condition to decide 
on the merits of Mr. Cranch’s poetry, 
which is professedly addressed to the 
few. “Him we will seek,’ says the 
poet— 


Him we will seek, and none but him, 
Whose inward sense hath not grown 
dim; 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Whose soul is steeped in Nature’s tinct, 

And to the Universal linked; 

Who loves the beauteous Infinite 

With deep and ever new delight, 

And carrieth where’er he goes 

The inborn sweetness of the rose— 

The perfume as of Paradise— 

The talisman above all price— 

The optic glass that wins from far 

The meaning of the utmost star— 

The key that opes the golden doors 

Where earth and heaven have piled 
their stores— 

The magic ring, the enchanter’s wand— 

The title-deed to Wonder-land— 

The wisdom that o’erlooketh sense, 

The clairvoyance of Innocence. 


This is all very well, fanciful, pretty, 
and neatly turned—all with the excep- 
tion of the two last lines, and it is a 
pity they were not left out. It is laugh- 
able to see that the transcendental 
poets, if beguiled for a minute or two 
into respectable English and common 
sense, are always sure to remember their 
cue just as they get to the end of their 
song, which, by way of salvo, they then 
round off with a bit of doggerel about 
“wisdom that o’erlooketk sense’ and 
“the clairvoyance of Innocence.” It is 
especially observable that, in adopting 
the cant of thought, the cant of phrase- 
ology is adopted at the same instant. 
Can Mr. Cranch, or can anybody else, 
inform me why it is that, in the really 
sensible opening passages of what I 
have here quoted, he employs the mod- 
ern, and only in the final couplet of 
“goosetherumfoodle” makes use of the 
obsolete termination of verbs in the 
third person singular, present tense? 

One of the best of Mr. Cranch’s 
compositions is undoubtedly his poem 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


on Niagara. It has some _ natural 
thoughts, and grand ones, suiting the 
subject; but then they are more than 
half-divested of their nature by the,at- 
tempt at adorning them with oddity of 
expression. Quaininess is an admissible 
and important adjunct to ideality—an 
adjunct whose value has been long mis- 
apprehended—but in picturing the sub- 
lime it is altogether out of place. What 
idea of power, of grandeur, for example, 
can any human being connect even with 
Niagara, when Niagara is described in 
language so trippingly fantastical, so 
palpably adapted to a purpose, as that 
which follows? 


I stood upon a speck of ground; 
Before me fell a stormy ocean. 
I was like a captive bound; 
And around 
A universe of sound 
Troubled the heaven with ever-quivering 
motion. 


Down, down for ever—down, down 
for ever— 
Something falling, falling, falling; 
Up, up for ever—up, up for ever, 
Resting never, 
Boiling up for ever, 
Steam-clouds shot up with thunder- 
bursts appalling. 


It is difficult to conceive anything 


more ludicrously out of keeping than — 


the thoughts of these stanzas and the 
petit-maitre, fidgety, hop-skip-and-jump 
air of the words and the Lilliputian 
parts of the versification. 

A somewhat similar metre is adopted 
by Mr. Cranch in his “Lines on Hearing 
Triumphant Music,” but as the subject 
is essentially different, so the effect is 


1157 


by no means so displeasing. I copy one 
of the stanzas as the noblest individual 
passage which I can find among all the 
poems of its author: 


That glorious strain! 
Oh, from my brain 
I see the shadows fitting like. scared 
ghosts. 
A light—a light 
Shines in to-night 
Round the good angels trooping to their 
posts, 
And the black cloud is rent in twain 
Before the ascending strain. 


Mr. Cranch is well educated, and 
quite accomplished. Like Mr. Osborn, 
he is musician, painter, and poet, being 
in each capacity very respectably suc- 
cessful. 

He is about thirty-three or four years 
of age; in height, perhaps five feet 
eleven; athletic; front face not unhand- 
some—the forehead evincing intellect, 
and the smile pleasant; but the profile 
is marred by the turning up of the nose, 
and altogether is hard and disagreeable. 
His eyes and hair are dark brown—the 
latter worn short, slightly inclined to 
curl. Thick whiskers meeting under the 
chin, and much out of keeping with the 
shirt-collar a la Byron. Dresses with 
marked plainness. He is married. 


SARAH MARGARET FULLER 


Miss FULLER was at one time editor, 
or one of the editors of The Dial, to 
which she contributed many of the most 
forcible and certainly some of the most 
peculiar papers. She is known, too, by 
“Summer on the Lakes,” a remarkable 
assemblage of sketches, issued in 1844, 


1158 


by Little and Brown of Boston. More 
lately she has published ‘‘Woman in the 
Nineteenth Century,” a work which has 
occasioned much discussion, having had 
the good fortune to be warmly abused 
and chivalrously defended. At present, 
she is assistant editor of The New York 
Tribune, or rather a salaried contribu- 
tor to that journal, for which she has 
furnished a great variety of matter, 
chiefly notices of new books, etc., etc., 
her articles being designated by an 
asterisk. Two of the best of them 
were a review of Professor Longfellow’s 
late magnificent edition of his own 
works (with a portrait), and an appeal 
to the public in behalf of her friend 
Harro Harring. The review did her 
infinite credit; it was frank, candid, in- 
dependent—in even ludicrous contrast 
to the usual mere glorifications of the 
day—giving honour only where honour 
was due, yet evincing the most thorough 
capacity to appreciate and the most 
sincere intention to place in the fairest 
light the real and idiosyncratic merits 
of the poet. 

In my opinion it is one of the very 
few reviews of Longfellow’s poems, ever 
published in America, of which the 
critics have not had abundant reason to 
be ashamed. Mr. Longfellow is entitled 
to a certain and very distinguished rank 
among the poets of his country, but 
that country is disgraced by the evident 
toadyism which would award to his 
social position and influence, to his fine 
paper and large type, to his morocco 
binding and gilt edges, to his flattering 
portrait of himself, and to the illustra- 
tions of his poems by Huntingdon, that 
amount of indiscriminate. approbation 
which neither could nor would have 
been given to the poems themselves. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The defence of Harro Harring, or 
rather the Philippic against those who 
were doing him wrong, was one of the 
most eloquent and well-pué articles I 
have ever yet seen in a newspaper. 

“Woman in the Nineteenth Century” 
is a book which few women in the coun- 
try could have written, and no woman 
in the country would have published, 
with the exception of Miss Fuller. In 
the way of independence, of unmiti- 
gated radicalism, it is one of the “Curi- 
osities of American Literature,’ and 
Mr. Griswold should include it in his 
book. I need scarcely say that the 
essay is nervous, forcible, thoughtful, 
suggestive, brilliant, and to a certain 
extent scholar-like—for all that Miss 
Fuller produces is entitled to these 
epithets—but I must say that the con- 
clusions reached are only in part my 
own. Not that they are too bold by 
any means—too novel, too startling, or 
too dangerous in their consequences, but 
that in their attainment too many 
premises have been distorted, and too 
many analogical inferences left alto- 
gether out of sight. JI mean to say 
that the intention of the Deity as re- 
gards sexual differences—an intention 
which can be distinctly comprehended 
only by throwing the exterior (more 
sensitive) portions of the mental retina 
casually over the wide field of universal 
analogy—I mean to say that this inten- 
tion has not been sufficiently considered. 
Miss Fuller’ has erred, too, through 
her own excessive objectiveness. She 
judges woman by the heart and intellect 
of Miss Fuller, but there are not more 
than one or two dozen Miss Fullers on 
the whole face of the earth. Holding 
these opinions in regard to ‘“‘Woman in 
the Nineteenth Century,” I still feel 


| 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


myself calied upon to disavow the silly 
condemnatory criticism of the work 
which appeared in one of the earliest 
numbers of The Broadway Journal. 
That article was not written by myself, 
and was written by my associate, Mr. 
Briggs. 

The most favourable estimate of Miss 
Fuller’s genius (for high genius she un- 
questionably possesses) is to be ob- 
tained, perhaps, from her contributions 
to The Dial, and from her “Summer on 
the Lakes.” Many of the descriptions 
in this volume are unrivalled for graphi- 
cality (why is there not such a word?), 
for the force with which they convey 
the true by the novel or unexpected, 
by the introduction of touches which 
other artists would be sure to omit as 
irrelevant to the subject. This faculty, 
too, springs from her subjectiveness, 
which leads her to paint a scene less 
by its features than by its effects. 

Here, for example, is a portion of her 
account of Niagara:— 

“Daily these proportions widened and 
towered more and more upon my sight, 
and I got at last a proper foreground 
for these sublime distances. Before 
coming away I think I really saw the 
full wonder of the scene. After awhile 
it so drew me into itself as to inspire 
an undefined dread, such as I never 
knew before, such as may be felt when 
death is about to usher us into a new 
existence. The perpetual trampling of 
the waters seized my senses. I felt that 
no other sound, however near, could be 
heard, and would start and look behind 
me for a foe. I realised the identity of 
that mood of nature in which these 
waters were poured down with such ab- 
sorbing forces with that in which the 
Indian was shaped on the same soil. 


1159 


For continually upon my mind came, 
unsought and unwelcome, images, such 
as had never haunted it before, of 
naked savages stealing behind me with 
uplifted tomahawks. Again and again 
this illusion recurred, and even after 1 
had thought it over, and tried to shake 
it off, I could not help starting and 
looking behind me. What I liked best 
was to sit on Table Rock close to the 
great fall; there all power of observing 
details, all separate consciousness was 
quite lost.” 

The truthfulness of the passages itali- 
cised will be felt by all; the feelings 
described are, perhaps, experienced by 
every (imaginative) person who visits 
the fall; but most persons, through pre- 
dominant subjectiveness, would scarcely 
be conscious of the feelings, or, at best, 
would never think of employing them 
in an attempt to convey to others an 
impression of the scene. Hence so many 
desperate failures to convey it on the 
part of ordinary tourists. Mr. William 
W.. Lord, to be sure, in his poem “Ni- 
agara,” is sufficiently objective; he de- 
scribes not the fall, but very properly 
the effect of the fall upon him. He says 
that it made him think of his own 
greatness, of his owm superiority, and 
so forth, and so forth; and it is only 
when we come to think that the thought 
of Mr. Lord’s greatness is quite idio- 
syncratic, confined exclusively to Mr. 
Lord, that we are in condition to under- 
stand how, in spite of his objectiveness, 
he has failed to convey an idea of any- 
thing beyond one Mr. William W. Lord. 

From the essay entitled “Philip Van 
Artevelde,”’ I copy a paragraph which 
will serve at once to exemplify Miss 
Fuller’s more earnest (declamatory) 


1160 


style, and to show the tenor of her 
prospective speculations :— 

“At Chicago I read again ‘Philip Van 
Artevelde,’ and certain passages in it 
will always be in my mind associated 
with the deep sound of the lake, as 
heard in the night. I used to read a 
short time at night, and then open the 
blind to look out. The moon would be 
full upon the lake, and the calm breath, 
pure light, and the deep voice, harmon- 
ised well with the thought of the Flem- 
ish hero. When will this country have 
such a man? It is what she needs—no 
thin Idealist, no coarse Realist, but a 
man whose eye reads the heavens while 
his feet step firmly on the ground, and 
his hands are strong and dexterous in 
the use of human instruments. A man, 
religious, virtuous, and—sagacious; a 
man of universal sympathies, but self- 
possessed; a man who knows the region 
of emotion, though he is not its slave; 
a man to whom this world is no mere 
spectacle or fleeting shadow, but a great 
solemn game, to be played with good 
heed, for its stakes are of eternal value, 
yet who, if his own play be true, heeds 
not what he loses by the falsehood of 
others. A man who lives from the past, 
yet knows that its honey can but 
moderately avail him; whose compre- 
hensive eye scans the present, neither 
infatuated by its golden lures nor chilled 
by its many ventures; who possesses 
prescience, as the wise man must, © ut 
not so far as to be driven mad to-day 
by the gift which discerns to-morrow. 
When there is such a man for America, 
the thought which urges her on will be 
expressed.” 

From what I have quoted a general 
conception of the prose style of the 
authoress may be gathered. Her man- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ner, however, is infinitely varied. It is 
always forcible—but I am not sure that 
it is always anything else, unless I say 
picturesque. It rather indicates than 
evinces scholarship. Perhaps only the 
scholastic, or, more properly, those ac- 
customed to look narrowly at the struc- 
ture of phrases, would be willing to 
acquit her of her ignorance of grammar 
—would be willing to attribute her 
slovenliness to disregard of the shell in 
anxiety for the kernel, or to wayward- 
ness, or to affectation, or to blind rever- 
ence for Carlyle—would be able to de- 
tect, in her strange and _ continual 
inaccuracies, a capacity for the accurate. 

“T cannot sympathise with such an 
apprehension; the spectacle is capable 
to swallow up all such objects.” 

“Tt is fearful, too, to know as you 
look, that whatever has been swallowed 
by the cataract, is like to rise suddenly 
to light.” 

“IT took our mutual friends to see 
her,” 

“Tt was always obvious that they had 
nothing in common between them.” 

“The Indian cannot be looked at 
truly except by a poetic eye.” — 

““M’Kenney’s Tour to the Lakes gives 
some facts not to be met with else- 
where.” 

“There is that mixture of culture and 
rudeness in the aspect of things as gives 
a feeling of freedom,” etc., etc., etc. 

These are merely a few, a very few 
instances, taken at random from among 
a multitude of wilful murders com- 
mitted by Miss Fuller on the American 
of President Polk. She uses, too, the 
word “ignore,” a vulgarity adopted only 
of late days (and to no good purpose, 
since there is no necessity for it) from 
the barbarisms of the law, and makes 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


no scruple of giving the Yankee inter- 
pretation to the verbs ‘‘witness’ and 
“realise,” to say nothing of “use,” as in 
the sentence, “I used to read a short 
time at night.” It will not do to say, 
in defence of such words, that in such 
senses they may be found in certain 
dictionaries—in that of Bolles, for in- 
stance;—some kind of “authority”? may 
be found for any kind of vulgarity 
under the sun. 

In spite of these things, however, and 
of her frequent unjustifiable Carlyle- 
isms (such as that of writing sentences 
which are no sentences, since, to be 
parsed, reference must be had to sen- 
tences preceding), the style of Miss 
Fuller is one of the very best with 
which I am acquainted. In general 
effect, I know no style which surpasses 
it. It is singularly piquant, vivid, terse, 
bold, luminous—leaving details out of 
sight, it is everything that a style 
need be. 

I believe that Miss Fuller has written 
much poetry, although she has pub- 
‘lished little. That little is tainted with 
the affectation of the transcendentalists 
(I use this term, of course, in the sense 
which the public of late days seem re- 
solved to give it), but is brimful of the 
poetic sentiment. Here, for example, 
is something in Coleridge’s manner, of 
which the author of “Genevieve” might 
have had no reason to be ashamed:— 


A maiden sat beneath a tree; 
Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be, 
And she sighed heavily. 


From forth the wood into the light 
A hunter strides with carol light, 
And a glance so bold and bright. 


1161 


He careless stopped and eyed the maid: 
“Why weepest thou?’ he gently said; 
“T love thee well, be not afraid.” 


He takes her hand and leads her on— 
She should have waited there alone, 
For he was not her chosen one. 


He Jeans her head upon his breast— 
She knew ’twas not her home of rest, 
But, ah, she had been sore distrest. 


The sacred stars looked sadly down; 
The parting moon appeared to frown, 
To see thus dimmed the diamond crown. 


Then from the thicket starts a deer— 
The huntsman, seizing on his spear, 
Cries, “Maiden, wait thou for me here.” 


She sees him vanish into night— 
She starts from sleep in deep affright, 
For it was not her own true knight. 


Though but in dream Gunhilda failed— 
Though but a fancied ill assailed— 
Though she but fancied fault bewailed— 


Yet thought of day makes dream of 
night; 

She is not worthy of the knight; 

The inmost altar burns not bright. 


If loneliness thou canst not bear— 
Cannot the dragon’s venom dare— 
Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair. 


Now sadder that lone maiden sighs; 

Far bitterer tears profane her eyes; 

Crushed in the dust her heart’s flower 
lies. 


To show the evident carelessness with 
which this poem was constructed, I 


1162 


have italicised an identical rhyme (of 
about the same force in versification as 
an identical proposition in logic) and 
two grammatical improprieties. To lean 
is a neuter verb, and “seizing on” is not 
properly to be called a_ pleonasm, 
merely because it is—nothing at all. 
The concluding line is difficult of pro- 
nunciation through excess of conso- 
nants. I should have preferred, indeed, 
the ante-penultimate tristich as the 
finale of the poem. 

The supposition that the book of an 
author is a thing apart from the au- 
thor’s self, is, I think, ill-founded. The 
soul is a cipher, in the sense of a 
cryptograph; and the shorter a crypto- 
graph is the more difficulty there is in 
its comprehension—at a certain point 
of brevity it would bid defiance to an 
army of Champollions. And thus he 
who has written very little may in that 
little either conceal his spirit or convey 
quite an erroneous idea of it—of his 
acquirements, talents, temper, manner, 
tenor, and depth (or shallowness) of 
thought—in ‘a word, of his character, of 
himself. But this is impossible with 
him who has written much. Of such a 
person we get, from his books, not 
merely a just, but the most just repre- 
sentation. Bulwer, the individual, per- 
sonal man, in a green velvet waistcoat 
and amber gloves, is not by any means 
the veritable Sir Edward Lytton, who is 
discoverable only in ‘Ernest Maltrav- 
ers,’ where his soul is deliberately and 
nakedly set forth. And who would 
ever know Dickens by looking at him 
or talking with him, or doing anything 
with him except reading his “Curiosity 
Shop’? What poet, in especial, but 
must feel at least the better portion of 
himself more fairly represented in even 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


his commonest sonnet (earnestly writ- 
ten), than in his most elaborate or most 
intimate personalities? 

I put all this as a general proposition, 
to which Miss Fuller affords a marked 
exception—to this extent, that her per- 
sonal character and her printed book 
are merely one and the same thing. We 
get access to her soul as directly from 
the one as from the other—no more 
readily from this than from that—easily 
from either. Her acts are bookish, and 
her books are less thoughts than acts. 
Her literary and her conversational 
manner are identical. Here is a passage 
from her “Summer on the Lakes” :— 

“The rapids enchanted me far beyond 
what I expected; they are so swift that 
they cease to seem so—you can think 
only of their beauty. The fountain be- 
yond the Moss islands I discovered for 
myself, and thought it for some time 
an accidental beauty which it would not 
do to leave, lest I might never see it 
again. After I found it permanent, I 
returned many times to watch the play 
of its crest. In the little waterfall be- 
yond, Nature seems, as she often does, 
to have made a study for some larger 
design. She delights in this—a sketch 
within a sketch—a dream within a 
dream. Wherever we see it, the lines 
of the great buttress in the fragment of 
stone, the hues of the waterfall, copied 
in the flowers that star its bordering 
mosses, we are delighted; for all the 
lineaments become fluent, and we mould 
the scene in congenial thought with its 
genius.” 

Now all this is precisely as Miss 
Fuller would speak it. She is perpetu- 
ally saying just such things in just 
such words. To get the conversational 
woman in the mind’s eye, all that is 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


| needed is to imagine her reciting the 


_ paragraph just quoted: but first let us 
have the personal woman. She is of 


| the medium height; nothing remarkable 


about the figure; a profusion of lustrous 


| light hair; eyes a bluish grey, full of 


fire; capacious forehead; the mouth 
when in repose indicates profound sensi- 
bility, capacity for affection, for love— 
when moved by a slight smile, it be- 
comes even beautiful in the intensity 
of this expression: but the upper lip, as 
if impelled by the action of involuntary 
muscles, habitually uplifts itself, con- 
veying the impression of a sneer. 
Imagine, now, a person of this .escrip- 
tion looking you at one moment earn- 
_estly in the face, at the next seeming 
to look only within her own spirit or 
at the wall; moving nervously every 
now and then in her chair; speaking in 
a high key, but musically, deliberately 
(not hurriedly or loudly), with a 
delicious distinctness of enunciation— 
_ speaking, I say, the paragraph in ques- 
tion, and emphasizing the words which 
I have italicised, not by impulsion of 
the breath (as is usual), but by drawing 
them out as long as possible, nearly 
closing her eyes the while—imagine all 
this, and we have both the woman and 
_ the authoress before us. 


CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND 


Mrs. KirKLAnpn’s “New Home,” 
_ published under the nom de plume of 
| “Mary Clavers,” wrought an _ un- 
doubted sensation. The cause lay not 
so much in picturesque description, in 
racy humour, or in animated individual 
portraiture, as in truth and novelty. 
The West at the time was a field com- 
paratively untrodden by the sketcher or 


1163 


the novelist. In certain works, to be 
sure, we had obtained brief glimpses 
of character strange to us sojourners in 
the civilised East, but to Mrs. Kirkland 
alone we were indebted for our ac- 
quaintance with the home and home-life 
of the backwoodsman. With a fidelity 
and vigour that prove her pictures to 
be taken from the very life, she has 
represented “scenes” that could have 
occurred only as and where she has de- 
scribed them. She has placed before us 
the veritable settlers of the forest, with 
all their peculiarities, national and indi- 
vidual; their free’ and fearless spirit; 
their homely utilitarian views; their 
shrewd out-looking for self-interest; 
their thrifty care and inventions multi- 
form; their coarseness of manner united 
with real delicacy and substantial kind- 
ness when their sympathies are called 
into action—in a word, with all the 
characteristics of the Yankee, in a re- 
gion where the salient points of char- 
acter are unsmoothed by contact with 
society. So lifelike were her represen- 
tations that they have been appropri- 
ated as individual portraits by many 
who have been disposed to plead, 
trumpet-tongued, against what they sup- 
posed to be “the deep damnation of 
their taking-off.” 

“Forest Life’ succeeded “A New 
Home,” and was read with equal in- 
terest. It gives us, perhaps, more of 
the philosophy of Western life, but has 
the same freshness, freedom, piquancy. 
Of course, a truthful picture of pioneer 
habits could never be given in any 
grave history or essay so well as in the 
form of narration, where each character 
is permitted to develop itself; narration, 
therefore, was very properly adopted by 
Mrs. Kirkland in both the books just 


1164 


mentioned, and even more entirely in 
her later volume, ‘Western Clearings.” 
This is the title of a collection of tales, 
illustrative, in general, of Western 
manners, customs, ideas. “The Land 
Fever” is a story of the wild days when 
the madness of speculation in land was 
at its height. It is a richly character- 
istic sketch, as is also “The Ball at 
Thram’s Huddle.” Only those who 
have had the fortune to visit or live 
in the “back settlements” can enjoy 
such pictures to the full. “Chances and 
Changes” and “Love v. Aristocracy” 
are more regularly ‘constructed fales, 
with the “universal passion” as the 
moving power, but coloured with the 
glowing hues of the West. ‘The Bee 
Tree” exhibits a striking but too numer- 
ous class among the settlers, and ex- 
plains, also, the depth of the bitterness 
that grows out of an unprosperous con- 
dition in that “Paradise of the Poor.” 
‘‘“Ambuscades” and ‘“‘Half-Lengths from 
Life’ I remember as two piquant 
sketches to which an annual, a year or 
two ago, was indebted for a most un- 
usual sale among the conscious and 
pen-dreading denizens of the West. 
‘“Half-Lengths’ turns on the trying 
subject of caste. ‘The Schoolmaster’s 
Progress” is full of truth and humour. 
The Western pedagogue, the stiff, soli- 
tary nondescript figure in the drama of 
a new settlement, occupying a middle 
position between “‘our folks” and ‘“‘com- 
pany,’ and “boarding round,” is irre- 
sistibly amusing, and cannot fail to be 
recognised as the representative of a 
class. The occupation, indeed, always 
seems to mould those engaged in it— 
they all soon, like Master Horner, learn 
to “know well what belongs to the 
pedagogical character, and that facial 


Thoughts on the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


solemnity stands high on the list of in- 
dispensable qualifications.” .The spell- 
ing-school, also, is a “new country” 
feature which we owe Mrs. Kirkland 
many thanks for recording. The inci- 
dents of “An Embroidered Fact” are 
singular and picturesque, but not par- 
ticularly illustrative of the ‘“Clearings.” 
The same may be said of “Bitter Fruits 
from Chance-Sown Seeds’; but this 
abounds in capital touches of character: 
all the horrors of the tale are brought 
about through suspicion of pride, an 
accusation as destructive in the West as 
that of witchcraft in olden times, or the 
cry of mad dog in modern. 

In the way of absolute books, Mrs. 
Kirkland, I believe, has achieved noth- 
ing beyond the three volumes specified 
(with another lately issued by Wiley 
and Putnam), but she is a very con- 
stant contributor to the magazines. 
Unquestionably, she is one of our best 
writers, has a province of her own, and 
in that province has few equals. Her 
most noticeable trait is a certain fresh- 
ness of style, seemingly drawn, as her 
subjects in general, from the West. In 
the second place is to be observed a 
species of wit, approximating humour, 
and so interspersed with pure fun, that 
“wit,” after all, is nothing lke a defi- 
nition of it. To give an example—‘Old 
New Year’ com- 
mences with a quotation from Tasso’s 
“Aminta”’: 


Il mondo invecchia 
E invecchiando intristisce; 


and the following is given as a “free 
translation” :— 


The world is growing older 
And wiser day by day; 


THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


Everybody knows beforehand 
What you’re going to say. 

We used to laugh and frolic— 
Now we must behave; 

Poor old Fun is dead and buried— 
Pride dug his grave. 


This, if I am not mistaken, is the only 
specimen of poetry as yet given by Mrs. 
Kirkland to the world. She has afforded 
‘us no means of judging in respect to 
her inventive powers, although fancy, 
and even imagination, are apparent in 
everything she does. Her perceptive 
faculties enable her to describe with 
great verisimilitude. Her mere style is 
admirable, lucid, terse, full of variety, 
faultlessly pure, and yet bold—so bold 
as to appear heedless of the ordinary 
decora of composition. In even her 
most reckless sentences, however, she 
betrays the woman of refinement, of 
accomplishment, of unusually thorough 
education. 
points in which her general manner re- 
sembles that of Willis, whom she evi- 
dently admires. Indeed, it would not 
be difficult to pick out from her works 
an occasional Willisism, not less palpa- 
ble than happy. For example :— 
“Peaches were like little green velvet 
buttons when George was first mistaken 
for Doctor Beaseley, and before they 
were ripe he,” etc. 
And again— 
“Mr. Hammond is fortunately settled 
/in our neighbourhood, for the present 
-at least; and he has the neatest little 
cottage in the world, standing, too, 
under a very tall oak, which bends 
kindly over it, looking like the Princess 
_Glumdalclitch inclining her ear to the 
box which contained her pet Gulliver.” 
Mrs. Kirkiand’s personal manner is 


There are a great many | 


1165 


an echo of her literary one. She is 
frank, cordial, yet sufficiently dignified 
—even bold, yet especially lady-like; 
converses with remarkable accuracy as 
well as fluency; is brilliantly witty, and 
now and then not a little sarcastic, but 
a general amiability prevails. 

She is rather above the medium 
height; eyes and hair dark; features 
somewhat small, with no marked char- 
acteristics, but the whole countenance 
beams with benevolence and intellect. 


EPES SARGENT 


Mr. SARGENT is well known to the 
public as the author of ‘Velasco, a 
Tragedy,’ “The Light of the Light- 
house, with other Poems,” one or two 
short nouvellettes, and numerous con- 
tributions to the periodicals. He was 
also the editor of Sargent’s Magazine, 
a monthly work, which had the mis- 
fortune of falling between two stools, 
never having been able to make up its 
mind whether to be popular with the 
three or dignified with the five dollar 
journal. It was a “happy medium’’ be- 
tween the two classes, and met the fate 
of all happy media in dying, as well 
through lack of foes as of friends. Jn 
medio tutissimus ibis is the worst advice 
in the world for the editor of a mag- 
zine. Its observance proved the down- 
fall of Mr. Lowell and his really meri- 
torious Pioneer. 

“Velasco” has received some words 
of commendation from the author of 
“Ton,” and I am ashamed to say, owes 
most of its home appreciation to this 
circumstance. Mr. Talfourd’s play has, 
itself, little truly dramatic, with much 
picturesque and more poetical value; 
its author, nevertheless, is better en- 


1166 


titled to respect as a dramatist than as 
a critic of dramas. “Velasco,” com- 
pared with American tragedies gen- 
erally, is a good tragedy—indeed, an 
excellent one, but positively considered, 
its merits are very inconsiderable. It 
has many of the traits of Mrs. Mo- 
watt’s “Fashion,” to which, in its mode 
of construction, its scenic effects, and 
several other points, it bears as close 
a resemblance as in the nature of things 
it could very well bear. It is by no 
means improbable, however, that Mrs. 
Mowatt received some assistance from 
Mr. Sargent in the composition of her 
comedy, or at least was guided by his ad- 
vice in many particulars of technicality. 
“Shells and Sea Weeds,” a series of 
brief poems, recording the incidents of 
a voyage to Cuba, is, I think, the best 
work in verse of its author, and evinces 
a fine fancy, with keen appreciation of 
the beautiful in natural scenery. Mr. 
Sargent is fond of sea pieces, and paints 
them with skill, flooding them with that 
warmth and geniality which are their 
character and their due. “A Life on the 
Ocean Wave” has attained great pop- 
ularity, but is by no means so good as 
the less lyrical compositions, ‘““A Calm,” 
“The Gale,” “Tropical Weather,’ and 
“A Night Storm at Sea.” “The Light 
of the Lighthouse” is a spirited poem, 
with many musical and fanciful pas- 
sages, well expressed. For example: 


But, oh, Aurora’s crimson light, 
That makes the watch-fire dim, 

Is not a more transporting sight 
Than Ellen is to him. 

He pineth not for fields and brooks, 
Wild flowers and singing birds, 

For summer smileth in her looks 
And singeth in her words. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


There is something of the Dibdin 
spirit throughout the poem, and indeed 
throughout all the sea poems of Mr. 
Sargent—a little too much of it per- 
haps. 

His prose is not quite so meritorious 
as his poetry. He writes “easily,” and 
is apt at burlesque and sarcasm—both 
rather broad than original. Mr. Sar- 
gent has an excellent memory for good 
hits, and no little dexterity in their ap- 
plication. To those who meddle little 
with books, some of his satirical papers 
must appear brilliant. In a word, he is 
one of the most prominent members of 
a very extensive American family—the 
men of industry, talent, and tact. 

In stature he is short—not more than 
five feet five—but well proportioned. 
His face is a fine one; the features reg- 
ular and expressive. His demeanour 
is very gentlemanly. Unmarried, and 


about thirty years of age. 


LYDIA M. CHILD 


Mrs. Cuitp has acquired a just ce- 
lebrity by many compositions of high 
merit, the most noticeable of which are 
“Hobomok,” “Philothea,’ and a “His- 
tory of the Condition of Women.” 
“Philothea,” in especial, is written with 
great vigour, and as a Classical romance 
is not far inferior to the ‘‘Anacharsis” 
of Barthelemi; its style is a model for 
purity, chastity, and ease. Some of her 
magazine papers are distinguished for 
graceful and brilliant imagination—a 
quality rarely noticed in our country- 
women. She continues to write a great 
deal for the monthlies and other jour- 
nals, and invariably writes well. Poetry 
she has not often attempted, but I make 
no doubt that in this she would excel. 


THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


| It seems, indeed, the legitimate province 
of her fervid and fanciful nature. I 
quote one of her shorter compositions, 
as well to instance (from the subject) 
her intense appreciation of genius in 
others as to exemplify the force of her 
poetic expression :— 


MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 


Pillars are fallen at thy feet, 
Fanes quiver in the air, 

A prostrate city is thy seat, 
And thou alone art there. 


No change comes o’er thy noble brow, 
Though ruin is around thee; 

Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now 
As when the laurel crowned thee. 


It cannot bend thy lofty soul 
Though friends and fame depart— 
The car of Fate may o’er thee roll 
Nor crush thy Roman heart. 


And genius hath electric power 
Which earth can never tame; 
Bright suns may scorch and dark clouds 
lower, ) 
Its flash is still the same. 


The dreams we loved in early life 

May melt like mist away; 

High thoughts may seem, ’mid passion’s 
| strife, 
Like Carthage in decay; 


And proud hopes in the human heart 
May be to ruin hurled, 

Like mouldering monuments of art 
Heaped on a sleeping world; 


— Yet there is something will not die 
Where life hath once been fair; 


1167 


Some towering thoughts still rear on 
high, 
Some Roman lingers there. 


Mrs. Child, casually observed, has 
nothing particularly striking in her per- 
sonal appearance. One would pass her 
in the street a dozen times without 
notice. She is low in stature and slight- 
ly framed. Her complexion is florid; 
eyes and hair are dark; features in 
general diminutive. The expression of | 
her countenance, when animated, is 
highly intellectual. Her dress is usually 
plain, not even neat—anything but 
fashionable. Her bearing needs excite- 
ment to impress it with life and dignity. 
She is of that order of beings who are 
themselves only on “great occasions.” 
Her husband is still living. She has 
no children. I need scarcely add that 
she has always been distinguished for 
her energetic and active philanthropy. 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 


I HAVE seen one or two brief poems 
of considerable merit with the signature 
of Thomas Dunn English appended. 
For example :— 


A sound melodious shook the breeze 
When thy beloved name was heard: 
Such was the music in the word, 

Its dainty rhythm the pulses stirred: 

But passed for ever joys like these. 
There is no joy, no light, no day, 
But black despair and night al-way 

And thickening gloom: 
And this, Azthene, is my doom. 


Was it for this, for weary years, 
I strove among the sons of men, 
And by the magic of my pen— 


1168 


Just sorcery—walked the lion’s den 
Of slander, void of tears and fears— 
And all for thee? For thee!—alas, 
As is the image on a glass 
So baseless seems, 
Azthene, all my early dreams. 


I must confess, however, that I do 
not appreciate the “dainty rhythm” of 
such a word as ‘“Azthene,” and, per- 
haps, there is a little taint of egotism 
' in the passage about “the magic” of Mr. 
English’s pen. Let us be charitable, 
however, and set all this down under 
the head of “pure imagination,” or in- 
vention—one of the first of poetical 
requisites. The inexcusable sin of Mr. 
English is imitation—if this be not too 
mild a term. Barry Cornwall and oth- 
ers of the bizarre school are his especial 


favourites. He has taken, too, most un- 


warrantable liberties, in the way of 
downright plagiarism, from a Philadel- 
phian poet whose high merits have not 
been properly appreciated—Mr. Henry 
B. Hirst. 

I place Mr. English, however, on my 
list of New York Jiterati, not on account 
of his poetry (which I presume he is 
not weak enough to estimate very 
highly), but on the score of his having 
edited for several months, ‘“‘with the aid 
of numerous collaborateurs,” a monthly 
magazine called The Aristidean. This 
work, although professedly a monthly, 
was issued at irregular intervals, and 
was unfortunate, I fear, in not attain- 
ing at any period a very extensive cir- 
culation. 

I learn that Mr. English is not with- 
out talent; but the fate of The Aristid- 
ean should indicate to him the necessity 
of applying himself to study. No spec- 
tacle can be more pitiable than that of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


a man without the commonest school 
education, busying himself in attempts 
to instruct mankind on topics of polite 
literature. The absurdity in such cases 
does not lie merely in the ignorance 
displayed by the would-be instructor, 
but in the transparency of the shifts 
by which he endeavours to keep this 
ignorance concealed. The editor of 
The Aristidean, for example, was not 
laughed at so much on account of writ- 
ing “lay” for “lie,” etc., etc., and coup- 
ling nouns in the plural with verbs in 
the singular—as when he writes, above, 


So baseless seems, 
Azthene, all my early dreams— 


he was not, I say, laughed at so much 
for his excusable deficiencies of Eng- 
lish grammar (although an editor should 
certainly be able to write his own 
name) as that, in the hope of disguising 
such deficiency, he was perpetually la- 
menting the ‘typographical blunders,” 
that “in the most unaccountable manner 
would creep into his work.’’ Nobody 
was so stupid as to believe for a mo- 
ment that there existed in New York 
a single proof-reader—or even a single 
printer’s devil—who would have per- 
mitted such errors to escape. By the 
excuses offered, therefore, the errors 
were only the more manifestly nailed 
to the country as Mr. English’s own. 

I make these remarks in no spirit of 
unkindness. Mr. English is yet young— 
certainly not more than thirty-five—and 
might, with his talents, readily improve 
himself at points where he is most de- 
fective. No one of any generosity 
would think the worse of him for get- 
ting instruction. 

I do not personally know Mr. Eng- 











THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


lish. He is, I believe, from Philadel- 
_ phia, where he was formerly a doctor 
of medicine, and subsequently took up 
the profession of law; more latterly he 
_ joined the Tyler party and devoted his 
attention to politics. About his per- 
sonal appearance there is nothing very 
observable. I cannot say whether he 
_ Is married or not. 


CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK 


Miss SEDGWICK is not only one of 
our most celebrated and most meri- 
torious writers, but attained reputation 
at a period when American reputation 
in letters was regarded as a phenome- 
non; and thus, like Irving, Cooper, 
Paulding, Bryant, Halleck, and one or 
two others, she is indebted, certainly, 
for some portion of the esteem in which 
she was and is held, to our patriotic 
pride and gratitude to which I have al- 
ready alluded, and for which we must 
make reasonable allowance in estimating 
the absolute merit of our literary pio- 
neers. 

Her earliest published work of any 
length: was “A New England Tale,” de- 
signed in the first place as a religious 
tract, but expanding itself into a volume 
of considerable size. Its success—par- 
tially owing, perhaps, to the influence 
of the parties for whom or at whose 
instigation it was written—encouraged 
the author to attempt a novel of some- 
what greater elaborateness as well as 
length, and “Redwood” was soon an- 
nounced, establishing her at once as the 
first female prose writer of her country. 
It was reprinted in England, and trans- 
lated, I believe, into French and Italian. 
“Hope Leslie’ next appeared—also a 
novel—and was more favourably re- 


1169 


ceived even than its predecessors. Aft- 
erwards came ‘Clarence,’ not quite so 
successful, and then “The Linwoods,” 
which took rank in the public esteem 
with “Hope Leslie.” These are all of 
her longer prose fictions, but she has 
written numerous shorter ones of great 
merit—such as “The Rich Poor Man, 
and the Poor Rich Man,” “Live and 
Let Live” (both in volume form), with 
various articles for the magazines and 
annuals, to which she is still an indus- 
trious contributor. About ten years 
since she published a compilation of 
several of her fugitive prose pieces, un- 
der the title ‘Tales of Sketches,’ and 
a short time ago a series of “Letters 
from Abroad’—not the least popular 
or least meritorious of her compositions. 

Miss Sedgwick has now and then been 
nicknamed “the Miss Edgeworth of 
America,” but she has done nothing to 
bring down upon her the vengeance of 
so equivocal a title. That she has 
thoroughly studied and profoundly ad- 
mired Miss Edgeworth may, indeed, be 
gleaned from her works—but what 
woman has not? Of imitation there is 
not the slightest perceptible taint. In 
both authors we observe the same tone 
of thoughtful morality, but here all 
resemblance ceases. In the English- 
woman there is far more of a certain 
Scotch prudence, in the American more 
of warmth, tenderness, sympathy for 
the weaknesses of her sex. Miss Edge- 
worth is the more acute, the more in- 
ventive, and the more rigid. Miss Sedg- 
wick is the more womanly. 

All her stories are full of interest. 
The “New England Tale’ and “Hope 
Leslie” are especially so but upon the 
whole I am best pleased with “The Lin- 
woods.” Its prevailing features are 


1170 


ease, purity of style, pathos, and veri- 
similitude. To plot it has little preten- 
sion. The scene is in America; the 
date, as the sub-title indicates, “Sixty 
years since.” This, by-the-by, is taken 
from “Waverley.” The adventures of 
the family of a Mr. Linwood, a resident 
of New York, form the principal theme. 
The character of this gentleman is hap- 
pily drawn, although there is an antag- 
onism between the initial and conclud- 
ing touches—the end has forgotten the 
beginning, like the government of Trin- 
culo. Mr. L. has two children, Herbert 
and Isabella. Being himself a Tory, 
the boyish impulses of his son in favour 
of the revolutionists are watched with 
anxiety and vexation; and on _ the 
breaking out of the war, Herbert, posi- 
tively refusing to drink the king’s 
health, is expelled from home by his fa- 
ther—an event on which hinges the 
main interest of the narrative. Isabella 
is the heroine proper, full of generous 
impulses, beautiful, intellectual, spirit- 
uelle—indeed a most fascinating crea- 
ture. But the family of a Widow Lee 
throws quite a charm over all the 
book—a matronly, pious, and devoted 
mother, yielding up her son to the cause 
of her country—the son gallant, chival- 
rous, yet thoughtful; a daughter, gentle, 
loving, melancholy, and susceptible of 
light impressions. This daughter, Bessie 
Lee, is one of the most effective per- 
sonations to be found in our fictitious 
literature, and may lay claims to the 
distinction of originality—no slight dis- 
tinction where character is concerned. 
It is the old story, to be sure, of a 
meek and trusting heart broken by 
treachery and abandonment, but in the 
narration of Miss Sedgwick it breaks 
upon us with all the freshness of novel 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


emotion. Deserted by her lover, an 
accomplished and_ aristocratical cox- 
comb, the spirits of the gentle girl sink 
gradually from trust to simple hope, 
from hope to anxiety, from anxiety to 
doubt, from doubt to melancholy, and 
from melancholy to madness. The 
gradation is depicted in a masterly man- 
ner. She escapes from her home in 
New England and endeavours to make 
her way alone to New York, with the 
object of restoring to him who had aban- 
doned her some tokens he had given her 
of his love—an act which her disordered 
fancy assures her will effect in her own 
person a disenthralment from passion. 
Her piety, her madness, and her beauty 
stand her in stead of the lion of Una, 
and she reaches the city in safety. In 
that portion of the narrative which em- 
bodies this journey are some passages 
which no mind unimbued with the pur- 
est spirit of poetry could have con- 
ceived, and they have often made me 
wonder why Miss Sedgwick has never 
written a poem. 

I have already alluded to her usual 
excellence of style, but she has a very 
peculiar fault—that of discrepancy be- 
tween the words and character of the 
speaker—the fault, indeed, more prop- 
erly belongs to the depicting of char- 
acter itself. 

For example, at page 38, vol. i, of 
“The Linwoods”:— 


“No more of thy contempt for the 
Yankees, Hal, an thou lovest me,” re- 
plied Jasper. “You remember A®sop’s 
advice to Croesus at the Persian court?” 

“No, I am sure I do not. You have 
the most provoking way of resting the 
lever, by which you bring out your own 
knowledge, on your friend’s ignorance.” 


THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


Now all this is pointed (although the 
last sentence would have been improved 
by letting the words “on your friend’s 
ignorance’ come immediately after 
“vesting”’), but it is by no means the 
language of schoolboys—and such are 
the speakers. 

Again at page 226, vol. 1, of the same 
— novel:— 


“Now, out on you, you lazy, slavish 
loons!” cried Rose. ‘‘Cannot you see 
these men are raised up to fight for 
freedom far more than themselves? If 
the chain be broken at one end, the 
links will fall apart sooner or later. 
_ When you see the sun on the mountain 
top, you may be sure it will shine into 
the deepest valleys before long.” 


Who would suppose this graceful elo- 
quence to proceed from the mouth of a 
negro woman? Yet such is Rose. 

Again at page 24, vol. i, same 
_ novel :— 


_ “True, I never saw her; but I tell 
_ you, voung lad, that there is such a 
_ thing as seeing the shadow of things far 
_ distant and past, and never seeing the 
| realities, though they it be that cast the 
_ shadows.” 


Here the speaker is an old woman 
'who, a few sentences before, has been 
boasting of her proficiency in “tellin’ 
| fortins.” 

I might object, too, very decidedly 
| to the vulgarity of such a phrase as 
_ “TJ put in my oar” (meaning, “I joined 
in the conversation”), when proceed- 
ing from the mouth of so well-bred a 
_ personage as Miss Isabella Linwood. 


1171 


These are, certainly, most remarkable 
inadvertences. 

As the author of many*books—of sev- 
eral absolutely bound volumes in the 
ordinary “novel” form of auld lang 
syne, Miss Sedgwick has a certain ad- . 
ventitious hold upon the attention of 
the public, a species of tenure that has 
nothing to do with literature proper— 
a very decided advantage, in short, over 
her more modern rivals whom fashion 
and the growing influence of the want 
of an international copyright law have 
condemned to the external insignificance 
of the yellow-backed pamphleteering. 

We must permit, however, neither 
this advantage nor the more obvious 
one of her having been one of our 
pioneers to bias the critical judgment, 
as it makes estimate of her abilities in 
comparison with those of her present 
contemporaries. She has neither the 
vigour of Mrs. Stephens, nor the viva- 
cious grace of Miss Chubbuck, nor the 
pure style of Mrs. Embury, nor the 
classic imagination of Mrs. Child, nor 
the naturalness of Mrs. Annan, nor the 
thoughtful and suggestive originality of 
Miss Fuller; but in many of the quali- 
ties mentioned she excels, and in no one 
of them is she particularly deficient. 
She is an author of marked talent, but 
by no means of such decided genius as 
would entitle her to that precedence 
among our female writers which, under 
the circumstances to which I have al- 
luded, seems to be yielded her by the 
voice of the public. 

Strictly speaking, Miss Sedgwick is 
not one of the literati of New York 
city, but she passes here about half or 
rather more than half her time. Her 
home is Stockbridge, Massachusetts. 
Her family is one of the first in America. 


ELA2 


Her father, Theodore Sedgwick the 
elder, was an eminent jurist, and de- 
scended from one of Cromwell’s major- 


generals. Many of her relatives have 
distinguished themselves in various 
ways. 


She is about the medium height, per- 
haps a little below it. Her forehead is 
an unusually fine one; nose of a slight- 
ly Roman curve; eyes dark and pierc- 
ing; mouth well formed and remarkably 
pleasant in its expression. The portrait 
in Graham’s Magazine is by no means a 
likeness, and, although the hair is rep- 
resented as curled (Miss Sedgwick at 
present wears a cap—at least most 
usually), gives her the air of being 
much older than she is. 

Her manners are those of a high-bred 
woman, but her ordinary manner vacil- 
lates in a singular way between cor- 
diality and a reserve amounting to 
hauteur. © 


LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK 


Mr. Ciark is known principally as 
the twin-brother of the late Willis Gay- 
lord Clark, the poet, of Philadelphia, 
with whom he has often been con- 
founded from similarity both of person 
and of name. He is known, also, with- 
in a more limited circle, as one of the 
editors of The Knickerbocker Magazine, 
and it is in this latter capacity that I 
must be considered as placing him 
among literary people. He writes little 
himself, the editorial scraps which 
usually appear in fine type at the end 
of The Knickerbocker being the joint 
composition of a great variety of gentle- 
men (most of them possessing shrewd- 
ness and talent) connected with diverse 
journals about the city of New York. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


It is only in some such manner, as 
might be supposed, that so amusing and 
so heterogeneous a medley of chit-chat 
could be put together. Were a little 
more pains taken in elevating the tone 
of this ‘“Editor’s Table’ (which its 
best friends are forced to admit is at 
present a little Boweryish), I should 
have no hesitation in commending it in 
general as a very creditable and very 
entertaining specimen of what may be 
termed easy writing and hard reading. 

It is not, of course, to be understood 
from anything I have here said, that 
Mr. Clark does not occasionally con- 
tribute editorial matter to the magazine. 
His compositions, however, are far from 
numerous, and are always to be dis- 
tinguished by their style, which is “more 
easily to be imagined than described.” 
It has its merit, beyond doubt, but I 
shall not undertake to say that either 
“vigour,” “force,” or ‘“impressiveness” 
is the precise term by which that merit 
should be designated. Mr. Clark once 
did me the honour-to review my poems, 
and—I forgive him. 

The Knickerbocker has been long 
established, and seems to have in it 
some important elements of success. 
Its title, for a merely local one, is un- 
questionably good. Its contributors 
have usually been men of eminence. 
Washington Irving was at one period 
regularly engaged. Paulding, Bryant, 
Neal, and several others of nearly equal 
note have also at various times fur- 
nished articles, although none of these 
gentlemen, I believe, continue their 
communications. In general the con- 
tributed matter has been praiseworthy; 
the printing, paper, and so forth, have 
been excellent, and there certainly has 
been no lack of exertion in the way of 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


what is termed “putting the work before 
the eye of the public’; still some in- 
comprehensible incubus has seemed al- 
ways to sit heavily upon it, and it has 
never succeeded in attaining position 
among intelligent or educated readers. 
On account of the manner in which it 
is necessarily edited, the work is de- 
ficient in that absolutely indispensable 
element, individuality. As the editor 
has no precise character, the magazine, 
as a matter of course, can have none. 
When I say “no precise character,” I 
mean that Mr. C. as a literary man has 
about him no determinateness, no dis- 
tinctiveness, no saliency of point;—an 
apple in fact, or a pumpkin, has more 
angles. He is as smooth as oil or a 
sermon from Doctor Hawks; he is 
noticeable for nothing in the world ex- 
cept for the markedness by which he is 
noticeable for nothing. 

What is the precise circulation of The 
Knickerbocker at present I am unable 
to say; it has been variously stated at 
from eight to eighteen hundred sub- 
scribers. The former estimate is no 
doubt too low, and the latter, I pre- 
sume, is far too high. There are per- 
haps some fifteen hundred _ copies 
printed. 

At the period of his brother’s decease, 
Mr. Lewis G. Clark bore to him a 
striking resemblance, but within the last 
vear or two there has been much alter- 
ation in the person of the editor of 
The Knickerbocker. He is now, per- 
haps, forty-two or three, but still good- 
looking. His forehead is phrenologically 
bad—round and what is termed “bul- 
lety.” The mouth, however, is much 
better, although the smile is too con- 
stant and lacks expression; the teeth 
are white and regular. His hair and 


1173 


whiskers are dark, the latter meeting 
voluminously beneath the chin. In 
height Mr. C. is about five feet ten or 
eleven, and in the street might be re- 
garded as quite a “personable man”; 
in society I have never had the pleas- 
ure of meeting him. He is married, I 
believe. 


ANNE C. LYNCH 


Miss ANNE CHARLOTTE LyNcH has 
written little;—her compositions are 
even too few to be collected in volume 
form. Her prose has been, for the most 
part, anon .nous—critical papers in The 
New York Mirror and elsewhere, with 
unacknowledged contributions to the an- 
nuals, especially The Gift, and The Dia- 
dem, both of Philadelphia. Her “Diary 
of a Recluse,” published in the former 
work, is, perhaps, the best specimen of 
her prose manner and ability. I re- 
member, also, a fair critique on Fanny 
Kemble’s poems;—this appeared in 
The Democratic Review. 

In poetry, however, she has done 
better, and given evidence of, at least, 
unusual talent. Some of her composi- 
tions in this way are of merit, and one 
or two of excellence. In the former 
class I place her “Bones in the Desert,” 
published in The Opal for 1846, her 
“Farewell to Ole Bull,” first printed in 
The Tribune, and one or two of her 
sonnets—not forgetting some graceful 
and touching lines on the death of Mrs. 
Willis. In the latter class I place two 
noble poems, “The Ideal’ and “The 
Ideal Found.” These should be con- 
sidered as one, for each is by itself im- 
perfect. In modulation and vigour of 
rhythm, in dignity and elevation of 
sentiment, in, metaphorical appositeness 


1174 


and accuracy, and in energy of expres- 
sion, I really do not know where to 
point out anything American much su- 
perior to them. Their ideality is not so 
manifest as their passion, but I think 
it an usual indication of taste in Miss 
Lynch, or (more strictly) of an in- 
tuitive sense of poetry’s true nature, 
that this passion is just sufficiently sub- 
dued to lie within the compass of the 
poetic art, within the limits of the beau- 
_ tiful. A step farther, and it might have 
passed them. Mere passion, however 
exciting, prosaically excites; it is in its 
very essence homely, and delights in 
homeliness; but the triumph over pas- 
sion, as so finely depicted in the two 
poems mentioned, is one of the purest 
and most idealising manifestations of 
moral beauty. 

In character Miss Lynch is enthu- 
siastic, chivalric, self-sacrificing, “equal 
to any fate,’ capable of even martyr- 
dom in whatever should seem to her a 
holy cause—a most exemplary daugh- 
ter. She has her hobbies, however (of 
which a very indefinite idea of “duty” 
is one), and is, of course, readily im- 
posed upon by any artful person who 
perceives and takes advantage of this 
most amiable failing. 

In person she is rather above «the 
usual height, somewhat slender, with 
dark hair and eyes—the whole counte- 
nance at times full of intelligent ex- 
pression. Her demeanour is dignified, 
graceful, and noticeable for repose. She 
goes much into literary society. 


CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN 


Mr. CHARLES FENNO HoFFMAN has 


been long known to the public as an. 


author. He commenced his literary 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


career (as is usually the case in 
America) by writing for the newspa- 
pers—for The New York American 
especially, in the editorial conduct of 
which he became in some manner asso- 
ciated, at a very early age, with Mr. 
Charles King. His first book, I believe, 
was a collection (entitled “A Winter in 
the West”) of letters published in The 
American during a tour made by their 
author through the “Far West.” This 
work appeared in 1834, went through 
several editions, was reprinted in Lon- 
don, was very popular, and deserved its 
popularity. It conveys the natural en- 
thusiasm of a true zdealist, in the proper 
phrenological sense, of one sensitively 
alive to beauty in every development. 
Its scenre descriptions are vivid, be- 
cause fresh, genuine, unforced. There 
is nothing of the cant of the tourist for 
the sake not of nature but of tourism. 
The author writes what he feels, and, 
clearly, because he feels it. The style, 
as well as that of all Mr. Hoffman’s 
books, is easy, free from superfluities, 
and, although abundant in broad 
phrases, still singularly refined, gentle- 
manly. This ability to speak boldly 
without blackguardism, to use the tools 
of the rabble when necessary without 
soiling or roughening the hands with 
their employment, is a rare and unerring 
test of the natural in contradistinction 
from the artificial aristocrat. 

Mr. H’s next work was “Wild Scenes 
in the Forest and Prairie,” very similar 
to the preceding, but more diversified 
with anecdote and interspersed with 
poetry. ‘“Greyslaer”’ followed, a ro- 
mance based on the well-known murder 
of Sharp, the Solicitor-General of Ken- 
tucky, by Beauchampe. W. Gilmore 
Simms (who has far more power, more 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


passion, more movement, more skill 
than Mr. Hoffman) has treated the 
same subject more effectively in his 
novel “Beauchampe’’; but the fact is 
that both gentlemen have positively 
failed, as might have been expected. 
That both books are interesting is no 
merit either of Mr. H. or of Mr. S. 
The real events were more impressive 
than are the fictitious ones. The facts 
of this remarkable tragedy, as arranged 
by actual circumstances, would put to 
shame the skill of the most consummate 
artist. Nothing was left to the novelist 
but the amplification of character, and 
at this point neither the author of 
“Greyslaer” nor of ‘“Beauchampe’’ is 
especially au fait. The incidents might 
be better woven into a tragedy. 

In the way of poetry, Mr. Hoffman 
has also written a good deal. ‘The 
Vigil of Faith and Other Poems” is the 
title of a volume published several years 
ago. The subject of the leading poem 
is happy—whether originally conceived 
by Mr. H. or based on an actual super- 
stition, I cannot say. Two Indian 
chiefs are rivals in love. The accepted 
lover is about to be made happy, when 
his betrothed is murdered by the dis- 
carded suitor. The revenge taken is the 
careful preservation of the life of the 
assassin, under the idea that the meet- 
ing the maiden in another world is the 
point most desired by both the sur- 
vivors. The incidents interwoven are 
picturesque, and there are many quot- 
able passages; the descriptive portions 
are particularly good, but the author 
has erred, first, in narrating the story in 
the first person, and secondly, in put- 
ting into the mouth of the narrator 
language and sentiments above the na- 
ture of an Indian. I say that the nar- 


1175 


ration should not have been in the first 
person, because, although an Indian may 
and does fully experience a thousand 
delicate shades of sentiment (the whole 
idea of the story is essentially senti- 
mental), still he has, clearly, no capac- 
ity for their various expression. Mr. 
Hoffman’s hero is made to discourse 
very much after the manner of Rous- 
seau. Nevertheless, “The Vigil of 
Faith” is, upon the whole, one of our 
most meritorious poems. The shorter 
pieces in the collection have been more 
popular; one or two of the songs par- 
ticularly so—Sparkling and Bright,” 
for example, which is admirably adapted 
to song purposes, and is full of lyric 
feeling. It cannot be denied, however, 
that, in general, the whole tone, air, 
and spirit of Mr. Hoffman’s fugitive 
compositions are echoes of Moore. At 
times the very words and figures of the 
“British Anacreon” are unconsciously 
adopted. Neither can there be any 
doubt that this obvious similarity, if 
not positive imitation, is the source of 
the commendation bestowed upon our 
poet by The Dublin University Maga- 
zine, which declares him “the best song 
writer in America,” and does him also 
the honour to intimate its opinion that 
“he is a better fellow than the whole 
Yankee crew” of us taken together— 
after which there is very little to be 
said. 

Whatever may be the merits of Mr. 
Hoffman as a poet, it may be easily seen 
that these merits have been put in the 
worst possible light by the indiscriminate 
and lavish approbation bestowed on 
them by Mr. Griswold in his “Poets and 
Poetry of America.” He can find no 
blemish in Mr. H., agrees with every- 
thing and copies everything said in his 


1176 


praise—worse than all, gives him more 
space in the book than any two, or per- 
haps three of our poets combined. All 
this is as much an insult to Mr. Hoff- 
man as to the public, and has done the 
former irreparable injury—how or why, 
it is of course unnecessary to say. 
“Heaven save us from our friends!” 

Mr. Hoffman was the original editor 
of The Knickerbocker Magazine, and 
gave it while under his control a tone 
and character, the weight of which may 
be best estimated by the consideration 
that the work thence received an im- 
petus which has sufficed to bear it on 
alive, although tottering, month after 
month, through even that dense region 
of unmitigable fog—that dreary realm 
of outer darkness, of utter and incon- 
ceivable dunderheadism, over which has 
so long ruled King Log the Second, in 
the august person of one Lewis Gaylord 
Clark, Mr. Hoffman subsequently owned 
and edited The American Monthly Mag- 
azine, one of the best journals we have 
ever had. He also for one year con- 
ducted The New York Mirror, and has 
always been a very constant contributor 
to the periodicals of the day. 

He is the brother of Ogden Hoffman. 
Their father, whose famliy came to New 
York from Holland before the time of 
Peter Stuyvesant, was often brought 
into connection or rivalry with such 
men as Pickney, Hamilton, and Burr. 

The character of no man is more uni- 
versally esteemed and admired than 
that of the subject of this memoir. He 
has a host of friends, and it is quite im- 
possible that he should have an enemy 
in the world. He is chivalric to a fault, 
enthusiastic, frank without discourtesy, 
an ardent admirer of the beautiful, a 
gentleman of the best school—a gentle- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


man by birth, by education, and by in- 
stinct. His manners are graceful and 
winning in the extreme—dquiet, affable, 
and dignified, yet cordial and dégagés. 
He converses much, earnestly, accu- 
rately, and well. In person he is re- 
markably handsome. He is about five 
feet ten in height, somewhat stoutly 
made. His countenance is a noble one— 
a full index of the character. The fea- 
tures are somewhat massive but regular. 
The eyes are blue or light grey, and 
full of fire; the mouth finely formed, 
although the lips have a slight expres- 
sion of voluptuousness; the forehead, 
to my surprise, although high, gives no 
indication, in the region of the temples, 
of that ideality (or love of the beau- 
tiful) which is the distinguishing trait of 
his moral nature. The hair curls, and is 
of a dark brown, interspersed with grey. 
He wears full whiskers. Is about forty 
years of age. Unmarried. 


MARY E. HEWITT 


I Am not aware that Mrs. Hewitt has 
written any prose; but her poems have 
been many, and occasionally excellent. 
A collection of them was published, in 
an exquisitely tasteful form, by Ticknor 
and Co., of Boston. The leading piece, 
entitled “Songs of our Land,” although 
the longest, was by no means the most 
meritorious. In general, these composi- 
tions evince poetic fervour, classicism, 
and keen appreciation both of moral 
and physical beauty. No one of them, 
perhaps, can be judiciously commended 
as a whole; but no one of them is with- 
out merit, and there are several which 
would do credit to any poet in the land. 
Still, even these latter are particularly 
rather than generally commendable. 





THE LITERATI 


They lack unity, totality—ultimate 
effect but abound in forcible passages. 

Mrs. Hewitt has warm partialities for 
the sea and all that concerns it. Many 
of her best poems turn upon sea adven- 
_ tures, or have reference to a maritime 
life. Some portions of her “God. bless 
the Mariner” are naive and _pictur- 
esque: €.g.— 


God bless the hardy mariner! 
A homely garb wears he, 

And he goeth with a rolling gait, 
Like a ship before the sea. 


He hath piped the loud ay, ay, sir! 
O’er the voices of the main, 

Till his deep tones have the hoarseness 
Of the rising hurricane. 


But oh, a spirit looketh 
From out his clear blue eye, 

With a truthful childlike earnestness, 
Like an angel from the sky. 


A venturous life the sailor leads 
Between the sky and sea, 

But, when the hour of dread is past, 
A merrier who than he? 


The tone of some quatrains entitled 
“Alone” differs materially from that 
usual with Mrs. Hewitt. The idea is 
happy and well managed. 

Mrs. Hewitt’s sonnets are upon the 
whole her most praiseworthy composi- 
tions. One entitled ‘Hercules and 
Omphale” is noticeable for the vigour 
of its rhythm :— 


Reclined enervate on the couch of ease, 
No more he pants for deeds of high 
emprise; 


OF NEW YORK 1177 


For Pleasure holds in soft, voluptuous 


ties 
Enthralled, great Jove-descended Her- 
cules. . 
The hand that bound the Erymanthian 
boar, 
Hesperia’s dragon slew, with bold in- 
tent, 
That from his quivering side in tri- 
umph rent 


The skin the Cleonean lion wore, 
Holds forth the goblet—while 
Lydian queen, 
Robed like a nymph, her brow en- 
wreathed with vine, 
Lifts high the amphora brimmed with 
rosy wine, 
And pours the draught the crowned cup 
within. 
And thus the soul, abased to sensual 
sway, 
Its worth forsakes—its might forgoes 
for aye. 


the 


The unusual force of the line ital, 
icised will be observed. This force 
arises, first, from the directness, or collo- 
quialism without vulgarity, of its ex- 
pression—(above the relative pronoun 
“which” is very happily omitted be. 
tween “skin” and “the’?)—and,  sec- 
ondly, from the musical repetition of 
the vowel in “Cleone@an,” together with 
the alliterative terminations in ‘Cleo- 
nean” and “lion.” The effect, also, is 
much aided by the sonorous conclusion 
“wore.” 

Another and better instance of fine 
versification occurs in “Forgotten 
Heroes’ — 


And the peasant mother at her door, 
To the babe that climbed her knee, 


1178 


Sang aloud the land’s heroic songs— 
Sang of Thermopyle— 

Sang of Mycale—of Marathon— 
Of proud Platza’s day— 

Till the wakened hills from peak to peak 
Echoed the glorious lay. 

Oh, godlike name!—oh, godlike deed! 
Song-borne afar on every breeze, 
Ye are sounds to thrill like a battle 

shout, 
Leonidas! Miltiades! 


The general intention here is a line 
of four iambuses alternating with a line 
of three; but less through rhythmical 
skill than a musical ear, the poetess has 
been led into some exceedingly happy 
variations of the theme. For exam- 
ple:—in place of the ordinary iambus 
as the first foot of the first of the sec; 
ond, and of the third line, a bastard 
iambus has been employed. The fourth 
line is well varied by a trochee, instead 
of an iambus, in the first foot; and the 
variation expresses forcibly the enthu- 
siasm excited by the topic of the sup- 
posed songs, ‘““Thermopyle.” The fifth 
line is scanned as the three first. The 
sixth is the general intention, and con- 
sists simply of iambuses. The seventh 
is like the three first and the fifth. The 
eighth is like the fourth; and here again 
the opening trochee is admirably adapt- 
ed to the movement of the topic. The 
ninth is the general intention, and is 
formed of four iambuses. The tenth is 
an alternating line, and yet has four 
iambuses, instead of the usual three; as 
has also the final line—an alternating 
one, too. A fuller volume is in this 
manner given to the close of the sub- 
ject; and this volume is fully in keep- 
ing with the rising enthusiasm. The 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


last. line but one has ¢wo bastard iam- 
buses. 

Upon the whole, it may be said that 
the most skillful versifier could not 
have written lines better suited to the 
purposes of the poet. The errors of 
“Alone,” however, and of Mrs. Hewitt’s 
poems generally, show that we must re- 
gard the beauties pointed out above 
merely in the light to which I have al- 
ready alluded—that is to say, an occa- 
sional happiness to which the poetess 
is led by a musical ear. 

I should be doing this lady injustice 
were I not to mention that at times she 
rises into a higher and purer region 
of poetry than might be supposed or 
inferred from any of the passages which 
I have hitherto quoted. The conclusion 
of her “Ocean Tide to the Rivulet” puts 
me in mind of the rich spirit of Horne’s 
noble epic “Orion” — 


Sadly the flowers their faded petals 
close 
Where on thy banks they languidly re- 
pose, 
Waiting in vain to hear thee onward 
press; 
And pale Narcissus by thy margin side 
Hath lingered for thy coming, drooped, 
and died, 
Pining for thee amid the loneliness. 


Hasten, beloved!—here! ’neath the o’er- 
hanging rock! 

Hark! from the deep, my anxious hope 
to mock, 

They call me back unto my parent 

main, 

Brighter than Thetis thou—and ah, 
more fleet! 

I hear the rushing of thy fair white 
feet! 








THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


Joy! joy—my breast receives its own 
again! 


The personifications here are well 
managed. The “Here! ’neath the o’er- 
hanging rock!” has the high merit of 
being truthfully, by which I mean zat- 
urally, expressed, and imparts exceed- 
ing vigour to the whole stanza. The 
idea of the ebb-tide, conveyed in the 
second line italicised, is one of the hap- 
piest imaginable; and too much praise 
can scarcely be bestowed on the “‘rush- 
ing” of the “fair white feet.” The pas- 
sage altogether is full of fancy, earnest- 
ness, and the truest poetic strength. 
Mrs. Hewitt has given many such indi- 
cations of a fire which, with more earn- 
est endeavour, might be readily fanned 
into flame. 

In character she is sincere, fervent, 
benevolent—sensitive to praise and to 
blame; in temperament melancholy; in 
manner subdued; converses earnestly 
yet quietly. In person she is tall and 
slender, with black hair and full grey 
eyes; complexion dark; general expres- 
sion of the countenance singularly in- 
teresting and agreeable. 


RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE 
AxsoutT twelve years ago, I think, The 


New York Sun, a daily paper, price one 
penny, was established in the city of 


New York by Mr. Moses Y. Beach, who > 


engaged Mr. Richard Adams Locke as 
its editor. In a well-written prospectus, 
the object of the journal professed to 
be that of “supplying the public with 
the news of the day at so cheap a rate 
as to lie within the means of all.’”’ The 
consequences of the scheme, in their 
influence on the whole newspaper busi- 


1179 


ness of the country, and through this 
business on the interests of the country 
at large, are probably beyond all cal- 
culation. 

Previous to The Sun, there had been 
an unsuccessful attempt at publishing 
a penny paper in New York, and The 
Sun itself was originally projected and 
for a short time issued by Messrs. Day 
and Wisner; its establishment, however, 
is altogether due to Mr. Beach, who 
purchased it of its disheartened orig- 
inators. The first decided movement 
of the journal, nevertheless, is to be at- 
tributed to Mr. Locke; and in so say- 
ing, I by no means intend any deprecia- 
tion of Mr. Beach, since in the engage- 
ment of Mr. L. he had but given one of 
the earliest instances of that unusual 
sagacity for which I am inclined to yield 
him credit. 

At all events, The Sun was revolving 
in a comparatively narrow orbit when, 
one fine day, there appeared in its edi- 
torial columns a prefatory article an- 
nouncing very remarkable astronomical 
discoveries made at the Cape of Good 
Hope by Sir John Herschel. The in- 
formation was said to have been re- 
ceived by The Sun from an early copy 
of The Edinburgh Journal of Science, in 
which appeared a communication from 
Sir John himself. This preparatory an- 
nouncement took very well (there had 
been no hoaxes in those days), and was 
followed by full details of the reputed 
discoveries, which were now found to 
have been made chiefly in respect to 
the moon, and by means of a telescope 
to which the one lately constructed by 
the Earl of Rosse is a plaything. As 
these discoveries were gradually spread 
before the public, the astonishment of 
that public grew out of all bounds; but 


1180 


those who questioned the veracity of 
The Sun—the authenticity of the com- 
munication to The Edinburgh Journal 
of Science—were really very few in- 
deed; and this I am forced to look upon 
as a far more wonderful thing than any 
“man-bat” of them all. 

About six months before this occur- 
rence, the Harpers had issued an Ameri- 
can edition of Sir John Herschel’s 
“Treatise on Astronomy,” and I have 
been much interested in what is there 
said respecting the possibility of future 
lunar investigations. The theme ex- 
cited my fancy, and I longed to give 
free rein to it in depicting my day- 
dreams about the scenery of the moon— 
in short, I longed to write a story em- 
bodying these dreams. The obvious dif- 
ficulty, of course, was that of account- 
ing for the narrator’s acquaintance with 
the satellite; and the equally obvious 
mode of surmounting the difficulty was 
the supposition of an extraordinary tele- 
scope. I saw at once that the chief in- 
terest of such a narrative must depend 
upon the reader’s yielding his credence 
in some measure as to details of actual 
fact. At this stage of my deliberations, 
I spoke of the design to one or two 
friends—to Mr. John P. Kennedy, the 
author of “Swallow Barn”; among oth- 
ers—and the result of my conversations 
with them was the optical difficulties of 
constructing such a telescope as I con- 
ceived were so rigid and so commonly 
understood that it would be in vain to 
attempt giving due verisimilitude to any 
fiction having the telescope as a basis. 
Reluctantly therefore, and only half 
convinced (believing the public, in fact, 
more readily gullible than did my 
friends), I gave up the idea of im- 
parting very close verisimilitude to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


what I should write—that is to say, so 
close as really to deceive. I fell back 
upon a style half plausible, half banter- 
ing, and resolved to give what interest 
I could to an actual passage from the 
earth to the moon, describing the lunar 
scenery as if surveyed and personally 
examined by the narrator. In this view 
I wrote a story which I called “Hans 
Pfaall,”’ publishing it about six months 
afterwards in The Southern Literary 
Messenger, of which I was then editor. 

It was three weeks after the issue of 
The Messenger containing ‘Hans Pfaall’”’ 
that the first of the ‘“Moon-hoax” edi- 
torials made its appearance in The Sun, 
and no sooner had I seen the paper than 
I understood the jest, which not for a 
moment could I doubt had been sug- 
gested by my own jeu d’esprit. Some 
of the New York journals (The Tran- 
script among others) saw the matter in 
the same light, and published the ‘Moon 
story” side by side with “Hans Pfaall,” 
thinking that the author of the one had 
been detected in the author of the other. 
Although the details are, with some 
exceptions, very dissimilar, still I main- 
tain that the general features of the two 
compositions are nearly identical. Both 
are hoaxes (although one is a tone of 
mere banter, the other of downright 
earnest); both hoaxes are on one sub- 
ject, astronomy; both on the same point 
of that subject, the moon; both pro- 
fessed to have derived exclusive in- 
formation from a foreign country, and 
both attempt to give plausibility by 
minuteness of scientific detail. Add to 
all this that nothing of a similar nature 
had ever been attempted before these 
two hoaxes, the one of which followed 
immediately upon the heels of the other. 

Having stated the case, however, in 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


this form, I am bound to do Mr. Locke 
the justice to say that he denies having 
seen my article prior to the publica- 
tion of his own; I am bound to add, 
also, that I believe him. 

Immediately on the completion of the 
“Moon story” (it was three or four 
days in getting finished), I wrote an 
examination of -its claims to credit, 
showing distinctly its fictitious char- 
acter, but was astonished at finding that 
I could obtain few listeners, so really 
eager were all to be deceived, so magical 
were the charms of a style that served 
as the vehicle of an exceedingly clumsy 
invention. 

It may afford even now some amuse- 
ment to see pointed out those particu- 
lars of the hoax which should have 
sufficed to establish its real character. 
Indeed, however rich the imagination 
displayed in this fiction, it wanted much 
of the force which might have been 
given it by a more scrupulous attention 
to general analogy and to fact. That 
the public were misled, even for an in- 
stant, merely proves the gross ignorance 
which (ten or twelve years ago) was so 
prevalent on astronomical topics. 

The singular blunders to which I have 
referred being properly understood, we 
shall have all the better reason for won- 
der at the prodigious success of the 
hoax. No one person in ten discredited 
it, and (strangest point of all!) the 
doubters were chiefly those who doubted 
without being able to say why—the ig- 
norant, those uninformed in astronomy, 
people who would not believe because 
the thing was so novel, so entirely “out 
of the usual way.” A grave professor of 
mathematics in a Virginian college told 
me seriously that he had no doubt of 
the truth of the whole affair! The great 


1181 


effect wrought upon the public mind is 
referable, first to the novelty of the 
idea; secondly, to the fancy-exciting 
and reason-repressing character of the 
alleged discoveries; thirdly, to the con- 
summate tact with which the deception 
was brought forth; fourthly, to the ex- 
quisite vraisemblance of the narration. 
The hoax was circulated to an immense 
extent, was translated into various lan- 
guages—was even made the subject of 
(quizzical) discussion in astronomical 
societies; drew down upon itself the 
grave denunciation of Dick, and was, 
upon the whole, decidedly the greatest 
hit in the way of sensation—of merely 
popular sensation—ever made by any 
similar fiction either in America or in 
Europe. 

Having read the Moon story to an 
end, and found it anticipative of all the 
main points of my “Hans Pfaall,”’ I suf- 
fered the latter to remain unfinished. 
The chief design in carrying my hero to 
the moon was to afford him an oppor- 
tunity of describing the lunar scenery, 
but I found that he could add very little 
to the minute and authentic account of 
Sir John Herschel. The first part of 
“Hans Pfaall,’ occupying about eight- 
een pages of The Messenger, embraced 
merely a journal of the passage between 
the two orbs, and a few words of general 
observation on the most obvious fea- 
tures of the satellite; the second part 
will most probably never appear. I did 
not think it advisable even to bring my 
voyager back to his parent earth. He 
remains where I left him, and is still, 
I believe, “the man in the moon.” 

From the epoch of the hoax The Sun 
shone with unmitigated splendour. The 
start thus given the paper ensured it a 
triumph; it has now a daily circulation 


1182 


of not far from fifty thousand copies, 
and is therefore, probably, the most 
really influential journal of its kind in 
the world. Its success firmly estab- 
lished ‘“‘the penny system” throughout 
the country, and (through the Sun) con- 
sequently, we are indebted to the genius 
of Mr. Locke for one of the most im- 
portant steps ever yet taken in the path- 
way of human progress. 

On dissolving, about a year -after- 
wards, his connection’ with Mr. Beach, 
Mr. Locke established a political daily 
paper, The New Era, conducting it with 
distinguished ability. In this journal 
he made, very unwisely, an attempt at 
a second hoax, giving the finale of the 
adventures of Mungo Park in Africa— 
the writer pretending to have come into 
possession, by some accident, of the lost 
MSS. of the traveler. No one, how- 
ever, seemed to be deceived (Mr. 
Locke’s columns were a suspected dis- 
trict), and the adventures were never 
brought to an end. They were richly 
imaginative. 

The next point made by their author 
was the getting up a book on magnetism 
as the primum mobile of the universe, 
in connection with Doctor Sherwood, 
the practitioner of magnetic remedies. 
The more immediate purpose of the 
treatise was the setting forth a new 
magnetic method of obtaining the longi- 
tude. The matter was brought before 
Congress and received with favourable 
attention. What definite action was 
had I know not. A review of the work 
appeared in The Army and Navy 
Chronicle, and made sad havoc of the 
whole project. It was enabled to do 
this, however, by attacking in detail the 
accuracy of some calculations of no 
very radical importance. These and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


others Mr. Locke is now engaged in care- 
fully revising, and my own opinion is 
that his theory (which he has reached 
more by dint of imagination than of 
anything else) will finally be estab- 
lished, although, perhaps, never thor- 
oughly by him. His prose style is 
noticeable for its conciseness, luminous- 
ness, completeness, each quality in its 
proper place. He has that method so 
generally characteristic of genius prop: 
er. Everything he writes is a model in 
its peculiar way, serving just the pur- 
poses intended and nothing to spare. 
He has written some poetry which 
through certain radical misapprehen- 
sions is not so very good. 

Like most men of true imagination, 
Mr. Locke is a seemingly paradoxical 
combination of coolness and excitability. 

He is about five feet seven inches in 
height, symmetrically formed; there is 
an air of distinction about his whole 
person, the air noble of genius. His 
face is strongly pitted by the smallpox 
and perhaps, from the same cause there 
is a marked obliquity in the eyes; a 
certain, calm, clear luminousness, how- 
ever, about these latter, amply compen- 
sates for the defect, and the forehead 
is truly beautiful in its intellectuality. 
I am acquainted with no person possess- 
ing so fine a forehead as Mr. Locke. 
He is married and about forty-five years 
of age, although no one would suppose 
him to be more than thirty-eight. He 
is a lineal descendant of the immortal 
author of the “Essay on the Human 
Understanding.” 


FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 


Mrs. Oscoop, for the last three or 
four years, has been rapidly attaining 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


distinction; and this, evidently, with 
no effort at attaining it. She seems, in 
fact, to have no object in view beyond 
that of giving voice to the fancies or 
the feelings of the moment. ‘Neces- 
sity,’ says the proverb, “is the mother 
of Invention,” and the invention of Mrs. 
O., at least, springs plainly from neces- 
sity—from the necessity of invention. 
Not to write poetry—not to act it, 
think it, dream it, and be it, is entirely 
out of her power. 

It may be questioned whether with 
more industry, more method, more defi- 
nite purpose, more ambition, Mrs. Os- 
good would have made a more decided 
impression on the public mind. She 
might, upon the whole, have written bet- 
ter poems; but the chances are that she 
would have failed in conveying so vivid 
and so just an idea of her powers as a 
poet. The warm abandonnement of her 
style—that charm which now so cap- 
tivates—is but a portion and a conse- 
quence of her unworldly nature—of her 
disregard of mere fame; but it affords 
us glimpses, which we could not other- 
wise have obtained, of a capacity for ac- 
complishing what she has not accom- 
plished, and in all probability never 
will. In the world of poetry, however, 
there is already more than enough of 
uncongenial ambition and pretence. 

Mrs. Osgood has taken no care what- 
ever of her literary fame. A great num- 
ber of her finest compositions, both in 
verse and prose, have been written 
anonymously, and are now lying perdus 
about the country, in out-of-the-way 
nooks and corners. Many a goodly rep- 
utation has been reared upon a far more 
unstable basis than her unclaimed and 
uncollected “fugitive pieces.” 

Her first volume, I believe, was pub- 


11383 


lished, seven or eight years ago, by Ed- 
ward Churton, of London, during the 
residence of the poetess in that city. I 
have now lying before me a second edi- 
tion of it, dated 1842—a_ beautifully 
printed book, dedicated to the Reverend 
Hobard Caunter. It contains a number 
of what the Bostonians call “juvenile” 
poems, written when Mrs. O. (then 
Miss Locke) could not have been more 
than thirteen, and evincing unusual pre- 
cocity. The leading piece is “Elfrida, 
a Dramatic Poem,’ but in many re- 
spects well entitled to the appellation 
“drama.” I allude chiefly to the pas- 
sionate expression of particular portions, 
to delineation of character, and to oc- 
casional scenic effect. In construction, 
or plot—in general conduct and plausi- 
bility, the play fails; comparatively, of 
course—for the hand of genius is 
evinced throughout. 

The story is the well-known one of 
Edgar, Elfrida, and Earl Athelwood. 
The king, hearing of Elfrida’s extraor- 
dinary beauty, commissions his favour- 
ite, Athelwood, to visit her and ascer- 
tain if report speaks truly of her 
charms. The earl, becoming himself 
enamoured, represents the lady as any- 
thing but beautiful or agreeable. The 
king is satisfied. Athelwood soon after- 
wards woos and weds Elfrida—giving 
Edgar to understand that the heiress’s 
wealth is the object. The true state of 
the case, however, is betrayed by an 
enemy; and the monarch resolves to 
visit the earl at his castle and to judge 
for himself. Hearing of this resolve, 
Athelwood, in despair, confesses to his 
wife his duplicity, and entreats her to 
render null as far as possible the effect 
of her charms by dressing with unusual 
plainness. This the wife promises to 


1184 


do; but, fired with ambition and re- 
sentment at the wrong done her, arrays 
herself in her most magnificent and be- 
coming costume. The king is charmed, 
and the result is the destruction of 
Athelwood and the elevation of Elfrida 
to the throne. 

These incidents are well adapted to 
dramatic purposes, and with more of 
that art which Mrs. Osgood does not 
possess, she might have woven them 
into a tragedy which the world would 
not willingly let die. As it is, she has 
merely succeeded in showing what she 
might, should, and could have done, and 
yet, unhappily, did not. 

The character of Elfrida is the bright 
point of the play. Her beauty and her 
consciousness of it—her indignation and 
uncompromising ambition—are depicted 
with power. There is a fine blending 
of the poetry of passion and the pas- 
sion of poetry in the lines which fol- 
low:— 


Why even now he bends 

In courtly reverence to some mincing 
dame, 

Haply the star of Edgar’s festival, 

While I, with this high heart and queen- 
ly form 

Pine in neglect and _ solitude. 
it be? 

Shall I not rend my fetters and be free? 

Ay!—be the cooing turtle-dove content, 

Safe in her own loved nest!—the eagle 
soars 

On restless plumes to meet the imperial 
sun. 

And Edgar is my day-star in whose light 

This heart’s proud wings shall yet be 
furled to rest. 

Why wedded I with Athelwood? For 
this? 


Shall 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


No!—even at the altar when I stood— 

My hand in his, his gaze upon my 
cheek— 

I did forget his presence and the scene; 

A gorgeous vision rose before mine eyes 

Of power and pomp and regal pagean- 
try ; 

A king was at my feet, and as he knelt, 

I smiled, and turning met—a husband’s 
kiss. 

But still I smiled—for in my guilty soul 

I blessed him as the being by whose 
means 

I should be brought within my idol’s 
sphere— 

My haughty, glorious, brave, impas- 
sioned Edgar! 

Well I remember when these wondering 


eyes 

Beheld him first. I was a maiden 
then— 

A dreaming child—but from that thrill- 
ing hour 


I’ve been a queen in visions! 


Very similar, but even more glowing, 
is the love-inspired eloquence of Ed- 
gar :— 


Earth hath no language, love, befitting 


thee, 

For its own children it hath pliant 
speech; 

And mortals know to call a blossom 
fair, 


A wavelet graceful, and a jewel rich; 

But thou!—oh, teach me, sweet, the 
angel tongue 

They talked in Heaven gre thou didst 
leave its bowers 

To bloom below! 


To this Elfrida replies:— 
If Athelwood should hear thee! 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


And to this Edgar:— 


Name not the felon knave to me, 
Elfrida! 

My soul is flame whene’er I think of 
him, 

Thou lovest him not?—oh, say thou 
dost not love him! 


The answer of Elfrida at this point 
is profoundly true to nature, and would 
alone suffice to assure any critic of Mrs. 
Osgood’s dramatic talent :— 


When but a child I saw thee in my 
dreams! | 


The woman’s soul here shrinks from 
the direct avowal of want of love for 
her husband, and flies to poetry and 
appeals to fate, by way of excusing 
that infidelity which is at once her glory 
and her shame. 

In general, the “situations” of “El- 
frida” are improbable or ultra-romantic, 
and its incidents inconsequential, sel- 
dom furthering the business of the play. 
The denouement is feeble, and its moral 
of very equivocal tendency indeed—but 
I have already shown that it is the es- 
pecial office neither of poetry nor of 
the drama to inculcate truth, unless 
incidentally. Mrs. Osgood, however, al- 
though she has unquestionably failed 
in writing a good play, has even in 
failing, given indication of dramatic 
power. The great tragic element, pas- 
sion, breathes in every line of her com- 
position, and had she but the art, or 
the patience to model or control it, she 
might be eminently successful as a play- 
wright. [ am justified in these opin- 
ions not only by “Elfrida,’ but by 


1185 


“Woman’s Trust, a Dramatic Sketch,” 
included, also, in the English edition. 


A Masked Ball. Madelon and a 
Stranger in a Recess. 


Mad. Why hast thou led me here? 
My friends may deem it strange—un- 
maidenly, 
This lonely converse with an unknown 
mask, 
Yet in thy voice there is a thrilling 
power 
That makes me love to linger. It is like 
The tone of one far distant—only his 
Was gayer and more soft. 
Strang. Sweet Madelon! 
Say thou wilt smile upon the passionate 
love 
That thou alone canst waken! 
nope! 
Mad. Hush! Hush! I may not hear 
thee. Know’st thou not 
I am betrothed? 
Strang. Alas! too well I know; 
But I could tell thee such a tale of 
him— 
Thine early love—twould fire those 
timid eyes 
With lightning pride and anger—curl 
that lip— 
That gentle lip to passionate contempt 
For man’s light falsehood. Even now 
he bends— 
Thy Rupert bends o’er one as fair as 
thou, 
In fond affection. 
heart— 
Mad. Doth my eye flashPp—doth my 
lip curl with scorn? 
Tis scorn of thee, thou perjured stran- 
ger, not— 
Oh, not of him, the generous and the 
true! 


Let me 


Even now in his 


1186 


Hast thou e’er seen my Rupert?—hast 
thou met 

Those proud and fearless eyes that 
never quailed, 

As Falsehood quails, before another’s 
glance— 

As thine even now are shrinking from 
mine own— 

The spirit beauty of that open brow— 

The noble head—the free and gallant 
step— 

The lofty mien whose majesty is won 

From inborn honour—hast thou seen all 


this? 
And darest thou speak of faithlessness 
and him 
In the same idle breath? Thou little 
know’st 
The strong confiding of a woman’s 
heart, 
When woman loves as—I do. Speak no 
more! 
Strang. Deluded girl! I tell thee 


he is false— 
False as yon fleeting cloud! 
Mad. True as the sun! 
Strang. The very wind less wayward 
than his heart! 
Mad. The forest oak less firm! He 
loves me not 
For the frail rose-hued and the fleeting 
light 
Of youthful loveliness—ah, many a 
cheek i 
Of softer bloom, and many a dazzling 
eye 
More rich than mine may win my wan- 
derer’s gaze. 
He loved me for my love, the deep, the 
fond— 
For my unfaltering truth; he cannot 
find— 
Rove where he will—a heart that beats 
for him 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


With such intense, absorbing tender- 
ness— 
Such idolising constancy as mine. 
Why should he change, then?—I am 
still the same. 
Strang. Sweet infidel! wil¢ thou have 
ruder proof? 
Rememberest thou a little golden case 
Thy Rupert wore, in which a gem was 
shrined? 
A gem I would not barter for a world— 
An angel face; its sunny wealth of hair 
In radiant ripples bathed the graceful 
throat 
And dimpled shoulders; round the rosy 
curve 
Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed 
wandering ever 
While in the depths of azure fire that 
gleamed 
Beneath the 
world 
Of eloquent 
pure— 
Dreamy—subdued—but oh, how beau- 
tiful! 
A look of timid, pleading tenderness 
That should have been a talisman to 
charm . 
His restless heart for aye. Remem- 
berest thou? 
Mad. (impatiently). I do—I do re- 
member—’twas my own. 
He prized it as his life—I gave it him— 
What of it?—speak! 
Strang. (showing a miniature). Lady, 
behold that gift! 
Mad. (clasping her hands). Merciful 
Heaven! is my Rupert dead? 
(After a pause, during which she seems 
overwhelmed with agony.) 

How died he?—when?—oh, thou wast 
by his side 

In that last hour and I was far away! 


drooping lashes, slept a 


meaning, passionate yet 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


My blessed love!—give me that token! 
—speak! 

What message sent he to his Madelon? 

Strang. (supporting her and strongly 


agitated.) 
He is not dead, dear lady!—grieve not 
thus! 
Mad. He is not false, sir stranger! 
Strang. For thy sake, 
Would he were worthier! One other 
proof 

I'll give thee, loveliest! if thou lov’st 
him still, 

T’ll not believe thee, woman. Listen, 
then! 


A faithful lover breathes not of his bliss 
To other ears. Wilt hear a fable, lady? 


Here the stranger details some incidents 
of the first wooing of Madelon by Ru- 
pert, and concludes with— 


Lady, my task is o’er—dost doubt me 
still? 


Mad. Doubt thee, my Rupert! ah, I © 


know thee now. 
Fling by that hateful mask!—let me 
unclasp it! 
thou wouldst mot betray thy 
Madelon. 


No! 


The ‘Miscellaneous Poems” of the 
volume—many of them written in child- 
hood—are, of course, various in char- 
acter and merit. ‘The Dying Rosebud’s 
Lament,” although by no means one of 
the best, will very well serve to show 
the earlier and most characteristic 
manner of the poetess:— 


Ah, me!—ah, wo is me, 
That I should perish now, 
With the dear sunlight just let in 
Upon my balmy brow. 


1187 


My leaves, instinct with glowing life, 
Were quivering to unclose: 

My happy heart with love was rife— 
I was almost a rose. 


Nerved by a hope, warm, rich, intense, 
Already I had risen 

Above my cage’s curving fence— 
My green and graceful prison. 


My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, 
Were just prepared to part, 

And whispered to the wooing wind 
The rapture of my heart. 


In new-born fancies revelling, 
My mossy cell half-riven, 

Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing 
To bear me into Heaven. 


How oft, while yet an infant flower, 
My crimson cheek I’ve laid 

Against the green bars of my bower, 
Impatient of the shade. 


And, pressing up and peeping througit 
Its small but precious vistas, 

Sighed for the lovely light and dew 
That blessed my elder sisters. 


I saw the sweet breeze rippling o’er 
Their leaves that loved the play, 
Though the light thief stole all the store 

Of dew-drop gems away. 


I thought how happy I should be 
Such diamond wreaths to wear, 

And frolic with a rose’s glee 
With sunbeam, bird, and air. 


Ah, me!—ah, wo is me, that I, 
Ere yet my leaves unclose, 

With all my wealth of sweets must die 
Before I am a rose! 


1188 


The poetical reader will agree with 
_me that few things have ever been 
written (by any poet, at any age) more 
delicately fanciful than the passages 
italicised—and yet they are the work 
of a girl not more than fourteen years 
of age. The clearness and force of ex- 
pression, and the nice appositeness of 
the overt and insinuated meaning, are, 
when we consider the youth of the 
writer, even more remarkable than the 
fancy. 

I cannot speak of Mrs. Osgood’s 
poems without a strong propensity to 
ring the changes upon the indefinite 
word “grace” and its derivatives. About 
everything she writes we perceive this 
indescribable charm—of which, perhaps, 
the elements are a vivid fancy and a 
quick sense of the proportionate. Grace, 
however, may be most satisfactorily 
defined as “a term applied, in despair, 
to that class of the impressions of 
Beauty which admit of no analysis.” 
It is in this irresoluble effect that Mrs. 
Osgood excels any poetess of her coun- 
try—and it is to this easily appreciable 
effect that her popularity is owing. Nor 
is she more graceful herself than a lover 
of the graceful, under whatever guise 
it is presented to her consideration. 
The sentiment renders itself manifest, 
in innumerable instances, as well 
throughout her prose as her poetry. 
Whatever be her theme, she at once 
extorts from it its whole essentiality of 
grace. Fanny Ellsler has been often 
lauded; true poets have sung _ her 
praises; but we look in vain for any- 
thing written about her, which so dis- 
tinctly and vividly paints her to the 


eye as the half-dozen quatrains which | 
They are to be found in the 


follow. 
English volume :— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


She comes!—the spirit of the dance! 
And but for those large eloquent eyes, 

Where passion speaks in every glance, 
She’d seem a wanderer from the skies. 


So light that, gazing breathless there, 
Lest the celestial dream should go, 

You'd think the music in the air 
Waved the fair vision to and fro; 


Or think the melody’s sweet flow 
Within the radiant creature played, 
And those soft wreathing arms of snow 

And white sylph feet the music made. 


Now gliding slow with dreamy grace, 
Her eyes beneath their lashes lost, 
Now motionless, with lifted face, 
And small hands on her bosom 
crossed. 


And now with flashing eyes she springs— 
Her whole bright figure raised in air, 

As if her soul had spread its wings 
And poised her one wild instant there! 


She spoke not—but, so richly fraught 
With language are her glance and 
smile, 

That, when the curtain fell, I thought 
She had been talking all the while. 


This is, indeed, poetry—and of 
the most unquestionable kind—poetry 
truthful in the proper sense—that is to 
say, breathing of Nature. There is here 
nothing forced or artificial—no hardly 
sustained enthusiasm. The  poetess 
speaks because she feels, and what she 
feels; but then what she feels is felt 
only by the truly poetical. The 
thought in the last line of the third 
quatrain will not be so fully appreciated 
by the reader as it should be; for: lat- 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


terly it has been imitated, plagiarised, 
repeated ad infinitum—but the other 
passages italicised have still left them 
all their original effect. The idea in the 
two last lines is exquisitely naive and 
natural; that in the two last lines of 
the second quatrain, beautiful beyond 
measure; that of the whole fifth quat- 
rain, magnificent—unsurpassed in the 
entire compass of American poetry. It 
is instinct with the noblest poetical 
requisite—imagination. 

Of the same trait I find, to my sur- 
prise, one of the best exemplifications 
among the “Juvenile Rhymes.” 


For Fancy is a fairy that can hear, 

Ever, the melody of Nature’s voice 

And see all lovely visions that she will. 

She drew a picture of a beauteous bird 

With plumes of radiant green and gold 
inwoven, 

Banished from its beloved nesting-place, 

And fluttering in vain hope from tree 
to tree, 

And bade us think how, like it, the 
Sweet season 

From one bright shelter to another 
fled— 

First from the maple waved her emerald 
pinions, 

But lingered still upon the oak and elm, 

Till, frightened by rude breezes even 
from them, 

With mournful sigh she moaned her sad 
farewell. 


The little poem called “The Music 
Box” has been as widely circulated as 
any of Mrs. Osgood’s compositions. 
The melody and harmony of this jeu 
d’esprit are perfect, and there is in it 
a rich tint of that epigrammatism for 
which the poetess is noted. Some of 


1189 


the intentional epigrams interspersed 
through the works are peculiarly happy. 
Here is one which, while replete with 
the rarest “spirit of point,” is yet some- 
thing more than pointed:— 


To AN ATHEIST PoET 


Lovest thou the music of the sea? 
Callest thou the sunshine bright? 

His voice is more than melody— 
His smile is more than light. 


Here, again, is something very simi- 
lar :— 


Fanny shuts her smiling eyes, 
Then because she cannot see, 
Thoughtless simpleton! she cries 

Ah! you can’t see me. 


Fanny’s like the sinner vain 
Who, with spirit shut and dim, 
Thinks, because he sees not Heaven 
Heaven beholds not him. 


Ts it not a little surprising, however, 
that a writer capable of so much pre- 
cision and finish as the author of these 
epigrams must be, should have failed 
to see how much of force is lost in the 
inversion of “the sinner vain?” Why 
not have written ‘“Fanny’s like the silly 
sinner?’”’—or, if “silly” be thought too 
jocose, “the blinded sinner?” The 
rhythm, at the same time, would thus 
be much improved by bringing the 
lines, 


Fanny’s like the silly sinner, 
Thinks because he sees not Heaven, 


into exact equality. 
In mingled epigrams and espieglerie 
Mrs. Osgood is even more especially at 


1190 


home. I have seldom seen anything 
in this way more happily done than the 
song entitled “Jf he can.” 

“The Unexpected Declaration” is, 
perhaps, even a finer specimen of the 
same manner. It is one of that class 
of compositions which Mrs. Osgood has 
made almost exclusively her own. Had 
I seen it without her name, I should 
have had no hesitation in ascribing it 
to her; for there is no other person— 
in America certainly—who does any- 
thing of a similar kind with anything 
like a similar piquancy. 

The point of this poem, however, 
might have been sharpened, and the 
polish increased in lustre, by the appli- 
cation of the emery of brevity. From 
what the lover says much might well 
have been omitted; and I should have 
preferred leaving out altogether the 
autorie! comments, for the story is fully 
told without them. The “Why do you 
weep?” “Why do you frown?” and 
“Why do you smile?” supply all the 
imagination requires; to supply more 
than it requires, oppresses and offends 
it. Nothing more deeply grieves it—or 
more vexes the true taste in general 
than hyperism of any kind. In Ger- 
many, Wohlgeboren is a loftier title than 
Edelgeboren; and in Greece, the thrice 
victorious at the Olympic games could 
claim a statue of the size of life, while 
he who had conquered but once was 
entitled only to a colossal one. 

The English collection of which I 
speak was entitled “A Wreath of Wild 
Flowers from New England.” It met 
with a really cordial reception in Great 
Britain—was favourably noticed by the 
Literary Gazette, Times, Atlas, Monthly 
Chronicle, and especially by the Court 
Journal, The Court and Ladies’ Maga- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


zine, La Belle Assemblee, and other 
similar works. ‘“‘We have long been 
familiar,’ says the high authority of 
the Literary Gazette, “with the name 
of our fair author. . . . Our expecta- 
tions have been fulfilled, and we have 
here a delightful gathering of the 
sweetest of wild flowers, all looking as 
fresh and beautiful as if they had grown 
in the richest of English pasture in place 
of having been ‘nursed by the cataract.’ 
True, the wreath might have been im- 
proved with a little more care—a trifling 
attention or two paid to the formation 
of it. A stalk here and there, that 
obtrudes itself between the bells of the 
flowers, might have become so _ inter- 
woven as to have been concealed, and 
the whole have looked as if it had 
grown in that perfect and beautiful 
form. Though, after all, we are per- 
haps too chary; for in Nature every leaf 
is not ironed out to a form, nor propped 
up with a wiry precision, but blown and 
ruffled by the refreshing breezes, and 
looking as careless and easy and unaf- 
fected as a child that bounds along with 
its silken locks tossed to and fro just 
as the wind uplifts them. Page after 
page of this volume have we perused 
with a feeling of pleasure and admira- 
tion.” The Court Journal more em- 
phatically says:—“Her wreath is one of 
violets, sweet-scented, pure, and modest; 
so lovely that the hand that wove it 
should not neglect additionally to en- 
rich it by turning her love and kindness 
to things of larger beauty. Some of 
the smaller lyrics in the volume are 
perfectly beautiful—beautiful in their 
chaste and exquisite simplicity and the 
perfect elegance of their composition.” 
In fact, there was that about “The 
Wreath of Wild Flowers”—that inex- 





THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK 


pressible grace of thought and manner 
_ —which never fails to find ready echo 
in the hearts of the aristocracy and 
refinement of Great Britain;—and it 
was here especially that Mrs. Osgood 
found welcome. Her husband’s merits 
as an artist had already introduced her 
into distinguished society (she was 
petted, in especial, by Mrs. Norton and 
Rogers), but the publication of her 
poems had at once an evidently favour- 
able effect upon his fortunes. His pic- 
tures were placed in a most advan- 
tageous light by her poetical and 
conversational ability. 

Messrs. Clarke and Austin, of New 
York, have lately issued another, but 
still a very incomplete collection of 
“Poems by Frances S. Osgood.” In 
general, it includes by no means the 
best of her works. “The Daughter of 
Herodias”—one of her longest compo- 
sitions, and a very noble poem, putting 
me in mind of the best efforts of Mrs. 
Hemans—is omitted. In Messrs. C. 
and A.’s collection there occur, too, very 
many of those half-sentimental, half- 
allegorical compositions of which, at 
one period, the authoress seemed to be 
particularly fond—for the reason, per- 
haps, that they afforded her good oppor- 
tunity for the exercise of her ingenuity 
and epigrammatic talent;—no poet, 
however, can admit them to be poetry 
at all. Still the volume contains some 
pieces which enable us to take a new 
view of the powers of the writer. A 
few additional years, with their inevi- 
table sorrow, appear to have stirred the 
depths of her heart. We see less of 
frivolity—less of vivacity—more of 
tenderness—earnestness — even passion 
—and far more of the true imagination 
as distinguished from its subordinate, 


1191 


fancy. The one prevalent trait, grace, 
alone distinctly remains. “The Spirit 
of Poetry,” “To Sibyl,” “The Birth of 
the Callitriche,’ and “The Child and 
its Angel-Playmate” would do honour 
to any of our poets. ‘‘She Loves Him 
Yet,” nevertheless, will serve better 
than either of these poems to show the 
alteration of manner referred to. The 
verses commencing, “Yes, lower to the 
level,’ are in a somewhat similar tone, 
but are more noticeable for their terse 
energy of expression. 

In not presenting to the public at 
one view all that she has written in 
verse, Mrs. Osgood has incurred the 
risk of losing that credit to which she 
is entitled on the score of versatility—. 
of variety in invention and expression. 
There is scarcely a form of poetical 
composition in which she has not made 
experiment; and there is none in which 
she has not very happily succeeded. 
Her defects are chiefly negative and by 
no means numerous. Her versification 
is sometimes exceedingly good, but 
more frequently feeble through the use 
of harsh consonants, and such words as 
“thou dst” for “thou wouldst,’ with 
other unnecessary contractions, inver- 
sions, and obsolete expressions. Her 
imagery is often mixed;—indeed, it is 
rarely otherwise. The epigrammatism 
of her conclusions gives to her poems, 
as wholes, the air of being more skil- 
fully constructed than they really are. 
On the other hand, we look in vain 
throughout her works for an offence 
against the finer taste, or against de- 
corum—for a low thought or a plati- 
tude. A happy refinement—an instinct 
of the pure and delicate—is one of her 
most noticeable excellences. She may 
be properly commended, too, for origi- 


1192 


nality of poetic invention, whether in 
the conception of a theme or in the 
manner of treating it. Consequences of 
this trait are her point and piquancy. 
Fancy and naivete appear in all she 
writes. Regarding the loftier merits, I 
am forced to speak of her in more 
measured terms. She has occasional 
passages of true imagination — but 
scarcely the glowing, vigorous, and sws- 
tained ideality of Mrs. Maria Brooks— 
or even, in general, the less ethereal 
elevation of Mrs. Welby. In that inde- 
scribable something, however, which, for 
want of a more definite term, we are 
accustomed to call “‘grace”—that charm 
so magical, because at once so shadowy 
and so potent—that Will o’ the Wisp, 
which, in its supreme development, may 
be said to involve nearly all that is 
valuable in poetry—she has, unquestion- 
ably, no rival among her countrywomen. 

Of pure prose—of prose proper—she 
has perhaps never written a line in her 
life. Her usual magazine papers are a 
class by themselves. She begins with 
a resolute effort at being sedate—that 
is to say, sufficiently prosaic and matter- 
of-fact for the purpose of a legend or 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


an essay; but after a few sentences, 
we behold uprising the leaven of the 
Muse; then with a flourish, and some 
vain attempts at repression, a scrap of 
verse renders itself manifest; then 
comes a little poem outright; then an- 
other and another and another, with 
impertinent patches of prose in between 
—until at length the mask is thrown 
fairly off and far away, and the whole 
article—sings. . 

Upon the whole, I have spoken of 
Mrs. Osgood so much in detail, less on 
account of what she has actually done 
than on account of what I perceive in 
her the ability to do. 

In character she is ardent, sensitive, 
impulsive—the very soul of truth and 
honour; a worshipper of the beautiful, 
with a heart so radically artless as to 
seem abundant in art; universally ad- 
mired, respected, and beloved. In per- 
son, she is about the medium height, 
slender even to fragility, graceful 
whether in action or repose; complexion 
usually pale; hair black and _ glossy; 
eyes a clear luminous grey, large, and 
with singular capacity for expression. 


ef 


«86 





VOLUME XI 








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. ; ’ Nh i ae 
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Sin 





Stephens’ Arabia Petraea* 


(Published in New York Review, October, 1837.—Ed.) 


Mr. STEPHENS has here given us two 
volumes of more than ordinary’ interest 
—written with a freshness of manner, 
and evincing a manliness of feeling, 
both worthy of high consideration. Al- 
though in some respects deficient, the 
work too presents some points of mo- 
ment to the geographer, to the anti- 
quarian, and more especially to the 
theologian. Viewed only as one of a 
class of writings, whose direct tendency 
is to throw light upon the Book of 
Books, it has strong claims upon the 
attention of all who read. While the 
vast importance of critical and phi- 
lological research in dissipating the ob- 
scurities and determining the exact 
sense of the Scriptures cannot be too 
readily conceded, it may be doubted 
whether the collateral illustration de- 
rivable from records of travel be not 
deserving at least equal consideration. 
Certainly the evidence thus afforded, 
exerting an enkindling influence upon 
the popular imagination, and so taking 
palpable hold upon the popular under- 
standing, will not fail to become in 
time a most powerful because easily 
available instrument in the downfall 
of unbelief. Infidelity itself has often 
afforded unwilling and unwitting testi- 
mony to the truth. It is surprising to 


* This author received so much 
money for his work that Cooper, the 
then most popular novelist, could not 
compare with him.—Ed. 


1193 


find with what unintentional precision 
both Gibbon and Volney (among 
others) have used, for the purpose of 
description, in their accounts of nations 
and countries, the identical phraseology 
employed by the inspired writers when 
foretelling the most improbable events. 
In this manner scepticism has been 
made the root of belief, and the provi- 
dence of the Deity has: been no less re- 
markable in the extent and nature of 
the means for bringing to light the evi- 
dence of his accomplished word, than 
in working the accomplishment itself. 
Of late days, the immense stores of 
biblical elucidation derivable from the 
East have been rapidly accumulating in 
the hands of the student. When the 
“Observations” of Harmer were given 
to the public, he had access to few other 
works than the travels of Chardin, Po- 
cocke, Shaw, Maundrell, Pitts, and 
D’Arvieux, with perhaps those of Nau 
and Troilo, and Russell’s ‘Natural His- 
tory of Aleppo.” We have now a vast 
accession to our knowledge of Oriental 
regions. Intelligent and observing men, 
impelled by the various motives of 
Christian zeal, military adventure, the 
love of gain, and the love of science, 
have made their way, often at immi- 
nent risk, into every land rendered holy 
by the words of revelation. Through 
the medium of the pencil, as well as of 
the pen, we are even familiarly ac- 
quainted with the territories of the 
Bible. Valuable books of eastern travel 


1194 


are abundant—of which the labours of 
Niebuhr, Mariti, Volney, Porter, Clarke, 
Chateaubriand, Burckhardt, Bucking- 
ham, Morier, Seetzen, Lamartine, La- 
borde, Tournefort, Madden, Maddox, 
Wilkinson, Arundell, Mangles, Leigh, 
and Hogg, besides those already men- 
tioned, are merely the principal, or 
the most extensively known. As we 
have said, however, the work before us 
is not to be lightly regarded: highly 
agreeable, interesting, and instructive, 
in a general view, it also has, in the 
connection now adverted to, claims to 
public attention possessed by no other 
book of its kind. 

In an article prepared for this journal 
some months ago, we had traced the 
route of Mr. Stephens with a degree of 
minuteness not desirable now, when the 
work has been so long in the hands of 
the public. At this late day we must 
be content with saying briefly, in re- 
gard to the earlier portion of the nar- 
rative, that, arriving at Alexander in 
December, 1835, he thence passed up 
the Nile as far as the Lower Cataracts. 
One or two passages from this part of 
the tour may still be noted for observa- 
tion. The annexed speculations, in re- 
gard to the present city of Alexandria, 
are well worth attention:— 


The present city of Alexandria, even 
after the dreadful ravages made by the 
plague last year, is still supposed to 
contain more than fifty thousand in- 
habitants, and is decidedly growing. It 
stands outside the Delta in the Libyan 
Desert, and as Volney remarks, “It is 
only by the canal which conducts the 
waters of the Nile into the reservoirs in 
the time of inundation that Alexandria 
can be considered as connected with 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Egypt.” Founded by the great Alex- 
ander, to secure his conquests in the 
East, being the only safe harbour along 
the coast of Syria or Africa, and pos- 
sessing peculiar commercial advantages, 
it soon grew into a giant city. Fifteen 
miles in circumference, containing a 
population of three hundred thousand 
citizens and as many slaves, one mag- 
nificent street, two thousand feet broad, 
ran the whole length of the city, from 
the Gate of the Sea to the Canopic 
Gate, commanding a view at each end 
of the shipping, either in the Mediter- 
ranean or in the Mareotic Lake, and 
another of equal length intersected it 
at right angles; a spacious circus with- 
out the Canopic Gate, for chariot-races, 
and on the east a splendid gymnasium 
more than six hundred feet in length, 
with theatres, baths, and all that could 
make it a desirable residence for 2 
luxurious people. When it fell into 
the hands of the Saracens, according to 
the report of the Saracen general to the 
Caliph Omar, “it was impossible to 
enumerate the variety of its riches and 
beauties”; and it is said to “have con- 
tained four thousand palaces, four thou- 
sand baths, four hundred theatres or 
public edifices, twelve thousand shops, 
and forty thousand tributary Jews.” 
From that time, like everything else 
which falls into the hands of the Mus- 
sulman, it has been going to ruin, and 
the discovery of the passage to India 
by the Cape of Good Hope gave the 
death-blow to its commercial greatness. 
At present it stands a phenomenon in 
the history of a Turkish dominion. It 
appears once more to be raising its head 
from the dust. It remains to be seen 
whether this rise is the legitimate and 
permanent effect of-a wise and politic 





STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 


government, combined with natural ad- 
vantages, or whether the pacha is not 
forcing it to an unnatural elevation, at 


‘’ the expense, if not upon the ruins, of 
|) the rest of Egypt. 


It -is almost pre- 
sumptuous, on the threshold of my en- 
trance into Egypt, to speculate upon 
the future condition of this interesting 


‘} country; but it is clear that the pacha 


is determined to build up the city of 
Alexandria if he can; his fleet is here, 
his army, his arsenal, and his forts are 
here; and he has forced and centred 
here a commerce that was before di- 
vided between several places. Rosetta 
has lost more than two-third: of its 
population. Damietta has become a 
mere nothing, and even Cairo the Gi.nd 
has become tributary to what is called 
_the regenerated city (vol. i, pp. 21, 22). 


We see no presumption in this at- 
tempt to speculate upon the future con- 
dition of Egypt. Its destinies are mat- 
ter for the attentive consideration of 
every reader of the Bible. No words 
can be more definitive, more utterly 
free from ambiguity, than the prophe- 
cies concerning this region. No events 
could be more wonderful in their na- 
ture, nor more impossible to have been 
foreseen by the eye of man, than the 
events foretold concerning it. With 
_ the earliest ages of the world its line of 
| monarchs began, and the annihilation of 
_ the entire dynasty was predicted during 
the zenith of that dynasty’s power. 
| One of the most lucid -f the biblical 
| commentators has justly observed that 
| the very attempt once made by in- 
| fidels to show, from the recorded num- 
_ber of its monarchs and the duration 
of their reigns, that Egypt was a king- 
| dom previous to the Mosaic era of the 


1195s 


deluge, places in most striking view the 
extraordinary character of the prophe- 
cies regarding it. During two thousand 
years prior to these predictions Egypt 
had never been without a prince of its 
own; and how oppressive was its tyr- 
anny over Judea and the neighbouring 
nations! It, however, was distinctly 
foretold that this country of kings 
should no longer have one of its own— 
that it should be laid waste by the hand 
of strangers—that it should be a base 
kingdom, the basest of the base—that 
it should mever again exalt itself among 
the nations—that it should be a desola- 
tion surrounded by desolation. Two 
thousand years have now afforded their 
testimony to the infallibility of the Di- 
vine word, and the evidence is still ac- 
cumulating. “Its past and present de- 
generacy bears not a more remote re- 
semblance to the former greatness and 
pride of its power than the frailty of 
its mud-walled fabric now bears to 
the stability of its imperishable pyra- 
mids.” But it should be remembered that 
there are other prophecies concerning 
it which still await their fulfilment. 
“The whole earth shall rejoice, and 
Egypt shall not be for ever base. The 
Lord shall smite Egypt; he shall smite 
and heal it; and they shall be entreated 
of them, and shall heal them. In that 
day shall Isaac be the third with Egypt 
and with Assyria, even a blessing in the 
midst of the land” (Isa. xix. 19-25). 
In regard to the present degree of po- 
litical power and importance to which 
the country has certainly arisen under 
Mohammed Aly (an importance un- 
known for many centuries), the fact, as 
Mr. Keith observes in his valuable 
“Evidence of Prophecy,” may possibly 
serve, at no distant period, to illustrase 


1196 


the prediction which implies, that how- 
ever base and degraded it might be 
throughout many generations, it would, 
notwithstanding, have strength sufficient 
to be looked to for aid or protection, 
even at the time of the restoration of 
the Jews to Judea, who will seek “to 
strengthen themselves in the strength 
of Pharoah, and trust in the shadow 
of Egypt.’ How emphatically her pres- 
ent feeble prosperity is, after all, but 
the shadow of the Egypt of the 
Pharaohs we leave to the explorer of 
her pyramids, the wanderer among the 
tombs of her kings or the fragments 
of her Luxor and her Carnac. 

At Djiddeh, formerly the capital of 
Upper Egypt and the largest town on 
the Nile, Mr. Stephens encountered two 
large boat-loads of slaves—probably 
five or six hundred—collected at Don- 
gola and Senuaar. 


“In the East,” he writes, “slavery 
exists now precisely as it did-in the 
days of the patriarchs. The slave is 
received into the family of a Turk, ina 
relation more confidential and respect- 
able than that of an ordinary domestic, 
and when liberated, which very often 
happens, stands upon the same footing 
with a freeman. ‘The curse does not 
rest upon him for ever; he may sit at 
the same boards, dip his hand in the 
same dish, and, if there are no other 
impediments, may marry his master’s 
daughter.” 


Moria says, in his “Journey through 
Persia” :— 


The manners of the East, amidst all 
the changes of government and religion, 
are still the same. They are living im- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


pressions from an original mould; and, 
at every step, some object, some idiom, 
some dress, or some custom of common 
life, reminds the traveller of ancient 
times, and confirms, above all, the 
beauty, the accuracy, and the propriety 
of the language and the history of the 
Bible. 


Sir John Chardin also, in the Preface 
to his “Travels in Persia,” employs 
similar language :— 


And the learned, to whom I com- 
municated my design, encouraged me 
very much by their commendations to 
proceed in it; and more especially when 
I informed them that it is not in Asia, 
as in our Europe, where there are fre- 
quent changes, more or less, in the 
form of things, as the habits, buildings, 
gardens, and the like. In the East they 
are constant in all things. The habits 
are at this day in the same manner as in 
the precedent ages; so that one may 
reasonably believe that, in that part 
of the world, the exterior forms of 
things (as their manners and customs) 
are the same now as they were two 
thousand years since, except in such 
changes as have been introduced by 
religion, which are nevertheless very 
inconsiderable. 


Nor is such striking testimony un- 
supported. From all sources we derive 
evidence of the conformity, almost of 
the identity, of the modern with the 
ancient usages of the East. This stead- 
fast resistance to innovation is a trait 
remarkably confined to the regions of 
biblical history, and (it should not be 
doubted) will remain in force until it 
shall have fulfilled all the important 
purposes of biblical elucidation. Here- 











after, when the ends of Providence shall 
be thoroughly answered, it will not fail 
to give way before the influence of that 
very Word it has been instrumental in 
/establishing; and the tide of civiliza- 
}tion, which has hitherto flowed con- 
‘tinuously, from the rising to the setting 
sun, will be driven back, with a partial 
ebb, into its original channels. 
Returning from the cataracts, Mr. 
Stephens found himself safely at Cairo, 
where terminated his journeyings upon 
the Nile. He had passed “from Migdol 
to Syene, even unto the borders of 
Ethiopia.” In regard to the facilities, 
comforts, and minor enjoyments of the 
voyage, he speaks of them in a manner 
so favourable that many of our young 
countrymen will be induced to follow 
his example. It is an amusement, he 
“says, even ridiculously cheap, and at- 
tended with no degree of danger. A 
boat with ten men is procured for thirty 
or forty dollars a month, fowls for three 
_piastres a pair, 2 sheep for a half or 
three quarters of a dollar, and eggs for 
the asking. “You sail under your own 
country’s banner; and when you walk 
along the river, if the Arabs look par- 
ticularly black and truculent, yu 
proudly feel that there is safety in its 
folds.” 

We now approach what is by far the 
most interesting and the most important 
portion of his tour. Mr. Stephens had 
resolved to visit Mount Sinai, proceed- 
ing thence to the Holy Land. If he 
should return to Suez, and thus cross 
the desert to El Arich and Gaza, he 
would be subjected to a quarantine of 
fourteen days on account of the plague 
in Egypt; and this difficulty might be 
avoided by striking through the heart 
of the desert lying between Mount 








STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 


1197 


Sinai and the frontier of Palestine. This 
route was beset with danger; but, apart 
from the matter of avoiding quarantine, 
it had other strong temptations for the 
enterprise and.enthusiasm of the travel- 
ler—temptations not to be resisted. 
“The route,’ says Mr. Stephens, “was 
hitherto untravelled,’ and, moreover, 
it lay through a region upon which has 
long rested, and still rests, a remarkable 
curse of the Divinity, issued through 
the voices of his prophets. We allude 
to the land of Idumaea—the Edom of 
the Scriptures. Some English friends, 
who first suggested this route to Mr. 
Stephens, referred him, for information 
concerning it, to Keith on the Prophe- 
cies. Mr. Keith, as our readers are 
aware, contends for the J/iteral fulfil- 
ment of prophecy, and in the treatise in 
question brings forward a mass of evi- 
dence, and a world of argument, which 
we, at least, are constrained to consider, 
as a whole irrefutable. We look upon 
the literalness of the understanding of 
the Bible predictions as an essential 
feature in prophecy—conceiving mi- 
nuteness f detail to have been but a 
portion of the providential plan of the 
Deity for bringing more visibly to light, 
in after-ages, the evidence of the ful- 
filment of his word. No general mean- 
ing attached to a prediction, no general 
fulfilment of such prediction, could 
carry, to the reason of mankind, infer- 
ences so unquestionable, as its particu- 
lar and minutely incidental accomplish- 
ment. General statements, except in 
rare instances, are susceptible of mis- 
interpretation or misapplication: details 
admit no shadow of ambiguity. That, 
in many striking cases, the words of 
the prophets have been brought to pass 
in every particular of a series of mi- 


1198 


nutiz, whose very meaning was unintel- 
ligible before the period of fulfilment, 
is a truth that few are so utterly stub- 
born as to deny. We mean to say that, 
in all instances, the most. strictly literal 
interpretation will apply. ‘There is, no 
doubt, much unbelief founded upon the 
obscurity of the prophetic expression; 
and the question is frequently demanded 
—wherein lies the use of this obscurity? 
—why are not the prophecies distinct? 
—these words, it is said, are incoherent, 
unintelligible, and should be therefore 
regarded as untrue. That many prophe- 
cies are absolutely unintelligible should 
not be denied—it is a part of their es- 
sence that they sho ld be. The ob- 
scurity, like the apparently irrelevant 
detail, has its object in the providence 
of God. Were the words of inspiration, 
affording insight into the events of fu- 
turity, at all times so pointedly clear 
that he who runs might read, they 
would in many cases, even when ful- 
filled, afford a rational ground for un- 
belief in the inspiration of their au- 
thors, and consequently in the whole 
truth of revelation; for it would be 
supposed that these distinct words, ex- 
citing union and emulation among 
Christians, had thus been merely the 
means of working out their ov ac- 
complishment. It is for this reason 
that the most of the predictions become 
intelligible only when viewed from the 
proper point of observation—the period 
of fulfilment. Perceiving this, the phi- 
losophical thinker, and the Christian, 
will draw no argument from the ob- 
scurity, against the verity, of prophecy. 
Having seen palpably, incontrovertibly 
fulfilled, even one of these many won- 
derful predictions, of whose meaning, 
until the day of accomplishment, he 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


could form no conception; and having 
thoroughly satisfied himself that no hu- 
man foresight could have been equal 
to such amount of foreknowledge, he 
will await, in confident expectation, that 
moment certainly to come when the 
darkness of the veil shall be uplifted 
from the others. 


KEITH 


We cannot do better than quote 
here the words of a writer in the Lon- 
don Quarterly Review. “Twenty years 
ago we read certain portions of the 
prophetic Scriptures with a belief that 
they were true, because other similar 
passages had in the course of ages been 
proved to be so; and we had an indis- 
tinct notion that all these, to us obscure 
cnd indefinite denunciations, had been 
—we knew not very well when or how— 
accomplished; but to have graphic de- 
scriptions, ground plans, and elevations 
showing the actual existence of all the 
heretofore vague and shadowy denuncia- 
tions of God against Edom, does, we 
confess, excite our feelings, and exalt 
our confidence in prophecy to a height 
that no external evidence has hitherto 
done.” 

Many prophecies, it should be re- 
membered, are in a state of gradual 
fulfilment—a chain of evidence being 
thus made to extend throughout a long 
series of ages, for the benefit of man 
at large, without being confined to one 
epoch or generation, which would be the 
case in a fulfilment suddenly coming 
to pass. Thus, some portion of the 
prophecies concerning Edom has refer- 
ence to the year of recompense for the 
controversy of Sion. 

One word in regard to the work of 
Keith. Since penning this article we 





STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 


have been grieved to see, in a New 
York daily paper, some strictures on 
this well-known treatise, which we 
think unnecessary, if not positively un- 
just; and which, indeed, are little more 
than a revival of the old story trumped 
up for purposes of its own, and in the 
most bitter spirit of unfairness, by the 
London Quarterly Review. We allude 
especially to the charge of plagiarism 
from the work of Bishop Newton. It 
would be quite as reasonable to accuse 
Dr. Webster of having stolen his Dic- 
tionary from Dr. Johnson, or any other 
compiler of having plundered any other. 
But the work of Keith, as we learn from 
himself, was written hastily, for the 
immediate service and at the urgent so- 
licitation of a friend, whose faith wa- 
vered in regard to the Evidences of 
Prophecy, and who applied to the au- 
thor to aid his unbelief with a con- 
densed view of these Evidences. In 
the preface of the book thus composed, 
with no view to any merits of author- 
ship, and, indeed, with none except that 
of immediate utility, there is found the 
fullest disclaimer of all pretension to 
originality—surely motives and circum- 
stances such as these should have suf- 
ficed to secure Dr. Keith from the un- 
meaning charges of plagiarism which 
have been so pertinaciously adduced! 
We do not mean to deny that, in the 
blindness of his zeal, and in the firm 
conviction entertained by him of the 
general truth of his assumptions, he 
frequently adopted surmises as facts, 
and did essential injury to his cause by 
carrying out his positions to an un- 
warrantable length. With all its inac- 
curacies, however, his work must still 
be regarded as one of the most impor- 


1199 


tant triumphs of faith, and beyond 
doubt as a most lucid and conclusive 
train of argument. 


Having expressed our belief in the 
literal fulfilment of prophecy in all 
cases,* and having suggested, as one 
reason for the non-prevalence of this 
belief, the improper point of view from 
which we are accustomed to regard it, 
it remains to be seen what were the 
principal predictions in respect to 
Idumaea. 


From generation to generation it 
shall lie waste; none shall pass through 
at for ever and ever. But the cormorant 
and the bittern shall possess it; the owl 
also and the raven shall dwell in it; 
and he shall stretch out upon it the 
line of confusion and the stones of 
emptiness. They shall call the nobles 
thereof to the kingdom, but none shall 
be there, and all her princes shall be 
nothing. And thorns shall come up in 
her palaces, nettles and brambles in 
the fortresses thereof; and it shall be 
a habitation of dragons and a court for’ 
owls. The wild beasts of the desert 
shall also meet with the wild beasts 
of the island, and the satyr shall cry 
to his fellow; the screech-owl also shall 
rest there, and find for herself a place 
of rest. There shall the great owl make 
her nest, and lay and hatch, and gather 
under her shadow; there shall the vul- 
tures also be gathered, every one with 
her mate. Seek ye out of the Book 
of the Lord, and read; no one of these 
shall fail, none shall want her mate; 
OO OOOO 

* Of course it will be understood that 
a proper allowance must be made for 
the usual hyperbolical tendency of the 
language of the East. 


1200 


for my mouth it hath commanded, and 
his spirit it hath gathered them. And 
he hath cast the lot for them, and his 
hand hath divided it unto them by line; 
they shall possess it for ever and ever, 
from generation to generation shall they 
dwell therein (Isaiah xxxiv. 5, 10-17). 
Thus will I make Mount Seir most 
desolate, and cut off from it him that 
passeth out and him that returneth 
(Ezekiel xxxv. 7). 


In regard to such of the passages here 
quoted as are not printed in italics, we 
must be content with referring to the 
treatise of Keith already mentioned, 
wherein the evidences of the fulfilment 
of the predictions in their most minute 
particulars are gathered into one view. 
We may as well, however, present here 
the substance of his observations re- 
specting the words—‘“none shall pass 
through it for ever and ever,” and “thus 
will I make Mount Seir desolate, and 
cut off from it him that passeth out and 
him that returneth.” 

He says that Volney, Burckhardt, 
Joliffe, Henniker, and Captains Irby 
and Mangles adduce a variety of cir- 
cumstances, all conspiring to prove that 
Idumaea, which was long resorted to 
from every quarter, is so beset on every 
side with dangers to the traveller, that 
literally none pass through it; that 
even the Arabs of the neighbouring re- 
gions, whose home is the desert, and 
whose occupation is wandering, are 
afraid to enter it, or to conduct any 
within its borders. He says, too, that 
amid all this manifold testimony to its 
truth, there is not, in any single in- 
stance, the most distant allusion to the 
prediction—that the evidence is un- 
suspicious and undesigned. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


A Roman _ road _ passed directly 
through Idumaea from Jerusalem to 
Akaba, and another from Akaba to 
Moab; and when these roads were 
made, at a time long posterior to the 
date of the predictions, the conception 
could not have been formed, or held 
credible by man, that the period would 
ever arrive when ‘none should pass 
through it. Indeed, seven hundred 
years after the date of the prophecy, 
we are informed by Strabo that the 
roads were actually in use. The pre- 
diction is yet more surprising, he says, 
when viewed in conjunction with that 
which implies that travellers should 
pass by Idumaea—“‘every one that goeth 
by shall be astonished.” The routes of 
the pilgrims from Damascus, and from 
Cairo to Mecca, the one on the east 
and the other towards the south of 
Edom, along the whole of its extent, go 
by it, or touch partially on its borders, 
without going through it. 

Not even, he says, the cases of 
Seetzen and Burckhardt can be urgeu 
against the literal fulfilment, although 
Seetzen actually did pass through 
Idumaea, and Burckhardt traversed a 
considerable portion of it. The former 
died not long after the completion of 
his journey; and the latter never re- 
covered from the effects of the hard- 
ships endured on the route—dying at 
Cairo. ‘Neither of them,’ we have 
given the precise words of Mr. Keith, 
“lived to return to Europe. J will cut 
of from Mount Seir him that passeth 
out and him that returneth. Strabo 
mentions that there was a direct road 
from Petra to Jericho, of three or four 
days’ journey. Captains Irby and 
Mangles were eighteen days in reaching 
it from Jerusalem. They did not pass 





STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 


through Idumaea, and they did return. 
‘Seetzen and Burckhardt did _ pass 
through it, and they did ot return.” 

“The words of the prediction,” he 
elsewhere observes, “‘might well be under- 
stood as merely implying that Idumaea 
would cease to be a thoroughfare for 
the commerce of the nations which ad- 
joined it, and that its highly frequented 
marts would be forsaken as centres of 
intercourse and traffic; and easy would 
have been the task of demonstrating its 
truth in this limited sense which scep- 
ticism itself ought not to be unwilling 
to authorize.” 

Here is, no doubt, much inaccuracy 
and misunderstanding; and the exact 
boundaries of ancient Edom are, ap- 
parently, not borne in mind by the com- 
mentator. Idumaea proper was, strictly 
speaking, only the mountainous tract of 
country east of the valley of El-Ghor. 
The Idumaeans, if we rightly apprehend, 
did not get possession of any portion 
of the south of Judea till after the 
exile, and consequently until after the 
prophecies in question. They then ad- 
vanced as far as Hebron, where they 
were arrested by the Maccabees. That 
“Seetzen actually did pass through 
Idumaea,”’ cannot therefore be asserted; 
and thus much is in favour of the whole 
argument of Dr. Keith, while in con- 
tradiction to a branch of that argument. 
The traveller in question (see his own 
Narrative), pursuing his route on the 
east of the Dead Sea, proceeded no 
farther in this direction than to Kerek, 
when he retraced his way—afterwards 
going from Hebron to Mount Sinai, 
over the desert eastward of Edom. 
Neither is it strictly correct that he 
“died not long after the completion of 
his journey.” Several years afterwards 


1201 


he was actively employed in Egypt, 
and finally died; not from constitutional 
injury sustained from any former ad- 
venture, but, if we remember, from the 
effects of poison administered by his 
guide in a journey from Mocha into 
the heart of Arabia. We see no ground 
either for the statement that Burck- 
hardt owed his death to hardships en- 
dured in Idumaea. Having visited Petra, 
and crossed the western desert of Egypt 
in the year 1812, we find him, four years 
afterwards, sufficiently well, at Mount 
Sinai. He did not die until the close 
of 1817, and then of a diarrhoea brought 
about by the imprudent use of cold 
water. 

But let us dismiss these and some 
other instances of misstatement. It 
should not be a matter of surprise, that, 
perceiving, as he no doubt did, the 
object of the circumstantiality of 
prophecy, clearly seeing in how many 
wonderful cases its minutie had been 
fulfilled, and withal being thoroughly 
imbued with a love of truth, and with 
that zeal which is becoming in a Chris- 
tian, Dr. Keith should have plunged 
somewhat hastily or blindly into these 
inquiries, and pushed to an improper 
extent the principle for which he con- 
tended. It should be observed that the 
passage cited just above in regard to 
Seetzen and Burckhardt is given in a 
footnote, and has the appearance of an 
afterthought, about whose propriety its 
author did not feel perfectly content. 
It is certainly very difficult to reconcile 
the literal fulfilment of the prophecy 
with an acknowledgment militating so 
violently against it as we find in his 
own words—“‘Seetzen actually did pass 
through Idumaea, and Burckhardt trav- 
elled through a considerable portion of 


1202 


it.’ And what we are told subsequently 
in respect to Irby and Mangles, and 
Seetzen and Burckhardt—that those did 
not pass through Idumaea and did re- 
turn, while these did pass through and 
did not return—where a passage from 
Ezekiel is brought to sustain collaterally 
a- passage from Isaiah—is certainly not 
in the spirit of literal investigation— 
partaking, indeed, somewhat of equi- 
voque. 

But in regard to the possibility of the 
actual passage through Edom, we might 
now consider all ambiguity at an end, 
could we suffer ourselves to adopt the 
opinion of Mr. Stephens, that he him- 
self had at length traversed the dis- 
puted region. What we have said al- 
ready, however, respecting the proper 
boundaries of that Idumaea to which the 
prophecies have allusion, will assure the 
reader that we cannot entertain this 
idea. It will be clearly seen that he did 
not pass through the Edom of Ezekiel. 
That he might have done so, however, 
is sufficiently evident. The indomitable 
perseverance which bore him up amid 
the hardships and dangers of the route 
actually traversed, would, beyond doubt, 
have sufficed to ensure him a successful 
passage even through Idumaea_ the 
proper. And’ this we say, maintaining 
still an unhesitating belief in the literal 
‘inderstanding of the prophecies. It is 
‘essential, however, that these prophecies 
be literally rendered; and it is a matter 
for regret as well as surprise, that Dr. 
Keith should have failed to determine 
so important a point as the exactness 
or falsity of the version of his text. 
This we will now briefly examine. 

Isaiah xxxiv. 10.—‘‘For an eternity”; 
—‘of eternities” ;—“not”;—“moving 
about” ;—‘in it.” “For an eternity of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


eternities (there shall) not (be any 
one) moving about in it.” The literal 
meaning is “zm it,” not “through it.” 
The participle refers to one moving 
to and fro or up and down, and is the 
same term which is rendered “current,” 
as an epithet of money, in Genesis 
xxiii. 16. The prophecy means that 
there shall be no marks of life in the 
land, no living being there, no one mov- 
ing up and down in it; and are, of 
course, to be taken with the usual allow- 
ance for that hyperbole which is a 
main feature, and indeed the genius of 
the language. 

Ezekiel xxxv. 7.—‘and I will give”; 
—‘‘the mountain”’;—“Seir”’;—‘“for a 
desolation”;—‘“‘and a _ desolation” ;— 
“and I will cut off’;—‘from it”;— 
“him that goeth’;—‘‘and him that re- 
turneth.” ‘And I will give Mount Seir 
for an utter desolation, and will cut off 
from it him that passeth and repasseth 
therein.” The reference here is the 
same as in the previous passage, and 
the inhabitants of the land are alluded 
to as moving about therein, and actively 
employed in the business of life. The 
meaning of ‘‘passing and repassing” is 
sanctioned by Gesenius, s. v. vol. ii. 
p. 570, Leo’s Trans. Compare Za- 
chariah vii. 14, and ix. 8. There is 
something analogous in the Hebrew- 
Greek phrase occurring in Acts ix. 28. 
Kai aen met autoen eisporeuomenos kai 
ekporeuomenos en Ierousalaem. (Gr.) 
“And he was with them in Jerusalem 
coming in and going out.” The Latin 
“versatus est” conveys the meaning 
precisely; which is, that Saul, the new 
convert, was on intimate terms with the 
true believers in Jerusalem, moving 
about among them to and fro, or in and 
out. It is plain, therefore, that the 





STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 


words of the prophets, in both cases, 
and when literally construed, intend 


} only to predict the general desolation 
}} and abandonment of the land. Indeed, 


it should have been taken into consid- 
eration, that a strict prohibition on the 
part of the Deity of an entrance into, or 
passage through, Idumaea, would have 
effectually cut off from mankind all evi- 
dence of this prior sentence of desola- 
tion and: abandonment; the prediction 
itself being thus rendered a dead letter, 
when viewed in regard to its ulterior 
and most important purpose—the dis- 
semination of the faith. 

Mr. Stephens was strongly dissuaded 
from his design. Almost the only per- 
son who encouraged him was Mr. Glid- 
don, our consul; and but for him the 
idea would have been abandoned. The 
dangers indeed were many, and the dif- 
ficulties more. By good fortune, how- 
ever, the Sheik of Akaba was then at 
Cairo. The great yearly caravan of 
pilgrims for Mecca was assembling be- 
neath the walls, and he had been sum- 
moned by the pacha to escort and pro- 
‘tect them ‘through the desert as far as 
Akaba. He was the chief of a powerful 
tribe of Bedouins, maintaining in all its 
vigor the independence of their race, 
and bidding defiance to the pacha, while 
they yielded him such obedience as 
comported with their own immediate 
interests. 

With this potentate our traveller en- 
tered into negotiation. The precise serv- 
ice required of him was to conduct 
Mr. Stephens from Akaba to Hebron, 
through the land of Edom, diverging to 
visit the excavated city of Petra—a 
journey of about ten days. A very in- 
definite arrangement was at length 
made. Mr. Stephens after visiting 


1203 


Mount Sinai was to repair to Akaba, 
where he would meet the escort of the 
Bedouin. With a view to protection 
on his way from Cairo to the Holy 
Mountain the latter gave him his signet, 
which he told him would be respected 
by all Arabs on the route. 

The arrangements for the journey as 
far as Mount Sinai had been made for 
our traveller by Mr. Gliddon. A 
Bedouin was procured as guide who had 
been with M. Laborde to Petra, and 
whose faith as well as capacity could be 
depended upon. The caravan consisted 
of eight camels and dromedaries, with 
three young Arabs as drivers. The 
tent was the common tent of the Egyp- 
tian soldiers, bought at the Government 
factory, being very light, easily carried 
and pitched. The bedding was a mat- 
tress and coverlet; provision, bread, 
biscuit, rice, macaroni, tea, coffee, dried 
apricots, oranges, a roasted leg of mut- 
ton, and two large skins containing the 
filtered water of the Nile. Thus 
equipped the party struck immediately 
into the desert lying between Cairo 
and Suez, reaching the latter place with 
but little incident, after a journey of 
four ,days. At Suez our traveller, 
wearied with his experiment of the 
dromedary, made an attempt to hire a 
boat, with a view of proceeding down 
the Red Sea to Tor, supposed to be the 
Elim, or place of palm-trees mentioned 
in the Exodus of the Israelites, and 
only two days’ journey from Mount 
Sinai. The boats, however, were all 
taken by pilgrims, and none could be 
procured—at least for so long a voy- 
age. He accordingly sent off his camels 
round the head of the gulf, and cross- 
ing himself by water, met them on the 
Petraean side of the sea. 


1204 


“T am aware,” says Mr. Stephens, 
“that there is some dispute as to the 
precise spot where Moses crossed; but, 
having no time for scepticism on such 
matters, I began by making up my 
mind that this was the place, and then 
looked around to see whether, according 
to the account given in the Bible, the 
face of the country and the natural 
landmarks did not sustain my opinion. 
I remember I looked up to the head of 
the gulf, where Suez or Kolsum now 
stands, and saw that almost to the very 
head of the gulf there was a high range 
of mountains which it would be neces- 
sary to cross, an undertaking which it 
would have been physically impossible 
for 600,000 people, men, women, and 
children, to accomplish, with a hostile 
army pursuing them. At Suez Moses 
could not have been hemmed in as he 
was; he could go off into the Syrian 
desert, or, unless the sea has greatly 
changed since that time, round the head 
of the gulf. But here, directly opposite 
where I sat, was an opening in the 
mountains, making a clear passage from 
the desert to the shore of the sea. 
It is admitted that from the earliest 
history of the country there was a cara- 
qan route from the Rameseh of the 
Pharaohs to this spot, and it was per- 
fectly clear to my mind .that, if the 
account be true at all, Moses had 
taken that route; that it was directly 
opposite me, between the two moun- 
tains, where he had come down with 
his multitude to the shore; and that it 
was there he had found himself hemmed 
in, in the manner described in the Bible, 
with the sea before him, and the army 
of Pharaoh in his rear; it was there 
he stretched out his hand and divided 
the waters; and probably on the very 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


spot where I sat the children of Israel 
had kneeled upon the sands to offer 
thanks to God for his miraculous inter- 
position. The distance too was in con- 
firmation of this opinion. It was about 
twenty miles across; the distance which 
that immense multitude, with their 
necessary baggage, could have passed in 
the space of time (a night) mentioned 
in the Bible. Besides my own judg- 
ment and conclusions, I had authority 
on the spot, in my Bedouin Toualeb, 
who talked of it with as much certainty 
as if he had seen it himself; and by the 
waning light of the moon, pointed out 
the metes and bounds according to 
the tradition received from his fathers.” 


Mr. Stephens is here greatly in error, 
and has placed himself in direct opposi- 
tion to all authority on the subject. 
It is quite evident that since the days 
of the miracle, the sea has “greatly 
changed” round the head of the gulf. 
It is now several feet lower, as appears 
from the alluvial condition of several 
bitter lakes in the vicinity. On this 
topic Niebuhr, who examined the mat- 
ter with his accustomed learning, acu- 
men, and perseverance, is indisputable 
authority. But he merely agrees with 
all the most able writers on this head. 
The passage occurred at Suez. The 
chief arguments sustaining this position 
are deduced from the ease by which 
the miracle could have been wrought 
on a sea so shaped, by means of a 
strong wind blowing from the north- 
east. 

Resuming his journey to the south- 
ward, our traveller passed _ safely 
through a barren and mountainous re- 
gion, bare of verdure, and destitute of 
water, in about seven days to Mount 





STEPHENS’ ARABIA PETRAEA 


Sinai. It is to be regretted that in his 
- account of a country so little traversed 

as this peninsula Mr. Stephens has not 
entered more into detail. Upon his 
adventures at the Holy Mountain, 
which are of great interest, he dwells 
somewhat at length. 

At Akaba he met the Sheik as by 
agreement. A horse of the best breed 
of Arabia was provided, and, although 
suffering from ill-health, he proceeded 
manfully through the desert to Petra 
and Mount Hor. The difficulties of 
the route proved to be chiefly those 
_ arising from the rapacity of his friend, 
the Sheik of Akaba, who threw a thou- 
sand impediments in his way with the 
purpose of magnifying the importance 
of the service rendered, and obtaining, 
in consequence, the larger allowance of 
backsheesh. 

The account given of Petra agrees 
in all important particulars with those 
rendered by the very few travellers 
who had previously visited it. With 
these accounts our readers are suffici- 
ently acquainted. The singular char- 
acter of the city, its vast antiquity, 
its utter loss, for more than a thou- 
sand years, to the eyes of the civilized 
world, and above all the solemn denun- 
ciations of prophecy regarding it, have 
combined to invest these ruins with an 


interest beyond that of any others in - 


existence, and to render what has been 
written concerning them familiar knowl- 
edge to nearly every individual who 
reads. 

Leaving Petra, after visiting Mount 
Hor, Mr. Stephens returned to the 
valley of El-Ghor, and fell into the 
caravan route for Gaza, which crosses 
the valley obliquely. Coming out from 
the ravine among the mountains to the 


1205 


westward, he here left the road to 
Gaza, and pushed immediately on to 
Hebron. This distance (between the 
Gaza route and Hebron) is, we believe, 
the only positively new route accom- 
plished by our American tourist. We 
understand that in 1826 Méessieurs 
Strangeways and Anson passed over the 
ground, on the Gaza road from Petra, 
to the point where it deviates for 
Hebron. On the part of Mr. Stephens’ 
course, which we have thus designated 
as new, it is well known that a great 
public road existed in the later days 
of the Roman empire, and that several 
cities were located immediately upon it. 
Mr. Stephens discovered some ruins, 
but-his state of health, unfortunately, 
prevented a minute investigation. Those 
which he encountered are represented 
as forming rude and shapeless masses; 
there were no columns, no blocks of 
marble, or other large stones, indicat- 
ing architectural greatness. The Pen- 
tinger Tables place Helusa in this im- 
mediate vicinity, and, but for the 
character of the ruins seen, we might 
have supposed them to be the remnants 
of that city. 

The latter part of our author’s sec- 
ond volume is occupied with his jour- 
neyings in the Holy Land, and prin- 
cipally with an account of his visit to 
Jerusalem. ‘What relates to the Dead 
Sea we are induced to consider as, upon 
the whole, the most interesting, if not 
the most important portion of his 
book. It was his original intention to 
circumnavigate this lake, but the diffi- 
culty of procuring a boat proved an 
obstacle not to be surmounted. He 
traversed, nevertheless, no little extent 
of its shores, bathed in it, saw distinctly 
that the Jordan does mingle with its 


1206 


waters, and that birds floated upon it, 
and flew over its surface. 

But it is time that we conclude. Mr. 
Stephens passed through Samaria and 
Galilee, stopping at Nablous (the an- 
cient Sychem), the burial-place of the 
patriarch Joseph, and the ruins of Se- 
baste; crossed the battle-plain of Jez- 
reel; ascended Mount Tabor; visited 
Nazareth, the Lake of Genesareth, the 
cities of Tiberias and Saphet, Mount 
Carmel, Acre, Tyre, and Sidon. At 
Beyroot he took passage for Alexandria, 
and thence finally returned to Europe. 

The volumes are written in general 
with a freedom, a frankness, and an 
utter absence of pretension, which will 
secure them the respect and good- 
will of all parties. The author pro- 
fesses to have compiled his narrative 
merely from “brief notes and recollec- 
tions,” admitting that he has probably 
fallen into errors regarding facts and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


impressions—errors he has been pre- 
vented from seeking out and correcting 
by the urgency of other occupations 
since his return. We have, therefore, 
thought it quite as well not to trouble 
our readers, in this cursory review, with 
references to parallel travels, now fa- 
miliar, and whose merits and demerits 


‘are sufficiently well understood. 


We take leave of Mr. Stephens with 
sentiments of hearty respect. We hope 
it is not the last time we shall hear 
from him. He is a traveller with whom 
we shall like to take other journeys. 
Equally free from the exaggerated senti- 
mentality of Chateaubriand, or the 
sublimated, the too French enthusiasm 
of Lamartine on the one hand, and on 
the other from the degrading spirit of 
utilitarianism, which sees in mountains 
and waterfalls only quarries and manu- 
facturing sites, Mr. Stephens writes like 
a man of good sense and sound feeling. 


The Quacks of Helicon 


(Published in Graham’s Magazine, August, 1841.—Ed.) 


A SATIRE, professedly such, at the 
present day, and especially by an Ameri- 
can writer, is a welcome novelty indeed. 
We have really done very. little in the 
line upon this side of the Atlantic— 
nothing certainly of importance—Trum- 
bull’s clumsy poem and_  Halleck’s 
“Croakers” to the contrary notwith- 
standing. Some things we have pro- 
duced, to be sure, which were excellent 
in the way of burlesque, without intend- 
ing a syllable that was not utterly 
solemn and serious. Odes, ballads, 
songs, sonnets, epics, and epigrams, 
possessed of this unintentional excel- 


lence, we could have no difficulty in 
designating by the dozen; but in the 
matter of directly meant and genuine 
satire, it cannot be denied that we are 
sadly deficient. Although, as a literary 
people, however, we are not exactly 
Archilochuses—although we have no pre- 
tensions to the aechaentes iamboi (Gr.) 
—although in short, we are no satirists 
ourselves, there can be no question that 
we answer sufficiently well as subjects 
for satire. 

We repeat that we are glad to see 
this book of Mr. Wilmer’s; first, be- 
cause it is something new under the 


THE QUACKS OF HELICON 


sun; secondly, pecause, in many re- 
spects, it is well executed; and thirdly, 
because, in the universal corruption and 
rigmarole, amid which we gasp for 
breath, it is really a pleasant thing to 
get even one accidental whiff of the 
unadulterated air of truth. 

“The Quacks of Helicon,” as a poem 
and otherwise, has many defects, and 
these we shall have no scruple in point- 
ing out—although Mr. Wilmer is a per- 
sonal friend of our own, and we are 
happy and proud to say so—but it has 
also many remarkable merits—merits 
which it will be quite useless for those 
aggrieved by the satire—quite useless for 
any clique, or set of cliques, to attempt 
to frown down, or to affect not to see, 
or to feel, or to understand. 

Its prevalent blemishes are referable 
chiefly to the leading sin of imitation. 
Had the work been composed profess- 
edly in paraphrase of the whcle manner 
of the sarcastic epistles of the times 
of Dryden and Pope, we should have 
pronounced it the most ingenious and 
truthful thing of the kind upon record. 
So close is the copy that it extends to 
the most trivial points—for example, 
to the old forms of punctuation. The 
turns of phraseology, the tricks of 
rhythm, the arrangement of the para- 
graphs, the general conduct of the satire 
—everything—all—are Dryden’s. We 
cannot deny, it is true, that the satiric 
model of the days in question is insus- 
ceptible of improvement, and that the 
modern author who deviates therefrom 
must necessarily sacrifice something of 
merit at the shrine of originality. 
Neither can we shut our eyes to the 
fact that the imitation in the present 
case has conveyed, in full spirit, the 
high qualities, as well as in rigid let- 


1207 


ter, the minor elegancies and generat 
peculiarities of the author of “Absalom 
and Achitophel.” We have here the 
bold, vigorous, and sonorous verse, the 
biting sarcasm, the pungent epigram- 
matism, the unscrupulous directness, as 
of old. Yet it will not do to forget that 
Mr. Wilmer has been shown how to 
accomplish these things. He is thus 
only entitled to the praise of a close 
observer, and of a thoughtful and skil- 
ful copyist. The images are, to be 
sure, his own. They are neither Pope’s, 
nor Dryden’s, nor Rochester’s, nor 
Churchill’s—but they are moulded in 
the identical mould used by these 
satirists. 

This servility of imitation has se- 
duced our author into errors, which his 
better sense should have avoided. He 
sometimes mistakes intentions; at other 
times, he copies faults, confounding 
them with beauties. In the opening 
of the poem, for example, we find the 
lines— 


Against usurpers, Olney, I declare 
A righteous, just, and patriotic war. 


The rhymes war and declare are here 
adopted from Pope, who employs them 
frequently; but it should have been re- 
membered that the modern relative pro- 
nunciation of the two words differs 
materially from the relative pronuncia- 
tion of the era of the ‘“Dunciad.” 

We are also sure that the gross ob- 
scenity, the filth—we can use no gentler 
name—which disgraces “The Quacks ot 
Helicon,” cannot be the result of innate 
impurity in the mind of the writer. It 
is but a part of the slavish and indis- 
criminating imitation of the Swift and 
Rochester school. It has done the book 


1208 


an irreparable injury, both in a moral 
and pecuniary view, without affecting 
anything whatever on the score of sar- 
casm, vigour or wit. “Let what is to 
be said, be said plainly.” True; but 
let nothing vulgar be ever said or 
conceived. 

In asserting that this satire, even in 
its mannerism, has imbued itself with 
the full spirit of the polish and of the 
pungency of Dryden, we have already 
awarded it high praise. But there re- 
mains to be mentioned the far loftier 
merit of speaking fearlessly the truth, 
at an epoch when truth is out of fash- 
ion, and under circumstances of social 
position which would have deterred 
almost any man in our community from 
a similar Quixotism. For the publica- 
tion of “The Quacks of Helicon’—a 
poem which brings under review, by 
name, most of our prominent literati, 
and treats them, generally, as they de- 
serve (what treatment could be more 
bitter?)—for the publication of this 
attack, Mr. Wilmer, whose subsistence 
lies in his pen, has little to look for— 
apart from the silent respect of those 
at once honest and timid—but the most 
malignant open or covert persecution. 
For this reason, and because it is the 
truth which he has spoken, do we say 
to him, from the bottom of our hearts, 
“God speed!” 

We repeat it: z¢ zs the truth which he 
has spoken; and who shall contradict 
us? He has said unscrupulously what 
every reasonable man among us has 
long known to be “as true as the 
Pentateuch”—that, as a literary people, 
we are one vast perambulating hum- 
bug. He has asserted that we are 
clique-ridden; and who does not smile 
at the obvious truism of that assertion? 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


He maintains that chicanery is, with 
us, a far surer road than talent to 
distinction in letters. Who gainsays 
this? The corrupt nature of our ordi- 
nary criticism has become notorious. 
Its powers have been prostrated by its 
own arm. ‘The intercourse between 
critic and publisher, as it now almost . 
universally stands, is comprised either 
in the paying and pocketing of black- 
mail, as the price of a simple forebear- 
ance, or in a direct system of petty 
and contemptible bribery, properly so- 
called—a system even more injurious 
than the former to the true interests 
of the public, and more degrading to 
the buyers and sellers of good opinion, 
on account of the more positive char- 
acter of the service here rendered for 
the consideration received. We laugh 
at the idea of any denial of our as- 
sertions upon this topic; they are in- 
famously true. In the charge of gen- 
eral corruption, there are undoubtedly 
many noble exceptions to be made. 
There are, indeed, some very few edi- 
tors, who, maintaining an entire inde- 
pendence, will receive no books from 
publishers at all, or who receive them 
with a perfect understanding, on the 
part of these latter, that an unbiassed 
critique will be given. But these cases 
are insufficient to have much effect on 
the popular mistrust; a mistrust height- 
ened by late exposure of the machina- 
tions of coteries in New York—coteries 
which, at the bidding of leading book- 
sellers, manufacture, as required from 
time to time, a pseudo-public opinion 
by wholesale, for the benefit of any 
little hanger-on of the party, or petti- 
fogging protector of the firm. 

We speak of these things in the bit- 
terness of scorn. It is unnecessary tc 


THE QUACKS OF HELICON 


cite instances, where one is found in 
almost every issue of a book. It is 
needless to call to mind the desperate 
case of Fay—a case where the pertinac- 
ity of the effort to gull—where the ob- 
viousness of the attempt at forestalling 
a judgment—where the wofully over- 
‘done bemirrorment of that man-of- 
straw, together with the pitiable plati- 
tude of his production, proved a dose 
somewhat too potent for even the well- 
prepared stomach of the mob. We say 
it is supererogatory to dwell upon ‘“‘Nor- 
man Leslie,” or other by-gone follies, 
when we have before our eyes hourly 
instances of the machinations in ques- 
tion. To so great an extent of method- 
ical assurance has the system of puffery 
arrived, that publishers, of late, have 
made no scruple of keeping on hand 
an assortment of commendatory notices, 
prepared by their men of all work, and 
of sending these notices around to the 
multitudinous papers within their influ- 
ence, done up within the fly leaves of 
the book. The grossness of these base 
attempts, however, has not escaped in- 
dignant rebuke from the more honour- 
able portion of the press; and we hail 
these symptoms of restiveness under 
the yoke of unprincipled ignorance and 
quackery (strong only in combination) 
as the harbinger of a better era for 
the interests of real merit, and of the 
national literature as a whole. 

It has become, indeed, the plain 
duty of each individual connected with 
our periodicals heartily to give what- 
ever influence he possesses to the good 
cause of integrity and the truth. The 
resusts thus attainable will be found 
worthy his closest attention and best 
efforts. We shall thus frown down all 
conspiracies to foist inanity upon the 


1209 


public consideration at the obvious ex- 
pense of every man of taient who is not 
a member of a clique in power. We 
may even arrive in time at that desir- 
able point from which a distinct view 
of our men of letters may be obtained, 
and their respective pretensions ad- 
justed by the standard of a rigorous 
and _ self-sustaining criticism alone. 
That their several positions are as yet 
properly settled; that the posts which 
a vast number of them now hold are 
maintained by any better tenure than 
that of the chicanery upon which we 
have commented, will be asserted by 
none but the ignorant, or the parties 
who have best right to feel an interest 
in the “good old condition of things.” 
No two matters can be more radically 
different than the reputation of some 
of our prominent Jitterateurs as gath- 
ered from the mouths of the people 
(who glean it from the paragraphs of 
the papers), and the same reputation 
as deduced from the private estimate 
of intelligent and educated men. We 
do not advance this fact as a new dis- 
covery. Its truth, on the contrary, is 
the subject, and has long been so, of 
every-day witticism and mirth. 

Why not? Surely there can be few 
things more ridiculous than the gen- 
eral character and assumptions of the 
ordinary critical notices of new books! 
An editor, sometimes without the 
shadow of the commonest attainment 
—often without brains, always without 
time—does not scruple to give the 
world to understand that he is in the 
daily habit of critically reading and 
deciding upon a flood of publications, 
one-tenth of whose title pages he may 
possibly have turned over, three-fourths 
of whose contents would be Hebrew 


1210 


to his most desperate efforts at com- 
prehension, and whose entire mass and 
amount, as might be mathematically 
demonstrated, would be sufficient to 
occupy, in the most cursory perusal, 
the attention of some ten or twenty 
readers for a month! What he wants 
in plausibility, however, he makes up 
in obsequiousness; what he lacks in 
time he supplies in temper. He is the 
most easily pleased man in the world. 
He admires everything, from the big 
Dictionary of Noah Webster to the last 
diamond edition of Tom Thumb. In- 
deed, his sole difficulty is in finding 
tongue to express his delight. Every 
pamphlet is a miracle—every book in 
boards is an epoch in letters. His 
phrases, therefore, get bigger and bigger 
every day, and, if it were not for talk- 
ing Cockney, we might call him a “regu- 
lar swell.” 

Yet, in the attempt at getting definite 
information in regard to any one por- 
tion of our literature, the merely gen- 
eral reader, or the foreigner, will turn 
in vain from the lighter to the heavier 
journals. But it is not our intention 
here to dwell upon the radical, antique, 


and systematized rigmarole of our 
Quarterlies. The articles here are 
anonymous. Who writes?—who causes 


to be written? Who but an ass will 
put faith in tirades which may be the 
result of personal hostility, or in pane- 
gyrics which nine times out of ten may 
be laid, directly or indirectly, to the 
charge of the author himself? It is in 
the favour of these saturnine pamphlets 
that they contain, now and then, a good 
essay de omnibus rebus et quibusdam 
aliis, which may be looked into, without 
decided somnolent consequences, at any 
period, not immediately subsequent to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


dinner. But it is useless to expect 
criticism from periodicals called ‘“Re- 
views” from never reviewing. Besides, 
all men know, or should know, that 
these books are sadly given to verbiage. 
It is a part of their nature, a condition 
of their being, a point of their faith. 
A veteran reviewer loves the safety of 
generalities and is therefore rarely par- 
ticular. ‘“Words, words, words,” are the 
secret of his strength. He has one or 
two ideas of his own and is both wary 
and fussy in giving them out. His wit 
lies, with his truth, in a well, and there 
is always a world of trouble in getting 
it up. He is a sworn enemy to all 
things simple and direct. He gives no 
ear to the advice of the giant Moulin- 
eau—‘Belier, mon ami, commencez au 
commencement.” He either jumps at 
once into the middle of his subject, or 
breaks in at a back door, or sidles up to 
it with the gait of a crab. No other 
mode of approach has an air of suffi- 
cient profundity. When fairly into it, 
however, he becomes dazzled with the 
scintillations of his own wisdom, and is 
seldom able to see his way out. Tired 
of laughing at his antics, or frightened 
at seeing him flounder, the reader, at 
length, shuts him up, with the book. 

“What song the Syrens sang,” says 
Sir Thomas Browne, “or what name 
Achilles assumed when he hid himself 
among women, though puzzling ques- 
tions, are not beyond al/ conjecture” ;— 
but it would puzzle Sir Thomas, backed 
by Achilles and all the Syrens in Hea- 
thendom, to say, in nine cases out of 
ten, what is the object of a thorough- 
going Quarterly Reviewer. 

Should the opinions promulgated by 
our press at large be taken, in their 
wonderful aggregate, as an evidence of 


THE QUACKS OF HELICON 


what American literature absolutely is 
(and it may be said that, in general, 
they are really so taken), we shall find 
ourselves the most enviable set of people 
upon the face of the earth. Our fine 
writers are legion. Our very atmos- 
phere is redolent of genius; and we, the 
nation, are a huge, well-contented cha- 
meleon, grown pursy by inhaling it. 
We are teretes et rotundi—enwrapped 
in excellence. All our poets are Mil- 
tons, neither mute nor inglorious; all 
our poetesses are “American Hemanses”’; 
nor will it do to deny that all our 
novelists are Great Knowns or Great 
Unknowns, and that everybody who 
writes, in every possible and impossible 
department, is the Admirable Crichton, 
or, at least, the Admirable Crichton’s 
ghost. We are thus in a glorious con- 
dition, and will remain so until forced 
to disgorge our ethereal honours. In 
truth there is some danger that the 
jealousy of the Old World will interfere. 
It cannot long submit to that outra- 
geous monopoly of “all the decency and 
all the talent,” of which the gentlemen 
of the press give such undoubted assur- 
ance of our being the possessors. 

But we feel angry with ourselves for 
the jesting tone of our observations 
upon this topic. The prevalence of the 
spirit of puffery is a subject far less 
for merriment than for disgust. Its 
truckling, yet dogmatical character— 
its bold, unsustained, yet self-sufficient 
and wholesale laudation—is becoming, 
more and more, an insult to the com- 
mon sense of the community. Trivial 
as it essentially is, it has yet been made 
the instrument of the grossest abuse 
in the elevation of imbecility, to the 
manifest injury, to the utter ruin, of 
true merit. Is there any man of good 


1211 


feeling and of ordinary understanding— 
is there one single individual among all 
our readers—who does not feel a thrill: 
of bitter indignation, apart from any 
sentiment of mirth, as he calls to mind 
instance after instance of the purest, 
of the most unadulterated quackery in 
letters, which has risen to a high post 
in the apparent popular estimation, and 
which still maintains it, by the sole 
means of a blustering arrogance, or of 
a busy wriggling conceit, or of the 
most barefaced plagiarism, or even 
through the simple immensity of its 
assumptions—assumptions not only un- 
opposed by the press at large, but ab- 
solutely supported in proportion to the 
vociferous clamour with which they are 
made—in exact accordance with their 
utter baselessness and untenability? We 
should have no trouble in pointing out 
to-day some twenty or thirty so-called 
literary personages, who, if not idiots, 
as we half think them, or if not hard- 
ened to all sense of shame by a long 
course of disingenuousness, will now 
blush in the perusal of these words, 
through conscicusness of the shadowy 
nature of that purchased pedestal upon 
which they stand—will now tremble in 
thinking of the feebleness of the breath 
which will be adequate to the blowing 
it from beneath their feet. With the 
help of a hearty good will, even we may 
yet tumble them down. 

So firm, through a long endurance, 
has been the hold taken upon the popu- 
lar mind (at least so far as we may 
consider the popular mind reflected in 
ephemeral letters) by the laudatory 
system which we have deprecated, that 
what is, in its own essence, a vice, has 
become endowed with the appearance, 
and met with the reception of a virtue. 


1212 


Antiquity, as usual, has lent a certain 
degree of speciousness even to the ab- 
‘surd. So continuously have we puffed, 
that we have, at length, come to think 
puffing the duty, and plain speaking 
the dereliction. What we began in gross 
error, we persist in through habit. 
Having adopted, in the earlier days of 
our literature, the untenable idea that 
this literature, as a whole, could be 
advanced by an indiscriminate approba- 
tion bestowed on its every effort— 
having adopted this idea, we say, with- 
out attention to the obvious fact that 
praise of all was bitter although nega- 
tive censure to the few alone deserving, 
and that the only result of the system, 
in the fostering way, would be the fos- 
tering of folly—we now continue our 
vile practice through the supineness 
of custom, even while, in our national 
self-conceit, we repudiate that necessity 
for patronage and protection in which 
originated our conduct. In a _ word, 
the press throughout the country has 
not been ashamed to make head against 
the very few bold attempts at inde- 
pendence which have from time to time 
been made in the face of the reigning 
order of things. And if in one, or perhaps 
two, insulated cases, the spirit of severe 
truth, sustained by an unconquerable 
will, was not to be so put down, then, 
forthwith, were private chicaneries set 
in motion; then was had resort, on the 
part of those who considered themselves 
injured by the severity of criticism 
(and who were so, if the just contempt 
of every ingenuous man is injury), re- 
sort to arts of the most virulent indig- 
nity, to untraceable slanders, to ruth- 
less assassination in the dark. We say 
these things were done while the press 
in general looked on, and, with a full 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


understanding of the wrong perpetrated, 
spoke not against the wrong. The idea 
had absolutely gone abroad—had grown 
up little by little into toleration—that 
attacks, however just, upon a literary 
reputation, however obtained, however 
untenable, were well retaliated by the 
basest and most unfounded traduction 
of personal fame. But is this an age— 
is this a day—in which it can be neces- 
sary even to advert to such considera- 
tions as that the book of the author is 
the property of the public, and that the 
issue of the book is the throwing down 
of the gauntlet to the reviewer—to the 
reviewer whose duty is the plainest; the 
duty not even of approbation, or of 
censure, or of silence, at his own will, 
but at the sway of those sentiments and 
of those opinions which are derived 
from the author himself, through the 
medium of his written and published 
words? ‘True criticism is the reflection 
of the thing criticized upon the spirit 
of the critic. 

But a nos moutons—to ‘‘The Quacks 
of Helicon.” This satire has many 
faults besides those upon which we 
have commented. The title, for ex- 
ample, is not sufficiently distinctive, al- 
though otherwise good. It does not 
confine the subject to American quacks, 
while the work does. The two conclud- 
ing lines enfeeble instead of strength- 
ening the finale, which would have been 
exceedingly pungent without them. The 
individual portions of the thesis are 
strung together too much at random— 
a natural sequence is not always pre- 


served—so that, although the lights of 


the picture are often forcible, the whole 
has what, in artistical parlance, is 
termed an accidental and spotty ap- 
pearance. In truth, the parts of the 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


poem have evidently been composed 
each by each, as separate themes, and 
afterwards fitted into the general satire 
in the best manner possible. 

But a more reprehensible sin than 
any or than all of these is yet to be 
mentioned—the sin of indiscriminate 
censure. Even here Mr. Wilmer has 
erred through imitation. He has held 
in view the sweeping denunciations of 
the Dunciad, and of the later (abortive) 
satire of Byron. No one in his senses 
can deny the justice of the general 
charges of corruption in regard to which 
we have just spoken from the text of 
our author. But are there uo excep- 
tions? We should, indeed, blush if 
there were not. And is there zo hope? 
Time will show. We cannot do every- 
thing in a day—Non se gano Zamora 
en un ora. Again, it cannot be gain- 
said that the greater number of those 
who hold high places in our poetical 
literature are absolute nincompoops— 
fellows alike innocent of reason and of 
rhyme. But neither are we all brain- 
less, nor is the devil himself so black 
as he is painted. Mr. Wilmer must 
read the chapter in Rabelais’s “Gar- 


1213 


gantua,” “de ce qu’est signifie par les 
couleurs blanc et bleu,’—for there is 
some difference after all. It will not 
do in a civilized land to run a-muck 
like a Malay. Mr. Morris has written 
good songs. Mr. Bryant is not all a 
fool. Mr. Willis is not quite an ass. 
Mr. Longfellow will steal, but, perhaps, 
he cannot help it (for we have heard 
of such things), and then it must not 
be denied that mz tetigit quod non 
ornavit. The fact is that our author, 
in the rank exuberance of his zeal, 
seems to think as little of discrimination 
as the Bishop of Autun did of the Bible. 
Poetical “things in general” are the 
windmills at which he spurs his Rozi- 
nante. He as often tilts at what is 
true as at what is false; and thus his 
lines are like the mirrors of the tem- 
ples of Smyrna, which represent the 
fairest images as deformed. But the 
talent, the fearlessness, and especially 
the design of this book, will suffice to 
preserve it from that dreadful damna- 
tion of “silent contempt,” to which edi- 
tors throughout the country, if we are 
not much mistaken, will endeavour, one 
and all, to consign it. 


Washington Irving’ s Astoria 


(Published in Southern Literary Messenger, January, 1837.—Ed.) 


Mr. Irvinc’s acquaintance at Mon- 
treal, many years since, with some of 
the principal partners of the great 
North-West Fur Company was the 
means of interesting him deeply in the 
varied concerns of trappers, hunters, 
and Indians, and in all the adventurous 
details connected with the commerce in 


peltries. Not long after his return from 
his late tour to the prairies, he held a 
conversation with his friend Mr. John 
Jacob Astor, of New York, in relation 
to an enterprise set on foot and con- 
ducted by that gentleman about the 
year 1812,—an enterprise having for its 
object a participation, on the most ex- 


1214 


tensive scale, in the fur trade carried 
on with the Indians in all the western 
and north-western regions of North 
America. Finding Mr. I. fully alive to 
the exciting interest of this subject, Mr. 
Astor was induced to express a regret 
that the true nature and extent of the 
enterprise, together with its great na- 
tional character and importance, had 
never been generally comprehended, and 
a wish that Mr. Irving would under- 
take to give an account of it. To this 
he consented. All the papers relative to 
the matter were submitted to his in- 
spection; and the volumes* now before 
us (two well-sized octavos) are the 
result. The work has been accomplished 
in a masterly manner—the modesty of 
the title affording no indication of the 
fulness, comprehensiveness, and beauty, 
with which a long and entangled series 
of details, collected necessarily from a 
mass of vague and imperfect data, has 
been wrought into completeness and 
unity. 

Supposing our readers acquainted 
with the main features of the original 
fur trade in America, we shall not fol- 
low Mr. Irving in his vivid account of 
the primitive French Canadian mer- 
chant, his jovial establishments and 
dependants—of the licensed traders, 
missionaries, voyageurs, and coureurs 
des bois—of the British Canadian Fur 
Merchant—of the rise of the great 
Company of the “North-West,” its con- 
stitution and internal trade, its parlia- 
mentary hall and banqueting room, its 
boatings, its huntings, its wassailings, 
and other magnificent feudal doings in 


* Astoria; or, Anecdotes of an Enter- 
prise beyond the Rocky Mountains. By 
Washington Irving. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the wilderness. It was the British 
Mackinaw Company we presume—(a 
Company established in rivalry of the 
“North-West” )—the scene of whose 
main operations first aroused the atten- 
tion of our Government. Its chief fac- 
tory was established at Michilimackinac, 
and sent forth its pirogues, by Green 
Bay, Fox River, and the Wisconsin, to 
the Mississippi, and thence to all its 
tributary streams—in this way hoping 
to monopolise the trade with all the 
Indian tribes on the southern and west- 
ern waters of our own territory, as the 
“North-West” had monopolised it along 
the waters of the North. Of course, we 
now began to view with a jealous eye, 
and to make exertions for counteracting, 
the infduence hourly acquired over our 
own aborigines by these immense com- 
binations of foreigners. In 1796, the 
United States sent out agents to estab- 
lish rival trading houses on the frontier, 
and thus, by supplying the wants of the 
Indians, to link their interests with ours, 
and to divert the trade, if possible, into 
national channels. The enterprise failed 
—being, we suppose, inefficiently con- 
ducted and supported; and the design 
was never afterwards attempted until 
by the individual means and energy of 
Mr. Astor. 

John Jacob Astor was born in Wal- 
dorf, a German village near Heidelberg, 
on the banks of the Rhine. While yet 
a youth, he foresaw that he would arrive 
at great wealth, and, leaving home, took 
his way, alone, to London, where he 
found himself at the close of the 
American Revolution. An elder brother 
being in the United States, he followed 
him there. In January, 1784, he ar- 
rived in Hampton Roads, with some 
little merchandise suited to the Amer- 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


ican market. On the passage he had 
become acquainted with a countryman 
of his, a furrier, from whom he derived 
much information in regard to furs, and 
the manner of conducting the trade. 
Subsequently, he accompanied this gen- 
tleman to New York, and, by his ad- 
vice, invested the proceeds of his mer- 
chandise in peltries. With these he 
sailed to London, and, having disposed 
of this adventure advantageously, he 
returned the same year (1784) to New 
York, with a view of settling in the 
United States, and prosecuting the busi- 
ness thus commenced. Mr. Astor’s 
beginnings in this way were necessarily 
small—but his perseverance was in- 
domitable, his integrity unimpeachable, 
and his economy of the most rigid kind. 
“To these,’ says Mr. Irving, ‘were 
added an aspiring spirit, that always 
looked upward; a genius bold, fertile, 
and expansive; a sagacity quick to grasp 
and convert every circumstance to its 
advantage, and a singular and never 
wavering confidence of signal success.” 
These opinions are more than re-echoed 
by the whole crowd of Mr. Astor’s nu- 
merous acquaintances and friends, and 
are most strongly insisted upon by those 
who have the pleasure of knowing him 
best. 

In the United States, the fur trade 
was not yet sufficiently organised to 
form a regular line of business. Mr. A. 
made annual visits to Montreal for the 
purpose of buying peltries; and, as no 
direct trade was permitted from Canada 
to any country but England, he shipped 
them, when bought, immediately to 
London. This difficulty being removed, 
however, by the treaty of 1795, he made 
a contract for furs with the North- 
West Company, and imported them 


1215 


from Montreal into the United States 
—thence shipping a portion to different 
parts of Europe, as well as to the prin- 
cipal market in China. 

By the treaty just spoken of, the 
British possessions on our side of the 
Lakes were given up, and an opening 
made for the American fur trader on 
the confines of Canada, and within the 
territories of the United States. Here 
Mr. Astor, about the year 1807, adven- 
tured largely on his own account; his 
increased capital now placing him among 
the chief of American merchants. The 
influence of the Mackinaw Company, 
however, proved too much for him, and 
he was induced to consider the means 
of entering into successful competition. 
He was aware of the wish of the Gov- 
ernment to concentrate the fur trade 
within its boundaries in the hands of its 
own citizens; and he now offered, if 
national aid or protection should be 
afforded, ‘‘to turn the whole of the 
trade into American channels.’ He was 
invited to unfold his plans, and they 
were warmly approved, but, we believe, 
little more. The countenance of the 
Government was, nevertheless, of much 
importance, and, in 1809, he procured 
from the legislature of New York a 
charter incorporating a company under 
the name of the “American Fur Com- 
pany,” with a capital of one million of 
dollars, and the privilege of increasing 
it to two. He himself constituted the 
Company, and furnished the capital. 
The board of directors was merely 
nominal, and the whole business was 
conducted with his own resources, and 
according to his own will. 

We here pass over Mr. Irving’s lucid, 
although brief, account of the fur trade 
in the Pacific, of Russian and Amer- 


1216 


ican enterprise on the northwestern 
coast, and of the discovery by Captain 
Gray, in 1792, of the mouth of the 
river Columbia. He proceeds to speak 
of Captain Jonathan Carver of the 
British provincial army. In 1763, shortly 
after the acquisition of the Canadas by 
Great Britain, this gentleman projected 
a journey across the continent, between 
the forty-third and forty-sixth degrees 
of northern latitude, to the shores of 
the Pacific. His objects were “‘to ascer- 
tain the breadth of the continent at its 
broadest part, and to determine on some 
place on the shores of the Pacific where 
Government might establish a post to 
facilitate the discovery of a north-west 
passage, or a communication between 
Hudson’s Bay and the Pacific Ocean.” 
He failed twice in individual attempts 
to accomplish this journey. In 1774, 
Richard Whitworth, a member of 
Parliament, came into this scheme of 
Captain Carver’s. These two gentlemen 
determined to take with them fifty or 
sixty men, artificers and mariners, to 
proceed up one of the branches of the 
Missouri, find the source of the Oregon 
(the Columbia), and sail down the river 
to its mouth. Here a fort was to be 
erected, and the vessels built necessary 
to carry into execution their purposed 
discoveries by sea. The British Gov- 
ernment sanctioned the plan, and every- 
thing was ready for the undertaking 
when the American Revolution pre- 
vented it. 

The expedition of Sir Alexander Mac- 
kenzie is well known. In 1793 he 
crossed the continent, and reached the 
Pacific Ocean in latitude 52° 20’ 48”. 
In latitude 52° 30’, he partially de- 
scended a river flowing to the South, 
and which he erroneously supposed to 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


be the Columbia. Some years after- 
wards he published an account of his 
journey, and suggested the policy of 
opening an intercourse between the At- 
lantic and Pacific Oceans, and forming 
regular establishments ‘through the in- 
terior and at both extremes, as well as 
along the coast and islands.’ Thus he 
thought the entire command of the fur 
trade of North America might be ob- 
tained from latitude 48° north to the 
pole, excepting that portion held by the 
Russians. As to the “American adven- 
turers” along the coast, he spoke of 
them as entitled to but little considera- 
tion. ““They would instantly disappear,” 
he said, “before a well-regulated trade.” 
Owing to the jealousy existing between 
the Hudson’s Bay and North-West 
Company, this idea of Sir Alexander 
Mackenzie’s was never carried into exe- 
cution. 

The successful attempt of Messieurs 
Lewis and Clarke was accomplished, it 
will be remembered, in 1804. Their 
course was that proposed by Captain 
Carver in 1774. They passed up the 
Missouri to its head-waters, crossed the 
Rocky Mountains, discovered the source 
of the Columbia, and followed that river 
down to its mouth. Here they spent 
the winter, and retraced their steps in 
the spring. Their reports declared it 
practicable to establish a line of com- 
munication across the continent, and 
first inspired Mr. Astor with the design 
of “grasping with his individual hands 
this great enterprise, which, for years, 
had been dubiously, yet desirously con- 
templated by powerful associations and 
maternal governments.” 

His scheme was gradually matured. 
Its main features were as follows. A 
line of trading posts was to be estab- 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


lished along the Missouri and Columbia, 
to the mouth of the latter, where was 
to be founded the chief mart. On all 
the tributary streams throughout this 
immense route were to be situated in- 
ferior posts trading directly with the 
Indians for their peltries. All these 
posts would draw upon the mart at the 
Columbia for their supplies of goods, 
and would send thither the furs col- 
lected. At this latter place, also, were 
to be built and fitted out coasting- 
vessels, for the purpose of trading along 
the north-west coast, returning with the 
proceeds of their voyages to the same 
general rendezvous. In this manner, the 
whole Indian trade, both of the coast 
and the interior, would converge to one 
point. To this point, in continuation of 
his plan, Mr. Astor proposed to de- 
spatch, every year, a ship with the 
necessary supplies. She would receive 
the peltries collected, carry them to 
Canton, there invest the proceeds in 
merchandise, and return to New York. 

Another point was also to be attended 
to. In coasting to the north-west the 
ship would be brought into contact with 
the Russian Fur Company’s establish- 
ments in that quarter; and, as a rivalry 
might ensue, it was politic to conciliate 
the goodwill of that body. It depended 
chiefly for its supplies upon transient 
trading vessels from the United States. 
The owners of these vessels, having 
nothing beyond their individual inter- 
ests to consult, made no scruple of fur- 
nishing the natives with firearms, and 
were thus productive of much injury. 
To this effect the Russian Government 
had remonstrated with the United 
States, urging to have the traffic in arms 
prohibited—but no municipal law being 
infringed, our Government could not 


1217 


interfere. Still, it was anxious not to 
offend Russia, and applied to Mr. Astor 
for information as to the means of 
remedying the evil, knowing him to be 
well versed in all the concerns of the 
trade in question. This application sug- 
gested to him the idea of paying a 
regular visit to the Russian settlements 
with his annual ship. Thus, being kept 
regularly in supplies, they would be in- 
dependent of the casual traders, who 
would, consequently, be excluded from 
the coast. This whole scheme Mr. 
Astor communicated to President Jef- 
ferson, soliciting the countenance of 
Government. The Cabinet “joined in 
warm approbation of the plan, and held 
out assurance of every protection that 
could, consistently with general policy, 
be afforded.” 

In speaking of the motives which ac- 
tuated Mr. Astor in an enterprise so ex- 
tensive, Mr. Irving, we are willing to 
believe, has done that high-minded gen- 
tleman no more than the simplest spe- 
cies of justice. “He was already,” says 
our author, “wealthy beyond the ordi- 
nary desires of man, but he now as- 
pired to that honourable fame which is 
awarded to men of similar scope of 
mind, who, by their great commercial 
enterprises, have enriched nations, peo- 
pled wildernesses, and extended the 
bounds of empire. He considered his 
projected establishment at the mouth of 
the Columbia, as the emporium to an 
immense commerce; as a colony that 
would form the germ of a wide civi- 
lisation; that would, in fact, carry the 
American population across the Rocky 
Mountains, and spread it along the 
shores of the Pacific, as it already ani- 
mated the shores of the Atlantic.” 

A few words in relation to the North- 


1218 


West Company. This body, following 
out in part the suggestion of Sir Alex- 
ander Mackenzie, had already estab- 
lished a few trading posts on the coast 
of the Pacific, in a region lying about 
two degrees north of the Columbia— 
thus throwing itself between the Rus- 
sian and American territories. They 
would contend with Mr. Astor at an im- 
mense disadvantage, of course. They 
had no good post for the receipt of sup- 
plies by sea; and must get them with 
great risk, trouble, and expense, over 
land. Their peltries also would have to 
be taken home the same way—for they 
were not at liberty to interfere with 
the East India Company’s monopoly, 
by shipping them directly to China. Mr. 
Astor would therefore greatly undersell 
them in that, the principal market. Still, 
as any competition would prove detri- 
mental to both parties, Mr. A. made 
known his plans to the North-West 
Company, proposing to interest them 
one-third in his undertaking. The 
British company, however, had several 
reasons for declining the proposition— 
not the least forcible of which, we pre- 
sume, was their secret intention to push 
on a party forthwith, and forestall their 
rival in establishing a settlement at the 
mouth of the Columbia. 

In the meantime Mr. Astor did not 
remain idle. His first care was to pro- 
cure proper coadjutors, and he was in- 
duced to seek them principally from 
among such clerks of the North-West 
Company as were dissatisfied with their 
situation in that body—having served 
out ‘heir probationary term, and being 
still, through want of influence, without 
a prospect of speedy promotion. From 
among these (generally men of capacity 
and experience in their particular busi- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


ness), Mr. A. obtained the services of 
Mr. Alexander M’Kay (who had ac- 
companied Sir Alexander Mackenzie in 
both of his expeditions), Mr. Donald 
M’Kenzie, and Mr. Duncan M’Dougal. 
Mr. Wilson Price Hunt, a native citizen 
of New Jersey, and a gentleman of 
great worth, was afterwards selected 
by Mr. Astor as his chief agent, and as 
the representative of himself at the 
contemplated establishment. In June, 
1810, articles of agreement were en- 
tered into between Mr. Astor and these 
four gentlemen, acting for themselves 
and for the several persons who had al- 
ready agreed to become, or should 
become, associated under the firm of 
“The Pacific Fur Company.” This 
agreement stipulated that Mr. A. was 
to be the head of the company, to man- 
age its affairs at New York, and to fur- 
nish everything requisite for the enter- 
prise at first cost and charges, provided 
an advance of more than four hundred 
thousand dollars should not at any time 
be involved. The stock was to consist 
of a hundred shares, Mr. Astor taking 
fifty, the rest being divided among the 
other partners and their associates. A 
general meeting was to be held annually 
at Columbia River, where absent mem- 
bers might vote by proxy. The associ- 
ation was to continue twenty years— 
but might be dissolved within the first 
five years, if found unprofitable. For 
these five years Mr. A. agreed to bear 
all the loss that might be incurred. An 
agent, appointed for a like term, was to 
reside at the main establishment, and 
Mr. Hunt was the person first selected. 

Mr. Astor determined to begin his 
enterprise with two expeditions—one 
by sea, the other by land. The former 
was to carry out everything necessary 








WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


for the establishment of a fortified post 
at the mouth of the Columbia. The 
latter, under the conduct of Mr. Hunt, 
was to proceed up the Missouri and 
across the Rocky Mountains to the same 
point. In the course of this overland 
journey, the most practicable line of 
communication would be explored, and 
the best situations noted for the loca- 
tion of trading rendezvous. Following 
Mr. Irving in our brief summary of his 
narrative, we will now give some ac- 
count of the first of these expeditions. 

A ship was provided called the Ton- 
quin, of two hundred and ninety tons, 
with ten guns, and twenty men. Lieu- 
tenant Jonathan Thorn of the United 
States navy, being on leave of absence, 
received the command. He was a man 
of courage, and had distinguished him- 
self in the Tripolitan war. Four of the 
partners went in the ship—M’Kay and 
M’Dougal, of whom we have already 
spoken, and Messieurs David and Rob- 
ert Stuart, new associates in the firm. 
M’Dougal was empowered to act as 
the proxy of Mr. Astor in the absence 
of Mr. Hunt. Twelve clerks were also 
- of the party. These were bound to the 
service of the company for five years, 
and were to receive one hundred dol- 
lars a year, payable at the expiration of 
the term, with an annual equipment of 
clothing to the amount of forty dollars. 
By promises of future promotion, their 
interests were identified with those of 
Mr. Astor. Thirteen Canadian voy- 
ageurs, and several artisans, completed 
the ship’s company. On the 8th of 
September, 1810, the Tonquin put to 
sea. Of her voyage to the mouth of 
the Columbia Mr. Irving has given a 
somewhat ludicrous account. Thorn, 
the stern, straightforward officer of the 


1219 


navy, having few ideas beyond those of 
duty and discipline, and looking with 
supreme contempt upon the motley 
‘“lubbers” who formed the greater part 
of his company, is painted with the easy 
yet spirited pencil of an artist indeed; 
while M’Dougal, the shrewd Scotch 
partner, bustling, yet pompous, and im- 
pressed with lofty notions of his own 
importance as proxy for Mr. Astor, is 
made as supremely ridiculous as pos- 
sible, with as little apparent effort as 
can well be imagined;—the portraits, 
however, carry upon their faces the evi- 
dence of their own authenticity. The 
voyage is prosecuted amid a series of 
petty quarrels and cross purposes be- 
tween the captain and his crew, and 
occasionally between Mr. M’Kay and 
Mr. M’Dougal. The contests between 
the two latter gentlemen were brief, it 
appears, although violent. ‘‘Within fif- 
teen minutes,” says Captain Thorn in a 
letter to Mr. Astor, “they would be 
caressing each other like children.” The 
Tonquin doubled Cape Horn on Christ- 
mas Day, arrived at Owhyhee on the 
11th of February, took on board fresh 
provisions, sailed again with twelve 
Sandwich islanders on the 28th, and on 
the 22nd of March arrived at the mouth 
of the Columbia. In seeking a passage 
across the bar, a boat and nine men 
were lost among the breakers. On the 
way from Owhyhee a violent storm oc- 
curred; and the bickerings still con- 
tinued between the partners and the 
captain—the latter, indeed, grievously 
suspecting the former of a design to 
depose him. 

The Columbia, for abeut forty miles 
from its mouth, is, strictly speaking, 
an estuary, varying in breadth from 
three to seven miles, and indented by 


1220 


deep bays. Shoals and other obstruc- 
_ tions render the navigation dangerous. 
Leaving this broad portion of the stream 
in the progress upwards, we find the 
mouth of the river proper—which is 
about half a mile wide. The entrance 
to the estuary from sea is bounded on 
the south by a long, low, and sandy 
beach stretching into the ocean, and 
called Point Adams. On the northern 
side of the firth is Cape Disappoint- 
ment, a steep promontory. Immedi- 
ately east of this cape is Baker’s Bay, 
and within this the Tonquin came to 
anchor. 

Jealousies still continued between the 
captain and the worthy M’Dougal, who 
could come to no agreement in regard 
to the proper location for the contem- 
plated establishment. On April the 5th, 
without troubling himself further with 
the opinions of his coadjutors, Mr. 
Thorn landed in Baker’s Bay, and be- 
gan operations. At this summary pro- 
ceeding, the partners were, of course, in 
high dudgeon, and an open quarrel 
seemed likely to ensue, to the serious 
detriment of the enterprise. These dif- 
ficulties, however, were at length ar- 
ranged, and finally, on the 12th of April, 
a settlement was commenced at a point 
of land called Point George, on the 
southern shore of the firth. Here was 
a good harbour, where vessels of two 
hundred tons might anchor within fifty 
yards of the shore. In honour of the 
chief partner, the new post received the 
title of Astoria. After much delay, the 
portion of the cargo destined for the 
post was landed, and the Tonquin left 
free to proceed on her voyage. She 
was to coast to the north, to trade for 
peltries at the different harbours, and 
to touch at Astoria on her return in the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


autumn. Mr. M’Kay went in her as 
supercargo, and a Mr. Lewis as ship’s 
clerk. On the morning of the 5th of 
June she stood out to sea, the whole 
number of persons on board amounting 
to three and twenty. In one of the 
outer bays Captain Thorn procured the 
services of an Indian named Lamazee, 
who had already made two voyages 
along the coast, and who agreed to ac- 
company him as interpreter. In a few 
days the ship arrived at Vancouver’s 
Island, and came to anchor in the har- 
bour of Neweetee, much against the ad- 
vice of the Indian, who warned Cap- 
tain Thorn of the perfidious character 
of the natives. The result was the 
merciless butchery of the whole crew, 
with the exception of the interpreter 
and Mr. Lewis, the ship’s clerk. The 
later, finding himself mortally wounded, 
and without companions, blew up the 
ship and perished with more than a 
hundred of the enemy. Lamazee, get- 
ting among the Indians, escaped, and 
was the means of bearing the news of 
the disaster to Astoria. In relating at 
length the thrilling details of this catas- 
trophe, Mr. Irving takes occasion to 
comment on the headstrong, although 
brave and strictly honourable character 
of Lieutenant Thorn. The danger and 
folly, on the part of agents, in diso- 
beying the matured instructions of those 
who deliberately plan extensive enter- 
prises, such as that of Mr. Astor, is 
also justly and forcibly shown. The 
misfortune here spoken of, arose alto- 
gether from a disregard of Mr. A.’s of- 
ten-repeated advice—to admit but few 
Indians on board the Tonquin at one 
time. Her loss was a serious blow to 
the infant establishment at Astoria. To 
this post let us now return. 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


The natives inhabiting the borders 
of the estuary were divided into four 
tribes, of which the Chinooks were the 
principal. Comcomly, a one-eyed In- 
dian, was their chief. These tribes re- 
sembled each other in nearly every re- 
spect, and were, no doubt, of a com- 
mon stock. They live chiefly by fishing 
—the Columbia and its tributary 
streams abounding in fine salmon, and 
a variety of other fish. A trade in pel- 
tries, but to no great amount, was im- 
mediately commenced and carried on. 
Much disquiet was occasioned at the 
post by a rumour among the Indians 
that thirty white men had appeared on 
the banks of the Columbia, and were 
building houses at the second rapids. It 
was feared that these were an advance 
party of the North-West Company en- 
deavouring to seize upon the upper 
parts of the river, and thus forestall 
Mr. Astor in the trade of the surround- 
ing country. Bloody feuds in this case 
might be anticipated, such as had pre- 
vailed between rival companies in for- 
mer times. The intelligence of the In- 
dians proved true—the “North-West” 
had erected a trading-house on the 
Spokan River, which falls into the north 
branch of the Columbia. The Astorians 
could do little to oppose them in their 
present reduced state as to numbers. 
It was resolved, however, to advance a 
counter-check to the post on the Spo- 
kan, and Mr. David Stuart prepared 
to set out for this purpose with eight 
men and a small assortment of goods. 
On the 15th of July, when this expedi- 
tion was about starting, a canoe, 
manned with nine white men, and bear- 
ing the British flag, entered the har- 
bour. They proved to be the party 
despatched by the rival company to an- 


1221 


ticipate Mr. Astor in the settlement at 
the mouth of the river. Mr. David 
Thompson, their leader, announced him- 
self as a partner of the “North-West” 
—but otherwise gave a very peaceable 
account of himself. It appears, how- 
ever, from information subsequently 
derived from other sources, that he had 
hurried with a desperate haste across 
the mountains, calling at all the Indian 
villages on his march, presenting them 
with British flags, and “proclaiming for- 
mally that he took possession of the 
country for the North-West Company, 
and in the name of the king of Great 
Britain.” His plan was defeated, it 
seems, by the desertion of a great por- 
tion of his followers, and it was thought 
probable that he now merely descended 
the river with a view of reconnoitring. 
M’Dougal treated the gentlemen with 
great kindness, and supplied them with 
goods and provisions for their journey 
back across the mountains—this much 
against the wishes of Mr. David Stu- 
art, “who did not think the object of 
their visit entitled them to any favour.” 
A letter for Mr. Astor was entrusted to 
Thompson. 

On the 23rd of July the party for the 
region of the Spokan set out, and, after 
a voyage of much interest, succeeded 
in establishing the first interior trading- 
post of the company. It was situated 
on a point of land about three miles 
long and two broad, formed by the 
junction of the Oakinagan with the Co- 
lumbia. In the meantime the Indians 
near Astoria began to evince a hostile 
disposition, and a reason for this al- 
tered demeanour was soon after found 
in the report of the loss of the Tonquin. 
Early in August the settlers received 
intelligence of her fate. They now 


1222 


found themselves in a perilous situation, 
a mere handful of men, on a savage 
coast, and surrounded by barbarous en- 
emies. From their dilemma they were 
relieved for the present by the ingenuity 
of M’Dougal. The natives had a great 
dread of the smallpox, which had ap- 
peared among them a few years before, 
sweeping off entire tribes. They be- 
lieved it an evil either inflicted upon 
them by the Great Spirit, or brought 
among them by the white men. Seiz- 
ing upon this latter idea M’Dougal as- 
sembled several of the chieftains whom 
he believed to be inimical, and inform- 
ing them that he had heard of the 
treachery of their northern brethren in 
regard to the Tonquin, produced from 
his pocket a small bottle. “The white 
men among you,” said he, “are few in 
number, it is true, but they are mighty 
in medicine. See here! In this bottle 
I hold the smallpox safely corked up; 
I have but to draw the cork and let 
loose the pestilence, to sweep man, 
woman, and child from the face of the 
earth!” The chiefs were dismayed. 
They represented to the “Great Small- 


pox Chief” that they were the firmest ° 


friends of the white men, that they had 
nothing to do with the villains who mur- 
dered the crew of the Tonquin, and that 
it would be unjust, in uncorking the 
bottle, to destroy the innocent with the 
guilty. M’Dougal was convinced. He 
promised not to uncork it until some 
overt act should compel him to do so. 
In this manner tranquillity was restored 
to the settlement. A large house was 
now built, and the frame of a schooner 
put together. She was named the 
Dolly, and was the first American ves- 
sel launched on the coast. But our 
limits will not permit us to follow too 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


minutely the details of the enterprise. 
The adventurers kept up their spirits, 
sending out occasional foraging parties 
in the Dolly, and looking forward to the 
arrival of Mr. Hunt. So wore away 
the year 1811 at the little post of As- 
toria. We now come to speak of the 
expedition by land. 

This, it will be remembered, was to 
be conducted by Mr. Wilson Price Hunt, 
a native of New Jersey. He is repre- 
sented as scrupulously upright, of ami- 
able disposition, and agreeable man- 
ners. He had never been in the heart 
of the wilderness, but having been for 
some time engaged in commerce at St. 
Louis, furnishing Indian traders with 
goods, he had acquired much knowledge 
of the trade at second hand. Mr. Don- 
ald M’Kenzie, another partner, was as- 
sociated with him. He had been ten 
years in the interior, in the service of 
the North-West Company, and had 
much practical experience in all In- 
dian concerns. In July, 1810, the two 
gentlemen repaired to Montreal, where 
everything requisite to the expedition 
could be procured. Here they met 
with many difficulties, some of which 
were thrown in their way by their ri- 
vals. Having succeeded, however, in 
laying in a supply of ammunition, pro- 
visions, and Indian goods, they em- 
barked all on board a large boat, and 
with a very inefficient crew, the best to 
be procured, took their departure from 
St. Ann’s, near the extremity of the 
island of Montreal. Their course lay 
up the Ottawa, and along a range of 
small lakes and rivers. On the 22nd 
of July they arrived at Mackinaw, sit- 
uated on Mackinaw Island, at the con- 
fluence of Lakes Huron and Michigan. 
Here it was necessary to remain some 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


time to complete the assortment of In- 
dian goods, and engage more voyageurs. 
While waiting to accomplish these ob- 
jects Mr. Hunt was joined by Mr. 
Ramsay Crooks, a gentleman whom he 
had invited by letter to engage as a 
partner in the expedition. He was a 
native of Scotland, had served under 
the North-West Company, and been 
engaged in private trading adventures 
among the various tribes of the Mis- 
souri. Mr. Crooks represented in for- 
cible terms the dangers to be appre- 
hended from the Indians—especially the 
Blackfeet and Sioux—and it was agreed 
to increase the number of the party to 
sixty upon arriving at St. Louis. Thirty 
was its strength upon leaving Macki- 
naw. This occurred onthe 12th of Au- 
gust. The expedition pursued the usual 
route of the fur trader—by Green Bay, 
Fox and Wisconsin Rivers, to Prairie 
du Chien, and thence down the Missis- 
sippi to St. Louis, where they landed on 
the 3rd of September. Here Mr. Hunt 
met with some opposition from an as- 
sociation called the Missouri Fur Com- 
pany, and especially from its leading 
partner, a Mr. Manuel Lisa. This com- 
pany had a capital of about forty thou- 
sand dollars, and employed about two 
hundred and fifty men. Its object was 
to establish posts along the upper part 
of the river, and monopolise the trade. 
Mr. H. proceeded to strengthen him- 
self against competition. He secured 
to Mr. Astor the services of Mr. Joseph 
Miller. This gentleman had been an 
officer of the United States army, but 
had resigned on being refused a fur- 
lough, and taken to trading with the In- 
dians. He joined the association as a 
partner, and on account of his expe- 
rience and general acquirements, Mr. 


1229 


Hunt considered him a valuable coad- 
jutor. Several boatmen and hunters 
were also now enlisted, but not until 
after a delay of several weeks. This 
delay, and the previous difficulties at 
Montreal and Mackinaw, had thrown 
Mr. H. much behind his original calcu- 
lations, so that he found it would be 
impossible to effect his voyage up the 
Missouri during the present season. 
There was every likelihood that the 
river would be closed before the party 
could reach its upper waters. To win- 
ter, however, at St. Louis would be ex- 
pensive. Mr. H. therefore determined 
to push up on his way as far as possible, 
to some point where game might be 
found in abundance, and there take up 
his quarters until spring. On the 21st 
of October he set out. The party were 
distributed in three boats—two large 
Schenectady barges and a keel boat. 
By the 16th of November they reached 
the mouth of the Nodowa, a distance 
of four hundred and fifty miles, where 
they set up their winter quarters. Here 
Mr. Robert M’Lellan, at the invitation 
of Mr. Hunt, joined the association as 
a partner. He was a man of vigorous 
frame, of restless and imperious temper, 
and had distinguished himself as a par- 
tisan under General Wayne. John Day 
also joined the company at this place 
—a tall and athletic hunter from the 
backwoods of Virginia. Leaving the 
main body at Nodowa, Mr. Hunt now 
returned to St. Louis for a reinforce- 
ment. He was again impeded by the 
machinations of the Missouri Fur Com- 
pany, but finally succeeded in enlisting 
one hunter, some voyageurs, and a Sioux 
interpreter, Pierre Dorion. With these, 
after much difficulty, he got back to 
the encampment on the 17th of April. 


1224 


Soon after this period, the voyage up 
the river was resumed. The party now 
consisted of nearly sixty persons—five 
partners, Hunt, Crooks, M’Kenzie, Mil- 
ler, and M’Lellan; one clerk, John 
Reed; forty Canadian voyageurs; and 
several hunters. They embarked in 
four boats, one of which, of a large 
size, mounted a swivel and two howit- 
zers. 

We do not intend, of course, to pro- 
ceed with our travellers throughout the 
vast series of adventures encountered 
in their passage through the wilderness. 
To the curious in these particulars, we 
recommend the book itself. No details 
more intensely exciting are to be found 
in any work of travels within our 
knowledge. At times full of life and en- 
joying the whole luxury to be found 
in the career of the hunter—at times 
suffering every extremity of fatigue, 
hunger, thirst, anxiety, terror, and de- 
spair—Mr. Hunt still persisted in his 
journey, and finally brought it to a suc- 
cessful termination. A bare outline of 
the route pursued is all we can attempt. 

Proceeding up the river our party 
arrived, on the 28th of April, at the 
mouth of the Nebraska, or Platte, the 
largest tributary of the Missouri, and 
about six hundred miles above its junc- 
tion with the Mississippi. They now 
halted for two days, to supply them- 
selves with oars and poles from the 
tough wood of the ash, which is not to 
be found higher up the river. Upon 
the 2nd of May two of the hunters in- 
sisted upon abandoning the expedition 
and returning to St. Louis. On the 10th 
the party reached the Omaha village, 
and encamped in its vicinity. This vil- 
lage is about eight hundred and thirty 
miles above St. Louis, and on the west 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


bank of the stream. Three men here 
deserted, but their place was luckily 
supplied by three others, who were pre- 
vailed upon by liberal promises to en- 
list. On the 15th Mr. Hunt left Omaha, 
and proceeded. Not long afterwards 
a canoe was descried navigated by two 
white men. They proved to be adven- 
turers, who, for some years past, had 
been hunting and trapping near the 
head of the Missouri. Their names were 
Jones and Carson. They were now on 
their way to St. Louis, but readily 
abandoned their voyage, and turned 
their faces again towards the Rocky 
Mountains. On the 23rd Mr. Hunt re- 
ceived, by a special messenger, a letter 
from Mr. Manuel Lisa, the leading part- 
ner of the Missouri Fur Company, and 
the gentleman who rendered him so 
many disservices at St. Louis. He had 
left that place with a large party three 
weeks after Mr. H., and having heard 
rumours of hostile intentions on the 
part of the Sioux, a much-dreaded tribe 
of Indians, made great exertions te 
overtake him, that they might pass 
through the dangerous part of the river 
together. Mr. H., however, was justly 
suspicious of the Spaniard, and pushed 
on. At the village of the Poncas, about 
a league south of the river Quicourt, he 
stopped only long enough to procure 
a supply of dried buffalo meat. On the 
morning of the 25th it was discovered 
that Jones and Carson had deserted. 
They were pursued, but in vain. The 
next day three white men were observed 
in two canoes descending the river. 
They proved to be three Kentucky hunt- 
ers—Edward Robinson, John Hoback, 
and Jacob Rizner. They also had 
passed several years in the upper wil- 
derness, and were now on their way 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


home, but willingly turned back with 
the expedition. Information derived 
from these recruits induced Mr. Hunt 
to alter his route. Hitherto he had in- 
tended to follow the course pursued by 
Messieurs Lewis and Clarke—ascend- 
ing the Missouri to its forks, and thence, 
by land, across the mountains. He was 
informed, however, that in so doing he 
would have to pass through the coun- 
try of the Blackfeet, a savage tribe of 
Indians, exasperated against the whites 
on account of the death of one of their 
men by the hands of Captain Lewis. 
Robinson advised a more southerly 
route. This would carry them over 
the mountains about where the head- 
waters of the Platte and the Yellow- 
stone take their rise, a much more prac- 
ticable pass than that of Lewis and 
Clarke. To this counsel Mr. Hunt 
agreed, and resolved to leave the Mis- 
souri at the village of the Arickaras, at 
which they would arrive in a few days. 
On the ist of June they reached “the 
great bend” of the river, which here 
winds for about thirty miles round a 
circular peninsula, the neck of which is 
not above two thousand yards across. 
On the morning of the 3rd of June the 
party were overtaken by Lisa, much 
to their dissatisfaction. The meeting 
was, of course, far from cordial, but an 
outward appearance of civility was 
maintained for two days. On the third 
a quarrel took place which was near ter- 
minating seriously. It was, however, 
partially adjusted, and the rival par- 
ties coasted along opposite sides of the 
river, in sight of each other. On the 
12th of June they reached the village 
of the Arickaras, between the forty- 
sixth and forty-seventh parallels of 
north latitude, and about fourteen hun- 


1225 


dred and thirty miles above the mouth 
of the Missouri. In accomplishing thus 
much of his journey, Mr. Hunt had not 
failed to meet with a crowd of difficul- 
ties, at which we have not even hinted. 
He was frequently in extreme peril 
from large bodies of the Sioux, and at 
one time it was a mere accident alone 
which prevented the massacre of the 
whole party. 

At the Arickara village our adventur- 
ers were to abandon their boats and 
proceed westward across the wilderness. 
Horses were to be purchased from the 
Indians, who could not, however, fur- 
nish them in sufficient numbers. In 
this dilemma Lisa offered to purchase 
the boats, now no longer of use, and 
to pay for them in horses, to be ob- 
tained at a fort belonging to the Mis- 
souri Fur Company, and situated at the 
Mandan villages, about a hundred and 
fifty miles farther up the river. A bar- 
gain was made, and Messieurs Lisa and 
Crooks went for the horses, returning 
with them in about a fortnight. At the 
Arickara village, if we understand, Mr. 
Hunt engaged the services of one Ed- 
ward Rose. He enlisted an interpreter 
when the expedition should reach the 
country of the Upsarokas or Crow In- 
dians, among whom he had formerly 
resided. On the 18th of July the party 
took up their line of march. They 
were still insufficiently provided with! 
horses. The cavalcade consisted of 
eighty-two, most of them heavily laden 
with Indian goods, beaver-traps, ammu- 
nition, and provisions. Each of the 
partners was mounted. As they took 
leave of Arickara, the veterans of Lisa’s 
company, as well as Lisa himself, pre- 
dicted the total destruction of our ad- 


1226 


venturers, amid the innumerable perils 
of the wilderness. 

To avoid the Blackfeet Indians, a 
ferocious and implacable tribe, of which 
we have before spoken, the party kept 
a south-western direction. ‘This route 
took them across some of the tributary 
streams of the Missouri, and through 
immense prairies, bounded only by the 
horizon. Their progress was at first 
slow, and, Mr. Crooks falling sick, it 
was necessary to make a litter for him 
between two horses. On the 23rd of the 
month, they encamped on the banks of 
a little stream, nicknamed Big River, 
where they remained for several days, 
meeting with a variety of adventures. 
Among other things, they were enabled 
to complete their supply of horses from 
a band of the Cheyenne Indians. On 
the 6th of August, the journey was re- 
sumed, and they soon left the hostile 
region of the Sioux behind them. About 
this period a plot was discovered on the 
part of the interpreter, Edward Rose. 
This villain had been tampering with 
the men, and proposed, upon arriving 
among his old acquaintances the Crows, 
to desert to the savages with as much 
booty as could be carried off. The mat- 
ter was adjusted, however, and Mr. 
Rose, through the ingenuity of Mr. 
Hunt, quietly dismissed. On the 13th 
Mr. H. varied his course to the west- 
ward, a route which soon brought him 
to a fork of the Little Missouri, and 
upon the skirts of the Black Mountains. 
These are an extensive chain, lying 
about a hundred miles east of the Rocky 
Mountains, stretching north-easterly 
from the south fork of the river Platte 
to the great north bend of the Missouri, 
and dividing the waters of the Missouri 
from those of the Mississippi and Ar- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


kansas. The travellers here supposed 
themselves to be about two hundred 
and fifty miles from the village of the 
Arickaras. Their more serious troubles 
now commenced. Hunger and thirst, 
with the minor difficulties of grizzly 
bears, beset them at every turn, as they 
attempted to force a passage through 
the rugged barriers in their path. At 
length they emerged upon a stream of 
clear water, one of the forks of Pow- 
der River, and once more beheld wide 
meadows and plenty of buffalo. They . 
ascended this stream about eighteen 
miles, directing their march towards a 
lofty mountain, which had been in sight 
since the 17th. They reached the base 
of this mountain, which proved to be a 
spur of the Rocky chain, on the 30th, 
having now come about four hundred 
miles since leaving Arickara. 

For one or two days they endeav- 
oured in vain to find a defile in the 
mountains. On the 3rd of September 
they made an attempt to force a pas- 
sage to the westward, but soon became 
entangled among rocks and precipices, 
which set all their efforts at defiance. 
They were now, too, in the region of 
the terrible Upsarokas, and encountered 


them at every step. They met also 


with friendly bands of Shoshonies and 
Flatheads. After a thousand troubles, 
they made some way upon their journey. 
On the 9th they reached Wind River, a 
stream which gives its name to a range 
of mountains consisting of three par- 
allel chains, eighty miles long and about 
twenty-five broad. ‘One of its peaks,” 
says our author, “is probably fifteen 
thousand feet above the level of the 
sea.” For five days Mr. Hunt followed 
up the course of Wind River, crossing 
and recrossing it. He had been assured 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


by the three hunters who advised him 
to strike through the wilderness, that, 
by going on up the river, and crossing 
a single mountain ridge, he would come 
upon the head-waters of the Columbia. 
The scarcity of game, however, deter- 
mined him to pursue a different course. 
{n the course of the day, after coming 
to this resolve, they perceived three 
mountain peaks, white with snow, and 
which were recognised by the hunters 
as rising just above a fork of the Co- 
lumbia. These peaks were named the 
Pilot Knobs by Mr. Hunt. The trav- 
ellers continued their course for about 
forty miles to the south-west, and at 
length found a river flowing to the west. 
This proved to be a branch of the Col- 
orado. They followed its current for 
fifteen miles. On the 18th, abandoning 
its main course, they took a north-west- 
erly direction for eight miles, and 
reached one of its little tributaries, is- 
suing from the bosom of the mountains, 
and running through green meadows 
abounding in buffalo. Here they en- 
camped for several days, a little repose 
being necessary for both men and 
horses. On the 24th the journey was 
resumed. Fifteen miles brought them 
to a stream about fifty feet wide, which 
was recognised as one of the headwaters 
of the Columbia. They kept along it 
for two days, during which it gradually 
swelled into a river of some size. At 
length it was joined by another current, 
and both united swept off in an unim- 
peded stream, which, from its rapidity 
and turbulence, had received the appel- 
lation of Mad River. Down this, they 
anticipated an uninterrupted voyage in 
canoes, to the point of their ultimate 
destination—but their hopes were very 
far from being realised. 


1227 


The partners held a_ consultation. 
The three hunters, who had hitherto 
acted as guides, knew nothing of the 
region to the west of the Rocky Moun- 
tains. It was doubtful whether Mad 
River could be navigated, and they 
could hardly resolve to abandon their 
horses upon an uncertainty. ‘The vote, 
nevertheless, was for embarkation, and 
they proceeded to build the necessary 
vessels. In the meantime Mr. Hunt, 
having now reached the head-waters of 
the Columbia, reputed to abound in 
beaver, turned his thoughts to the main 
object of the expedition. Four men, 
Alexander Carson, Louis St. Michel, 
Pierre Detaye, and Pierre Delaunay, 
were detached from the expedition, to 
remain and trap beaver by themselves 
in the wilderness. Having collected a 
sufficient quantity of peltries, they were 
to bring them to the depot, at the 
mouth of the Columbia, or to some in- 
termediate post to be established by 
the company. These trappers had just 
departed, when two Snake Indians wan- 
dered into the camp, and declared the 
river to be unnavigable. Scouts sent 
out by Mr. Hunt finally confirmed this 
report. On the 4th of October, there- 
fore, the encampment was broken up, 
and the party proceeded to search for 
a post in possession of the Missouri 
Fur Company, and said to be some- 
where in the neighbourhood, upon the 
banks of another branch of the Colum- 
bia. This post they found without 
much difficulty. It was deserted—and 
our travellers gladly took possession of 
the rude buildings. The stream here 
found was upwards of a hundred yards 
wide. Canoes were constructed with all 
despatch. In the meantime another 
detachment of trappers was cast loose 


1228 


in the wilderness. These were Robin- 
son, Rezner, Hoback, Carr, and Mr. 
Joseph Miller. This latter, it will be 
remembered, was one of the partners— 
he threw up his share in the expedition, 
however, for a life of more perilous ad- 
venture. On the 18th of the month 
(October), fifteen canoes being com- 
pleted, the voyagers embarked, leaving 
their horses in charge of the two Snake 
Indians, who were still in company. 
In the course of the day the party 
arrived at the junction of the stream, 
upon which they floated, with Mad 
River. Here Snake River commences— 
the scene of a thousand disasters. Af- 
ter proceeding about four hundred miles, 
by means of frequent portages, and be- 
set with innumerable difficulties of every 
kind, the adventurers were brought to 
a halt by a series of frightful cataracts, 
raging as far as the eye could reach, 
between stupendous ramparts of black 
rock, rising more than two hundred feet 
perpendicularly. This place they called 
“The Caldron Linn.” Here Antoine 
Clappine, one of the voyageurs, perished 
amid the whirlpools, three of the canoes 
stuck immovably among the rocks, and 
one was swept away with all the weap- 
ons and effects of four of the boatmen. 
The situation of the party was now 
lamentable indeed—in the heart of an 
unknown wilderness, at a loss what 
route to take, ignorant of their distance 
from the place of their destination, and 
with no human being near them from 
whom counsel might be taken. Their 
stock of provisions was reduced to five 
days’ allowance, and famine stared them 
in the face. It was therefore more 
perilous to keep together than to sep- 
arate. The goods and provisions, ex- 
cept a small supply for each man, were 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


concealed in caches (holes dug in the 
earth), and the party was divided into 
several small detachments, which started 
off in different directions, keeping the 
mouth of the Columbia in view as their 
ultimate point of destination. From this 
post they were still distant nearly 4 
thousand miles, although this fact was 
unknown to them at the time. 

On the 21st of January, after a series 
of almost incredible adventures, the di. 
vision in which Mr. Hunt enrolled him- 
self struck the waters of the Columbia 
some distance below the junction of its 
two great branches, Lewis and Clarke 
Rivers, and not far from the influx of 
the Wallah-Wallah. Since leaving the 
Caldron Linn they had toiled two hun- 
dred and forty miles, through snowy 
wastes and precipitous mountains, and 
six months had now elapsed since their 
departure from the Arickara village on 
the Missouri—their whole route from 
that point, according to their compu- 
tation, having been seventeen hundred 
and fifty-one miles. Some vague in. 
telligence was now received in regard 
to the other divisions of the party, and 
also of the settlers at the mouth of 
the Columbia. On the 31st Mr. Hunt 
reached the falls of the river, and en; 
camped at the village of Wish-Ram, 
Here were heard tidings of the massa- 
cre on board the Tonquin. On the Sth 
of February, having procured canoes 
with much difficulty, the adventurers 
departed from Wish-Ram, and, on the 
15th, sweeping round an _ intervening 
cape, they came in sight of the long-de- 
sired Astoria. Among the first to greet 
them on their landing were some of 
their old comrades, who had parted 
from them at the Caldron Linn, and 
who had reached the settlement nearly 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


a month before. Mr. Crooks and John 
Day, being unable to get on, had been 
jeft with some Indians in the wilder- 
ness—they afterwards came in. Car- 
riere, a voyageur, who was also aban- 
doned through the sternest necessity, 
was never heard of more. Jean Baptiste 
Prevost, likewise a voyageur, rendered 
frantic by famine, had been drowned 
in the Snake River. All parties had 
suffered the extremes of weariness, pri- 
vation, and peril. They had travelled 
from St. Louis, thirty-five hundred 
miles. Let us now return to Mr. 
Astor. 

As yet he had received no intelligence 
from the Columbia, and had to proceed 
upon the supposition that all had gone 
as he desired. He accordingly fitted out 
a fine ship, the Beaver, of four hundred 
and ninety tons. Her cargo was as- 
sorted with a view to the supply of As- 
toria, the trade along the coast, and the 
wants of the Russian Fur Company. 
There embarked in her, for the settle- 
ment, a partner, five clerks, fifteen 
American labourers, and six Canadian 
voyageurs. Mr. John Clarke, the part- 
ner, was a native of the United States, 
although he had passed much of his 
life in the north-west, having been em- 
ployed in the fur trade since the age of 
sixteen. The clerks were chiefly young 
American gentlemen of good connec- 
tions. Mr. Astor had selected this rein- 
forcement with the design of securing 
an ascendancy of American influence at 
Astoria, and rendering the association 
decidedly national. This, from the pe- 
culiar circumstances of the case, he had 
been unable to do in the commence- 
ment of his undertaking. 

Captain Sowle, the commander of the 
Beaver, was directed to touch at the 


1229 


Sandwich Islands to inquire about the 
fortunes of the Tonquin, and ascertain, 
if possible, whether the settlement had 
been effected at Astoria. If so, he was 
to enlist as many of the natives as pos- 
sible and proceed. He was to use great 
caution in his approach to the mouth 
of the Columbia. If everything was 
found right, however, he was to land 
such part of his cargo as was intended 
for the post, and to sail for New Arch- 
angel with the Russian supplies. Hav- 
ing received furs in payment, he would 
return to Astoria, take in the peltries 
there collected, and make the best of 
his way to Canton. These were the 
strict letter of his instructions—a devia- 
tion from which was subsequently the 
cause of great embarrassment and loss, 
and contributed largely to the failure of 
the whole enterprise. The Beaver 
sailed on the 10th of October, 1811, 
and, after taking in twelve natives at 
the Sandwich Islands, reached the 
mouth of the Columbia in safety on the 
9th of May, 1812. Her arrival gave 
life and vigour to the establishment, 
and afforded means of extending the 
operations of the Company, and found- 
ing a number of interior trading posts. 

It now became necessary to send des- 
patches overland to Mr. Astor, at New 
York, an attempt at doing so having 
been frustrated some time before by the 
hostility of the Indians at Wish-Ram. 
The task was confided to Mr. Robert 
Stuart, who, though he had never been 
across the mountains, had given evi- 
dence of his competency for such under- 
takings. He was accompanied by Ben 
Jones and John Day, Kentuckians; An- 
dri Valler and Francis Le Clerc, Cana- 
dians; and two of the partners, Mes- 
sieurs M’Lellan and Crooks, who were 


1230 


desirous of returning to the Atlantic 
States. This little party set out on the 
29th of June, and Mr. Irving accom- 
panied them, in detail, throughout the 
whole of their long and dangerous way- 
faring. As might be expected, they en- 
countered misfortunes still more terrible 
than those before experienced by Mr. 
Hunt and his associates. The chief fea- 
tures of the journey were the illness of 
Mr. Crooks, and the loss of all the 
horses of the party through the villainy 
of the Upsarokas. This latter circum- 
stance was the cause of excessive 
trouble and great delay. On the 30th 
of April, however, the party arrived, in 
fine health and spirits, at St. Louis, hav- 
ing been ten months in performing 
their perilous expedition. The route 
taken by Mr. Stuart coincided nearly 
with that of Mr. Hunt, as far as the 
Wind River mountains. From this 
point, the former struck somewhat tc 
the south-east, following the Nebraska 
to its junction with the Missouri. 

War having at length broken out be- 
tween the United States and England, 
Mr. Astor perceived that the harbour 
of New York would be blockaded, and 
the departure of the annual supply ship 
in the autumn prevented. In this emer- 
gency, he wrote to Captain Sowle, the 
commander of the Beaver, addressing 
him at Canton. The letter directed him 
to proceed to the factory at the mouth 
of the Columbia, with such articles as 
the establishmeut might nee’, and to 
remain there subject to the orders of 
Mr. Hunt. In the meantime, nothing 
had yet been heard from the settlement. 
Still, not discouraged, Mr. A. deter- 
mined to send out another ship, al- 
though the risk of loss was so greatly 
enhanced that no insurance could he 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


effected. The Lark was chosen—re: 
markable for her fast sailing. She put 
to sea on the 6th of March, 1813, un- 
der the command of Mr. Northrop, her 
mate—the officer first appointed to 
command her having shrunk from his 
engagement. Within a fortnight after 
her departure, Mr. A. received intel- 
ligence that the North-West Company 
had pr sented a memorial to Great Brit- 
ain, stating the vast scope of the con- 
templated operations at Astoria, ex- 
pressing a fear that, unless crushed, the 
settlement there would effect the down- 
fall of their own fur trade, and advis- 
ing that a force be sent against the col- 
ony. In consequence, the frigate 
Phebe was ordered to convoy the 
armed ship /saac Todd, belonging to the 
North-West Company, and - provided 
with men and munitions for the forma- 
tion of a new establishment. They 
were directed “to proceed together to 
the mouth of the Columbia, capture or 
destroy whatever American fortress 
they would find there, and plant the 
British flag on its ruins.” Upon this, 
matters being represented to our Gov- 
ernment, the frigate Adams, Captain 
Crane, was detailed fer the protection 
of Astoria; and Mr. A. proceeded to fit 
out a ship called the Enterprise, to sail 
in company with the frigate, and 
freighted with additional supplies. Just, 
however, as the two vessels were ready, 
a reinforcement of seamen was wanted 
for Lake Ontario, and the crew of the 
Adams were necessarily transferred to 
that service. Mr. A. was about to send 
off his ship alone, when a British force 
made its appearance off the Hook, and 
New York was effectually blockaded. 
The Enterprise, therefore, was unloaded 


WASHINGTON IRVING’S ASTORIA 


and dismantled. We now return to the 
Beaver. 

This vessel, after leaving at Astoria 
that portion of her cargo destined for 
that post, sailed for New Archangel on 
the 4th of August, 1812. She arrived 
there on the 19th, meeting with no in- 
cidents of moment. A long time was 
now expended in negotiations with the 
drunken governor of the Russian fur 
colony—one Count Baranoff—and when 
they were finally completed the month 
of October had arrived. Moreover, in 
payment for his supplies, Mr. Hunt 
was to receive seal-skins, and none 
were on the spot. It was necessary, 
therefore, to proceed to a seal-catching 
establishment belonging to the Russian 
company at the Island of St. Paul, in 
the Sea of Kamschatka. He set sail for 
this place on the 4th of October, after 
having wasted forty-five days at New 
Archangel. He arrived on the 31st of 
the month—by which time, according to 
his arrangement, he should have been 
back at Astoria. Now occurred great 
delay in getiing the peltries on board; 
every pack being overhauled to pre- 
vent imposition. To make matters 
worse, the Beaver one night was driven 
off shore in a gale, and could not get 
back until the 13th of November. Hav- 
ing at length taken in the cargo and 
put to sea, Mr. Hunt was in some per- 
plexity as to his course. The ship had 
been much injured in the late gale, and 
he thought it imprudent to attempt 
making the mouth of the Columbia in 
this boisterous time of the year. More- 
over, the season was already much ad- 
vanced; and should he proceed to As- 
toria as originally intended, he might 
arrive at Canton so late as to find a 
bad market. Unfortunately, therefore, 


1231 


he determined to go at once to the 
Sandwich Islands, there await the ar- 
rival of the annual ship from New York, 
take passage in her to the settlement, 
and let the Beaver proceed on her voy- 
age to China. It is but justice to add 
that he was mainly induced to this 
course by the timid representations of 
Captain Sowle. They reached Woahoo 
in safety, where the ship underwent the 
necessary repairs, and again put to sea 
on the 1st of January, 1813, leaving 
Mr. Hunt on the island. 

At Canton, Captain Sowle found the 
letter of Mr. Astor, giving him infor- 
mation of the war, and directing him 
to convey the intelligence to Astoria. 
He wrote a reply, in which he declined 
complying with these orders, saying 
that he would wait for peace, and then 
return home. In the meantime Mr. 
Hunt waited in vain for the annual ves- 
sel. At length, about the 20th of June, 
the ship Albatross, Captain Smith, ar- 
rived from China, bringing the first 
news of the war to the Sandwich Is- 
lands. This ship Mr. H. chartered for 
two thousand dollars, to land him, with 
some supplies, at Astoria. He reached 
this post on the 20th of August, where 
he found the affairs of the company in 
a perishing condition, and the partners 
bent upon abandoning the settlement. To 
this resolution Mr. Hunt was finally 
brought to consent. There was a large 
stock of furs, however, at the factory, 
which it was necessary to get to a mar- 
ket, and a ship was required for this 
service. The Albatross was bound to 
the Marquesas, and thence to the Sand- 
wich Islands; and it was resolved that 
Mr. H. should sail in her in quest of a 
vessel, returning, if possible, by the 1st 
of January, and bringing with him a 


1232 


supply of provisions. He departed on 
the 26th of August, and reached the 
Marquesas without accident. Commo- 
dore Porter soon afterwards arrived, 
bringing intelligence that the British 
frigate Phebe with a store-ship 
mounted with battering pieces, together 
with the sloops of war Cherub and 
Racoon, had all sailed from Rio Jan- 
eiro on the 6th of- July, bound for the 
mouth of the Columbia. Mr. H., after 
in vain attempting to purchase a whale 
ship from Commodore Porter, started 
on the 23rd of November for the Sand- 
wich Islands, arriving on the Oth of 
December. Here he found Captain 
Northrop, of the Lark, which had suf- 
fered shipwreck on the coast about the 
middle of March. The brig Pedlar was 
now purch*sed for ten thousand dol- 
lars, and, Captain N. being put in com- 
mand _f her, Mr. H. sailed for Astoria 
on the 22nd of Janu. cy, 1814, with 
the view of removing the property there, 
as speedily .s possinle, to the Russian 
scttlerrents in the vicinity—these were 
Mr. Astor’s orders sent out by the Lark. 
On the 28th of February the brig an- 
chored in the Columbia, when it was 
found that on the 12th of December the 
British had taken possession of the post. 
In some negotiations carried on, just 
before the surrender, on the part of the 
North-West Company and M’Dougal, 
that worthy personage gave full evi- 
dence that Captain Thorn was not far 
_ wrong in suspecting him to be no better 
than he should be. He had been for 
some time secretly a partner of the ri- 
val association, and shortly before the 
arrival of the British, took advantage of 
his situation as head of the post to bar- 
ter away the property of the company 
at less than one-third of its value. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Thus failed this great enterprise of 
Mr. Astor. At the peace, Astoria itself, 
by the treaty of Ghent, reverted with 
the adjacent country to the United 
States, on the principle of status ante 
bellum. In the winter of 1815, Con- 
gress passed a law prohibiting all traf- 
fic of British traders within our terri- 
tories, and Mr. A. felt anxious to seize 
this opportunity for the renewal of his 
undertaking. For good reasons, how- 
ever, he could do nothing without the 
direct protection of the Government. 
This evinced much supineness in the 
matter; the favourable moment was suf- 
fered to pass unimproved; and, in de- 
spite of the prohibition of Congress, 
the British finally usurped the lucrative 
traffic in peltries throughout the whole 
of our vast territories in the north-west. 
A very little aid from the sources 
whence he had naturally a right to ex- 
pect it, would have enabled Mr. Astor 
to direct this profitable commerce into 
national channels, and to render New 
York, what London has now long been, 
the great emporium for furs. 

We have already spoken of the mas- 
terly manner in which Mr. Irving has 
executed his task. It occurs to us that 
we have observed one or two slight 
discrepancies in the narrative. There 
appears to be some confusion between 
the names of M’Lellan, M’Lennon, and 
M’Lennan—or do these three appella- 
tions refer to the same individual? In 
going up the Missouri, Mr. Hunt arrives 
at the Great Bend on the ist of June, 
—the third day after which (the day on 
which the party is overtaken by Lisa) 
is said to be the 3rd of July. Jones 
and Carson join the expedition just 
above the Omaha village. At page 187, 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


vol. i., we are told that the two men 
“who had joined the company at the 
Maha village’ (meaning Omaha, we 
presume), deserted and were pursued, 
but never overtaken—at page 199, how- 
ever, Carson is recognised by an Indian 
who is holding a parley with the party. 


’ Sandwich Islands. 


1233 


The Lark, too, only sailed from New 
York on the 6th of March, 1813, and 
on the 10th we find her, much buffeted, 
somewhere in the near vicinity of the 
These errors are of 
little importance in themselves, but may 
as well be rectified in a future edition. 


Ehzabeth Barrett Barrett 


(Published in Broadway Journal, January, 1845.—Ed.) 


“A WELL-BRED man,” says Sir James 
Puckle, in his “Gray Cap for a Green 
Head,” “will never give himself the 
liberty to speak ill of women.” We 
emphasise the “man.” Setting aside, 
for the present, certain rare commen- 
tators and compilers of the species 
G——, —creatures neither precisely 
men, women, nor Mary Wollstonecraft’s 
—setting these aside as unclassifiable, 
we may observe that the race of critics 
are masculine—men. With the excep- 
tion, perhaps, of Mrs. Anne Royal, we 
can call to mind no female who has 
occupied, even temporarily, the Zoilus 
throne. And this, the Salic law, is an 
evil; for the inherent chivalry of the 
critical man renders it not only an un- 
pleasant task to him “‘to speak ill of a 
woman” (and a woman and her book 
are identical), but an almost impossible 
task not to laud her ad nauseam. In 
general, therefore, it is the unhappy lot 
of the authoress to be subjected, time 
after time, to the downright degradation 
of mere puffery. On her own side of 
the Atlantic, Miss Barrett has indeed, 
in one instance at least, escaped the 
infliction of this lamentable contumely 
and wrong; but if she had been really 


solicitous of its infliction in America, 
she could not have adopted a moze 
effectual plan than that of saying a few 
words about “‘the great American peo- 


‘ple,’ in an American edition of her 


work, published under the superintend- 
ence of an American author. Of the 
innumerable “native” notices of “The 
Drama of Exile” which have come un- 
der our observation, we can call te 
mind not one in which there is anything 
more remarkable than the ccritic’s 
dogged determination to find nothing 
barren, from Beersheba to Dan. Some 
one in the Democratic Review has pro- 
ceeded so far, it is true, as to venture 
a very delicate insinuation to the effect 
that the poetess ‘‘will not fail to speak 
her mind though it bring upon her a 
bad rhyme’; beyond this, nobody has 
proceeded; and as for the elaborate 
paper in the new Whig Monthly, all 
that anybody can say or think, and all 
that Miss Barrett can feel respecting 
it is, that it is an eulogy as well written 
as it is an insult well intended. Now, 
of all the friends of the fair author, we 
doubt whether one exists, with more 
profound—with more enthusiastic rever- 
ence and admiration of her genius, than 


1234 


the writer of these words. And it is 
for this very reason, beyond all others, 
that he intends to speak of her the 
truth. Our chief regret is, neverthe- 


less, that the limits of this work will’ 


preclude the possibility of our speak- 
ing this truth so fully and so much in 
detail as we could wish. By far the 
most valuable criticism that we, or any 
one could give, of the volumes now 
lying before us, would be the quotation 
of three-fourths of their contents. But 
we have this advantage—that the work 
has been long published, and almost 
universally read—and thus, in some 
measure, we may proceed, concisely, as 
if the text of our context were an 
understood thing. 

In her preface to the “American 
edition” of her late poems, Miss Bar- 
rett, speaking of “The Drama of 
Exile,” says:—‘“I decided on publishing 
it, after considerable hesitation and 
doubt. Its subject rather fastened on 
me than was chosen; and the form, ap- 
proaching the model of the Greek 
tragedy, shaped itself under my hand 
rather by force of pleasure than of 
design. But when the compositional 
excitement had subsided, I felt afraid 
of my position. My own object was 
the new and strange experiment of the 
fallen Humanity, as it went forth from 
Paradise in the Wilderness, with a pecul- 
iar reference to Eve’s allotted grief, 
which, considering that self-sacrifice be- 
longed to her womanhood, and the con- 
sciousness of being the organ of the 
Fall to her offence, appeared to me 
imperfectly apprehended hitherto, and 
more expressible by a woman than by 
aman.” In this abstract announcement 
of the theme, it is difficult to under- 
stand the ground of the poet’s hesitation 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


to publish; for the theme in itself seems 
admirably adapted to the purposes of 
the closest drama. The poet, neverthe- 
less, is, very properly, conscious of fail- 
ure—a failure which occurs not in the 
general, but in the particular concep- 
tion, and which must be placed to the 
account of “the model of the Greek 
tragedies.” The Greek tragedies had 
and even save high merits; but we act 
wisely in now substituting for the ex- 
ternal and typified human sympathy of 
the antique Chorus, a direct internal, 
living, and moving sympathy itself; and 
although A%schylus might have done 
service as ‘‘a model” to either Euripides 
or Sophocles, yet were Sophocles and 
Euripides in London to-day, they 
would, perhaps, while granting a certain 
formless and shadowy grandeur, indulge 
a quiet smile at the shallowness and 
uncouthness of that Art, which, in the 
old amphitheatres, had beguiled them 
into applause of the ‘“(Cdipus at 
Colonos.” 

It would have been better for Miss 
Barrett if, throwing herself independ- 
ently upon her own very extraordinary 
resources, and forgetting that a Greek 
had ever lived, she had involved her 
Eve in a series of adventures merely 
natural, or if not this, of adventures 
preternatural within the limits of at 
least a conceivable relation—a relation 
of matter to spirit and spirit to matter, 
that should have left room for some- 
thing like palpable action and compre- 
hensible emotion—that should not have 
utterly precluded the development of 
that womanly character which is ad- 
mitted as the principal object of the 
poem. As the case actually stands, it 
is only in a few snatches of verbal 
intercommunication with Adam and 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


Lucifer that we behold her as a woman 
at all: For the rest, she is a mystical 
something or nothing, enwrapped in a 
fog of rhapsody about Transfiguration, 
and the Seed, and the Bruising of the 
Heel, and other talk of a nature that 
no man ever pretended to understand in 
plain prose, and which, when solar- 
microscoped into poetry “upon the 
model of the Greek drama,” is about as 
convincing as the Egyptian Lectures of 
Mr. Silk Buckingham—about as much 
to any purpose under the sun as the 
hi presto! conjurations of Signor Blitz. 
What are we to make, for example, of 
dramatic colloquy such as this?—the 
words are those of a Chorus of Invisible 
Angels addressing Adam:— 


Live, work on, O Earthy! 
By the Actual’s tension 
Speed the arrow worthy 
Of a pure ascension. 
From the low earth around you 
Reach the heights above you; 
From the stripes that wound you 
Seek the loves that love you! 
God’s divinest burneth plain 
Through the crystal diaphane 
Of our loves that love you. 


Now we do not mean to assert that, 
by excessive ‘“‘tension” of the intellect, 
a reader accustomed to the cant of the 
transcendentalists (or of those who 
degrade an ennobling philosophy by 
styling themselves such) may not suc- 
ceed in ferreting from the passage 
quoted, and indeed from each of the 
thousand similar ones throughout the 
book, soniething that shall bear the 
aspect of an absolute idea—but we do 
mean to say, first, that in nine cases 
out of ten, the thought when dug out 


1235 


will be found very poorly to repay the 
labour of the digging—for it is the 
nature of thought in general, as it is 
the nature of some ores in particular, 
to be richest when most superficial. 
And we do mean to say, secondly, that, 
in nineteen cases out of twenty, the 
reader will suffer the most valuable ore 
to remain unmined to all eternity be- 
fore he will be put to the trouble of 
digging for it one inch. And we do 
mean to assert, thirdly, that no reader 
is to be condemned for not putting 
himself to the trouble of digging even 
the one inch; for no writer has the 
right to impose any such necessity upon 
him. What is worth thinking is dis- 
tinctly thought; what is distinctly 
thought can and should be distinctly 
expressed, or should not be expressed 
at all. Nevertheless, there is no more 
appropriate opportunity than the pres- 
ent for admitting and maintaining, at 
once, what has never before been 
either maintained or admitted—that 
there is a justifiable exception to the 
rule for which we contend. It is where 
the design is to convey the fantastic— 
not the obscure. To give the idea of 
the latter we need, as in general, the 
most precise and definitive terms, and 
those who employ other terms but con- 
found obscurity of expression with the 
expression of obscurity. The fantastic 
in itself, however,—phantasm—may be 
materially furthered in its development 
by the quaint in phraseology—a prop- 
osition which any moralist may exam- 
ine at his leisure for himself. 

“The Drama of Exile” opens with a 
very palpable bull:—‘‘Scene, the outer 
side of the gate of Eden, shut fast with 
clouds’—[a scene out of sight! ]— 
“from the depth of which revolves the 


1236 


sword of fire, self-moved. A watch of 
innumerable angels rank above rank, 
slopes up from around it to the zenith; 


and the glare cast from their brightness - 


and from the sword extends many miles 
into the wilderness. Adam and Eve 
are seen in the distance, flying along 
the glare. The angel Gabriel and Luci- 
fer are beside the gate.’”—These are 
the “stage directions” which greet us 
on the threshold of the book. We 
complain first of the bull; secondly, of 
the blue-fire melodramatic aspect of the 
revolving sword; thirdly, of the dupli- 
cate nature of the sword, which, if 
steel, and sufficiently inflamed to do 
service in burning, would perhaps have 
been in no temper to cut; and on the 
other hand, if- sufficiently cool to have 
an edge, would have accomplished little 
in the way of scorching a personage so 
well accustomed to fire and brimstone 
and all that, as we have very good 
reason to believe Lucifer was. We can- 
not help objecting, too, to the “innu- 
merable angels,’ as a force altogether 
disproportioned to the one enemy to 
be kept out; either the self-moving 
sword itself, we think, or the angel 
Gabriel alone, or five or six of the 
“innumerable” angels, would have suf- 
ficed to keep the devil (or is it Adam?) 
outside of the gate—which, after all, 
he might not have been able to dis- 
cover, on account of the clouds. 

Far be it from us, however, to dwell 
irreverently on matters which have 
venerability in the faith or in the fancy 
of Miss Barrett. _We allude to these 
niaiseries at all—found here in the very 
first paragraph of her poem—simply by 
way of putting in the clearest light the 
mass of inconsistency and antagonism 
in which her subject has inextricably 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


involved her. She has made allusion 
to Milton, and no doubt felt secure in 
her theme (as a theme merely) when 
she considered his ‘Paradise Lost,” 
But even in Milton’s own day, when 
men had the habit of believing all 
things, the more nonsensical the more 
readily, and of worshipping, in blind 
acquiescence, the most preposterous of 
impossibilities—even then, there were 
not wanting individuals who would have 
read the great epic with more zest 
could it have been explained to their 
satisfaction how and why it was, not 
only that a snake quoted Aristotle’s 
ethics, and behaved otherwise pretty 
much as he pleased, but that bloody 
battles were continually being fought 
between bloodless “innumerable angels” 
that found no inconvenience in losing 
a wing one minute and a head the next, 
and if pounded up into puff-paste late 
in the afternoon, were as good ‘“‘innu- 
merable angels” as new the next morn- 
ing, in time to be at reveille roll-call. 
And now—at the present epoch—there 
are few people who do not occasionally 
think. ‘This is emphatically the think- 
ing age—indeed it may very well be 
questioned whether mankind ever sub- 
stantially thought before. The fact is, 
if the “Paradise Lost” were written 
to-day (assuming that it had never been 
written when it was), not even its 
eminent, although over-estimated mer- 
its, would counterbalance, either in the 
public view, or in the opinion of any 
critic at once intelligent and honest, 
the multitudinous incongruities which 
are part and parcel of its plot. 

But in the plot of the drama of Miss 
Barrett it is something even worse than 
incongruity which affronts:—a continu- 
ous mystical strain of ill-fitting and 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


exaggerated allegory—if, indeed, alle- 
gory is not much too respectable a 
term for it. We are called upon, for 
example, to sympathise in the whim- 
sical woes of two Spirits, who, up- 
springing from the bowels of the earth, 
set immediately to bewailing their 
miseries in jargon such as this:— 


I am the spirit of the harmless earth; 
God spake me softly out among the 
stars, 
As softly as a blessing of much worth— 
And then His smile did follow unawares, 
That all things, fashioned so for use 
and duty, 
Might shine anointed with His chrism 
of beauty— 
Yet I wail! 


I drave on with the worlds exultingly, 
Obliquely down the Godlight’s grad- 
ual fall— 
Individual aspect and complexity 
Of gyratory orb and interval 
Lost in the fluent motion of delight 
Toward the high ends of Being beyond 
sight— 
Yet I wail! 


Innumerable other spirits discourse 
successively after the same fashion, 
each ending every stanza of his lamen- 
tation with the “yet I wail!” When 
at length they have fairly made an 
end, Eve touches Adam upon the elbow, 
and hazards, also, the profound and 
pathetic observation—‘‘Lo, Adam, they 
wail!”—which is nothing more than the 
simple truth—for they do—and God 
deliver us from any such wailing again! 

It is not our purpose, however, to 
demonstrate what every reader of these 
volumes will have readily seen self- 
demonstrated—the utter indefensibility 


123? 


of “The Drama of Exile,” considered 
uniquely, as a work of art. We have 
none of us to be told that a medley 
of metaphysical recitatives sung out of 
tune, at Adam and Eve, by all manner 
of inconceivable abstractions, is not 
exactly the best material for a poem. 
Still it may very well happen that 
among this material there shall be indi- 
vidual passages of great beauty. But 
should any one doubt the possibility, 
let him be satisfied by a single abstract 
such as follows:— 


On a mountain peak 

Half-sheathed in primal woods and glit- 
tering 

In spasms of awful sunshine, at that 
hour 

A lion couched—part raised upon his 
paws, 

With his calm massive face turned full 
on thine, 

And his mane listening. 
ended curse 

Left silence in the world, right suddenly 

He sprang up rampant, and_ stood 
straight and stiff, 

As if the new reality of death 

Were dashed against his eyes—and 
roared so fierce . 

(Such thick carnivorous passion in his 
throat 

Tearing a passage through the wrath 
and fear)— 

And roared so wild, and smote from 
all the hills 

Such fast keen echoes crumbling down 
the vales 

To distant silence,——that the forest 
beasts, 

One after one, did mutter a response 

In savage and in sorrowful complaint 

Which trailed along the gorges. 


When the 


1238 


There is an Homeric force here—a 
vivid picturesqueness which all men 
will appreciate and admire. It is, how- 
ever, the longest quotable passage in 
the drama, not disfigured with blem- 
ishes of importance; although there are 
many—very many passages of a far 
loftier order of excellence, so disfigured, 
and which, therefore, it would not suit 
our immediate purpose to extract. The 
truth is—and it may be as well men- 
tioned at this point as elsewhere—that 
we are not to look in Miss Barrett’s 
works for any examples of what has 
been occasionally termed “sustained 
effort”; for neither are there, in any 
of her poems, any long commendable 
paragraphs, nor are there any indi- 
vidual compositions which will bear the 
slightest examination as consistent Art- 
products. Her wild and magnificent 
genius seems to have contented itself 
with points—to have exhausted itself 
in flashes; but it is the profusion—the 
unparalleled number and close propin- 
quity of these points and flashes which 
render her book one flame, and justify 
us in calling her unhesitatingly, the 
greatest—the most glorious of her sex. 

“The Drama of Exile” calls for little 
more, in the way of comment, than 
what we have generally said. Its finest 
particular feature is, perhaps, the rap- 
ture of Eve—rapture bursting through 
despair—-upon discovering that she still 
possesses in the unwavering love of 
Adam, an undreamed-of and priceless 
treasure. The poem ends, as it com- 
mences, with a bull. The last sentence 
gives us to understand that “there is 
a sound through the silence, as of the 
falling tears of an angel.” How there 
can be sound during silence, and how 
an audience are to distinguish, by such 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


sound, angel tears from any other spe- 
cies of tears, it may be as well, perhaps, 
not too particularly to inquire. 

Next in length to the Drama is ‘The 
Vision of Poets.” We object to the 
didacticism of its design, which the 
poetess thus states: “TI have attempted 
to express here my view of the mission 
of the veritable poet—of the self- 
abnegation implied in it, of the uses 
of sorrow suffered in it, of the great 
work accomplished in it through suffer- 
ing, and of the duty and glory of what 
Balzac has beautifully and truly called 
‘la patience angelique du genie.” This 
“view” may be correct, but neither its 
correctness nor its falsity has anything 
to do with a poem. If a thesis is to 
be demonstrated, we need prose for its 
demonstration. In this instance, so far 
as the allegorical instruction and argu- 
mentation are lost sight of, in the upper 
current—so far as the main admitted 
intention of the work is kept out of 
view—so far only is the work a poem, 
and so far only is the poem worth 
notice, or worthy of its author. Apart 
from its poetical character, the com- 
position is thoughtful, vivid, epigram- 
matic, and abundant in just observa~ 
tion—although the critical opinions 
introduced are not always our own. A 
reviewer in Blackwood’s Magazine, 
quoting many of these critical portraits, 
takes occasion to find fault with the 
grammar of this tristich:— 


Here AX*schylus—the women swooned 
To see so awful when he frowned 
As the gods did—he standeth crowned, 


“What on earth,” says the critic, ‘“‘are 
we to make of the words ‘the women 
swooned to see so awful?’ . . . The 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


syntax will punish future commentators 
as much as some of his own corrupt 
choruses.” In general, we are happy 
to agree with this reviewer, whose deci- 
sions respecting the book are, upon the 
whole, so nearly coincident with ours 
that we hesitate, through fear of repeti- 
tion, to undertake a critique at all, 
until we considered that we might say 
a very great deal in simply supplying 
his omissions; but he frequently errs 
through mere hurry, and never did he 
err more singularly than at the point 
now in question. He evidently supposes 
that “awful” has been misused as an 
adverb and made referable to “women?” 
But not so; and although the construc- 
tion of the passage is unjustifiably 
involute, its grammar is intact. Dis- 
entangling the construction, we make 
this evident at once. ‘Here A%schylus 
(he) standeth crowned (whom) the 
women .swooned to see so awful, when 
he frowned as the gods did.” The ‘‘he” 
is excessive, and the “whom” is under- 
stood. Respecting the lines, 


Euripides, with close and mild 

. Scholastic lips, that could be wild, 
And laugh or sob out like a child 
Right in the classes, 


the critic observes:—‘ ‘Right in the 
classes’ throws our intellect completely 
upon its beam-ends.” But, if so, the 
fault possibly lies in the crankness of 
the intellect; for the words themselves 
mean merely that Euripides laughed or 
cried like a schoolboy—like a_ child 
right (or just) in his classes—one who 
had not yet left school. The phrase is 
affected, we grant, but quite intelligible. 
A still more remarkable misapprehen- 
sion occurs in regard to the triplet, 


12395 


And Goethe, with that reaching eye 
His soul reached out from, far and high, 
And fell from inner entity. 


The reviewer’s remarks upon this are 
too preposterous not to be quoted in 
full; we doubt if any commentator of 
eaual dignity ever so egregiously com- 
mitted himself before. ‘Goethe,’ he 
says, “is a perfect enigma; what does 
the word ‘fell’ mean? deinos (Gr.) we 
suppose—that is, ‘not to be trifled 
with. But surely it sounds’ very 
strange, although it may be true enough, 
to say that his ‘fellness’ is occasioned 
by ‘inner entity.” But perhaps the 
line has some deeper meaning which 
we are unable to fathom.” Perhaps it 
has: and this is the criticism—the Brit- 
ish criticism—the Blackwood criticism 
—to which we have so long implicitly 
bowed down! As before, Miss Bar- 
rett’s verses are needlessly involved, 
but their meaning requires no Cdipus. 
Their construction is thus intended:— 
“And Goethe, with that reaching eye 
from which his soul reached out, far 
and high, and (in so reaching) fell 
from inner entity.” The plain prose 
is this:—Goethe (the poet would say), 
in involving himself too far and too 
profoundly in external speculations— 
speculations concerning the world with- 
out him—neglected, or made miscalcu- 
lations concerning his inner entity. or 
being,—concerning the world within. 
This idea is involved in the metaphor 
of a person leaning from a window so 
far that finally he falls from it—the 
person being the soul, the window the 
eye. 

Of the twenty-eight “Sonnets” which 
immediately succeed “The Drama of 
Exile,’ and which receive the especial 


1240 


commendation of Blackwood, we have 
no very enthusiastic opinion. The best 
sonnet is objectionable from its extreme 
artificiality; and, to be effective, this 
species of composition requires a 
minute management—a well-controlled 
dexterity of touch—compatible neither 
with Miss Barrett’s deficient construc- 
tiveness, nor with the fervid rush and 
whirl of her genius. Of the particular 
instances here given, we prefer “The 
Prisoner,” of which the conclusion is 
particularly beautiful. In general, the 
themes are obtrusively metaphysical or 
didactic. | 
“The Romaunt of the Page,” an 
mitation of the old English ballad, is 
neither very original in subject, nor 
very skilfully put together. We speak 
comparatively, of course:—It is not 
very good—for Miss Barrett; and what 
we have said of this poem will apply 
equally to a very similar production, 
“The Rhyme of the Duchess May.” 
“The Poet and the Bird’—‘‘A Child 
Asleep” — “Crowned and Wedded” — 
“Crowned and Buried”—“‘To Flush, my 
Dog” —‘“‘The Fourfold Aspect” —‘“A 
Flower in a Letter’—‘“‘A Lay of the 
Early Rose”’—‘‘That Day”—“L. E. L.’s 
Question” —‘‘Catarina to Camoens”— 
“Wine of Cyprus”—‘“The Dead Pan’— 
“Sleeping and Watching’”—“A Portrait’’ 
—“‘The Mournful Mother”’—and “A 
Valediction”—although all burning with 
divine fire, manifested only in scintil- 
lations, have nothing in them idiosyn- 
cratic. “The House of Clouds” and 
“The Lost Bower” are superlatively 
lovely, and show the vast powers of 
the poet in the field best adapted to 
their legitimate display:—the themes 
here could not be improved. The 
former poem is purely imaginative; the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


latter is unobjectionably because unob- 
trusively suggestive of a moral, and is, 
perhaps, upon the whole, the most 
admirable composition in the two vol- 
umes—or, if it is not, then “The Lay 
of the Brown Rosarie” zs. In this last 
the ballad-character is elevated—ethe- 
realised—and thus made to afford scope 
for an ideality at once the richest and 
most vigorous in the world. The pecul- 
iar foibles of the author are here, too, 
dropped bodily, as a mantle, in the 
tumultuous movement and excitement 
of the narrative. 

Miss Barrett has need only of real 
self-interest in her subjects to do justice 
to her subjects and to herself. On the 
other hand, “A Rhapsody of Life’s 
Progress,” although gleaming with gold 
coruscations, is the least meritorious, 
because the most philosophical effusion 
of the whole:—this we say, in flat con- 
tradiction of the “spoudiotaton kai phil- 
osophikotaton genos” (Gr.) of Aristotle. 
“The Cry of the Human” is singularly 
effective, not more from the vigour and 
ghastly passion of its thought than from 
the artistically conceived arabesquerie 
of its rhythm. ‘The Cry of the Chil- 
dren,” similar, although superior in tone 
and handling, is full of a nervous, 
unflinching energy—a horror sublime in 
its simplicity—of which Dante himself 
might have been proud. ‘Bertha in the 
Lane,” a rich ballad, very singularly 
excepted from the wholesale commenda- 
tion of the Democratic Review as 
“perhaps not one of the best,” and 
designated by Blackwood, on the con- 
trary, as “decidedly the finest poem of 
the collection,” is not the very best, 
we think, only because mere pathos, 
however. exquisite, cannot be ranked 
with the loftiest exhibitions of the ideal. 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


Of “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” the 
magazine last quoted observes that 
“some pith is put forth in its passion- 
ate parts.” We will not pause to exam- 
ine the delicacy or lucidity of the meta- 
phor embraced in the “putting forth of 
some pith”; but unless by “some pith” 
is intended the utmost conceivable 
intensity and vigour, then the critic is 
merely damning with faint praise. 
With the exception of Tennyson’s 
“Locksley Hall,” we have never perused 
a poem combining so much of the 
fiercest passion with so much of the 
most ethereal fancy, as the “Lady 
Geraldine’s Courtship” of Miss Barrett. 
We are forced to admit, however, that 
the latter work zs a very palpable imi- 
tation of the former, which it surpasses 
in plot, or rather in thesis, as much 
as it falls below it in artistical man- 
agement, and a certain calm energy— 
lustrous and indomitable—such as we 
might imagine in a broad river of 
molten gold. 

It is in the “Lady Geraldine” that 
the critic of Blackwood is again put 
at fault in the comprehension of a 
couple of passages. He confesses his 
inability “to make out the construction 
of the words, ‘all that spirits pure and 
ardent are cast out of love and rev- 
erence, because chancing not to hold.’ ” 
There are comparatively few American 
schoolboys who could not parse it. The 
prosaic construction would run thus:— 
“all that (wealth understood) because 
chancing not to hold which (or on 
account of their not holding it), pure 
and ardent spirits are cast out of love 
and reverence.” The “which” is in- 
volved in the relative pronoun “‘that”— 
the second word of the sentence. All 
that we know is, that Miss Barrett is 


1241 


right:—here is a parallel phrase mean- 
ing “all that (which) we know,” etc. 
The fact is, that the accusation of 
imperfect grammar would have been 
more safely urged, if more generally: 
in descending to particular exceptions, 
the reviewer has been doing little more 
than exposing himself at all points. 

Turning aside, however, from gram- 
mar, he declares his incapacity to 
fathom the meaning of 


She has halls and she has castles, and 
the resonant steam-eagles 
Follow far on the directing of her 
floating dove-like hand— 
With a thunderous vapour trailing 
underneath the starry vigils, 
So to mark upon the blasted heaven 
the measure of her land. 


Now it must be understood that he 
is profoundly serious in his declaration 
—he really does not apprehend the 
thought designed—and he is even more 
than profoundly serious, too, in intend- 
ing these his own comments upon his 
own stolidity for wit:—“We thought 
that steam-coaches generally followed 
the directing of no hand except the 
stoker’s, but z¢ certainly is always muck 
liker a raven than a dove.” After this, 
who shall question the infallibility of 
Christopher North? We presume there 
are very few of our readers who will 
not easily appreciate the richly imag- 
inative conception of the poetess:— 
The Lady Geraldine is supposed to be 
standing in her own door (positively 
not on the top of an engine), and thence 
pointing, “with her floating dove-like 
hand,” to the lines of vapour, from 
the “resonant steam-eagles,” that desig- 
nated upon the “blasted heaven,” the 


1242 


remote boundaries of her domain. But 
perhaps we are guilty of a very gross 
absurdity ourselves, in commenting at 
all upon the whimsicalities of a reviewer 
who can deliberately select for special 
animadversion the second of the four 
verses we here copy:— 


“Eyes,’ he said, ‘now throbbing 
through me! are ye eyes that did 
undo me? 


Shining eyes like antique jewels set in 
Parian statue-stone! 

Underneath that calm white forehead 
are ye ever burning torrid 

O’er the desolate sand desert of my 
heart and life undone?” 


The ghost of the great Frederick 
might, to be sure, quote at us, in his 
own Latin, his favourite adage, “De 
gustibus non est disputandus”;—but 
when we take into consideration the 
moral designed, the weirdness of effect 
intended, and the historical adaptation 
of the fact alluded to, in the line 
italicised (a fact of which it is by no 
means impossible that the critic is 
ignorant), we cannot refrain from 
expressing our conviction—and we here 
express it in the teeth of the whole 
horde of the Ambrosianians—from the 
entire range of poetical literature there 
shall not, in a century, be produced a 
more sonorous—a more vigorous verse 
—a juster—a nobler—a more ideal— 
a more magnificent image—than this 
very image, in this very verse, which 
the most noted magazine of Europe 
has so especially and so comteronens 
ously condemned. 

“The Lady Geraldine” is, we think, 
the only poem of its author which is 
not deficient, considered as an artistical 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


whole. Her constructive ability, as we 
have already suggested, is either not 
very remarkable, or has never been 
properly brought into play: in truth, 
her genius is too impetuous for the 
minuter technicalities of that elaborate 
Art so needful in the building up of 
pyramids for immortality. This defi- 
ciency, then—if there be any such—is 
her chief weakness. Her other foibles, 
although some of them are, in fact, 
glaring, glare, nevertheless, to no very 
material ill purpose. There are none 
which she will not readily dismiss in 
her future works. She retains them 
now, perhaps, because unaware of their 
existence. 

Her affectations are unquestionably 
many, and generally inexcusable. We 
may, perhaps, tolerate such words as 
“ble,” “chrysm,”’ ‘“nympholeptic,” 
“cenomel,” and “chrysopras” — they 
have at least the merit either of dis- 
tinct meaning, or of terse and sonorous 
expression ;—but what can be well said 
in defence of the unnecessary nonsense 
of ‘’ware”’ for “aware’—of “ ’bide” 
for “abide’—of “‘’gins” for “begins’”— 
of “’las” for ‘“alas’—of “oftly,” 
“ofter,” and “oftest,’ for ‘“‘often,” 
“more often,” and “most often’”—or of 
“erelong” in the sense of “long ago’? 
That there is authority for the mere 
words proves nothing; those who em- 
ployed them in their day would not 
employ them if writing now. Although 
we grant, too, that the poetess is very 
usually Homeric in her compounds, 
there is no intelligibility of construc- 
tion, and therefore no force of meaning 
in ‘‘dew-pallid,” ‘‘pale-passioned,” and 
“silver-solemn.” Neither have we any 
partiality for “drave’’ or “‘swpreme,” or 
“Jament”; and while upon this topic, 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


we may as well observe that there are 
few readers who do anything but laugh 
or stare at such phrases as “L. E. L.’s 
Last Question”’—‘The Cry of the Hu- 
man”’—“Leaning from my human’— 
“Heaven assist the human’—‘the full 
sense of your mortal’—‘a grave for 


your divine’—‘falling off from our: 


created’—‘he sends this gage for thy 
pity’s counting’—‘“they could not press 
their futures on the present of her 
courtesy’—or “could another fairer 
lack to thee, lack to thee?” There are 
few, at the same time, who do not feel 
‘disposed to weep outright, when they 
hear of such things as “Hope withdraw- 
ing her peradventure’—‘spirits dealing 
in pathos of antithesis’—‘angels in 
antagonism to God and his reflex beati- 
tudes’ —‘‘songs of glories ruffling down 
doorways” —‘“‘God’s _ possibles” — and 
“rules of Mandom.” 

We have already said, however, that 
mere qudaininess, within reasonable 
limit, is not only not to be regarded 
as affectation, but has its proper artistic 
uses in aiding a fantastic effect. We 
quote, from the lines “To my dog 
Flush,” a passage in exemplification:— 


Leap! thy broad tail waves a light! 

Leap! thy slender feet are bright, 
Canopied in fringes! 

Leap! those tasselled ears of thine 

Flicker strangely, fair and fine, 
Down their golden inches! 


And again—from the song of a tree- 
spirit, in “The Drama of Exile.” 


The Divine impulsion cleaves 

In dim movements to the leaves, 
Dropt and lifted, dropt and lifted, 
In the sun-light greenly sifted,— 


1243 


In the sun-light and the moon-light 
Greenly sifted through the trees. 
Ever wave the Eden trees, 

In the night-light and the noon-light, 
With a ruffling of green branches, 
Shaded off to resonances, 

Never stirred by rain or breeze. 


The thoughts here belong to the 
highest order of poetry, but they could 
not have been wrought into effective 
expression without the instrumentality 
of those repetitions—those unusual 
phrases—in a word, those quaintnesses, 
which it has been too long the fashion 
to censure, indiscriminately, under the 
one general head of “affectation.” No 
true poet will fail to be enraptured 
with the two extracts above quoted— 
but we believe there are few who would 
not find a difficulty in reconciling the 
psychal impossibility of refraining from 
admiration, with the too-hastily attained 
mental conviction that, critically, there 
is nothing to admire. 

Occasionally we meet in Miss Bar- 
rett’s poems a certain far-fetchedness 
of imagery, which is reprehensible in 
the extreme. What, for example, are 
we to think of 


Now he hears the angel voices 
Folding silence in the room?— 


undoubtedly, that it is nonsense, and 
no more; or of 


How the silence round you shivers 
While our voices through it gor— 


again, unquestionably, that it is non- 
sense, and nothing beyond. 

Sometimes we are startled by knotty 
paradoxes; and it is not acquitting their 


1244 


perpetrator of all blame on their ac- 
count to admit that, in some instances, 
they are susceptible of solution. It is 
really difficult to discover anything for 
approbation in enigmas such as 


That bright impassive, passive angel- 
hood, 


or 


The silence of my heart is full of 
sound. 


At long intervals, we are annoyed 
by specimens of repulsive imagery, as 
where the children cry:— 


How long, O cruel nation, 
Will you stand, to move the world, on 
a child’s heart— 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its pal- 
pitation? etc 


Now and then, too, we are con- 
founded by a pure platitude, as when 
Eve exclaims:— 


Leave us not 
In agony beyond what we can bear, 
And in abasement below thunder-mark! 


or, when the Saviour is made to say:— 


So, at. last, 
He shall look round on you with lids 
too straight 
To hold the grateful tears. 


“Strait” was no doubt intended, but 
does not materially elevate, although it 
slightly elucidates, the thought. A very 
remarkable passage is that, also, wherein 
Eve bids the infant voices 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Hear the steep generations, how they 
fall 

Adown the visionary stairs of Time, 

Like supernatural thunders—far yet 
near, 

Sowing their fiery echoes through: the 
hills! 


Here, saying nothing of the affecta- 
tion in “adown”; not alluding to the 
insoluble paradox of “far yet near”; 
not mentioning the inconsistent meta- 
phor involved in the “sowing of fiery 
echoes”; adverting but slightly to the 
misusage of “like,” in place of “as,”- 
and to the impropriety of making any- 
thing fall like thunder, which has never 
been known to fall at all; merely hint- 
ing, too, at the misapplication of 
“steep,” to the “generations,” instead 
of to the “stairs’—a perversion in no 
degree to be justified by the fact that 
sO preposterous a figure as synecdoche 
exists in the _ school-books; — letting 
these things pass, for the present, we 
shall still find it difficult to understand 
how Miss Barrett should have been 
led to think that the principal idea 
itseli—the abstract idea—the idea of 
tumbling down stairs, in any shape, or 
under any circumstances—is either a 
poetical or a decorous conception. And 
yet we have seen this very passage 
quoted as “sublime,” by a critic who 
seems to take it for granted, as a gen- 
eral rule, that Nat-Leeism is the loftiest 
order of literary merit. That the lines 
very narrowly missed sublimity, we 
grant; that they came within a step 
of it, we admit;—but, unhappily, the 
step is that one step which, time out 
of mind, has intervened between the 
sublime and the ridiculous. So true 
is this, that any person—that even 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


we—with a very partial modification of 
the imagery—a modification that shall 
not interfere with its richly spiritual 
tone—may elevate the quotation into 
unexceptionability. For example: and 
we offer it with profound deference— 


Hear the far generations—how they 
crash, 

From crag to crag, down the precipitous 
Time, 

In multitudinous thunders that upstartle, 

Aghast, the echoes from their cavernous 
lairs 

In the visionary hills! 


We have no doubt that our version 
has its faults—but it has at least the 
merit of consistency. Not only is a 
mountain more poetical than a pair of 
. stairs; but echoes are more appropri- 
ately typified as wild beasts than as 
seeds; and echoes and wild beasts agree 
better with a mountain than does a 
flight of stairs with the sowing of seeds 
—even admitting that these seeds be 
seeds of fire, and be sown broadcast 
“among the hills,” by a steep genera- 
tion, while in the act of tumbling down 
the stairs—that is to say, of coming 
down the stairs in too violent a hurry 
to be capable of sowing the seeds as 
accurately as all seeds should be sown; 
nor is the matter rendered any better 
for Miss Barrett, even if the construc- 
tion of her sentence is to be under- 
stood as implying that the fiery seeds 
were sown, not immediately by the 
steep generations that tumbled down 
the stairs, but mediately, through the 
intervention of the “supernatural thun- 
ders” that were occasioned by the 
“steep generations” that tumbled down 
the stairs. 


1245 


The poetess is not unfrequently 
guilty of repeating herself. The ‘“thun- 
der cloud veined by lightning” appears, 
for instance, on pages 34 of the first 
and 228 of the second volume. The 
“silver clash of wings” is heard at pages 
53 of the first and 269 of the second 
volume; and angel tears are discovered 
to be falling as well at page 27 as at 
the conclusion of “The Drama of 
Exile.” Steam, too, in the shape of 
Death’s White Horse, comes upon the 
ground, both at pages 244 of the first 
and 179 of the second volume—and 
there are multitudinous other repeti- 
tions, both of phrase and idea—but it 
is the excessive reiteration of pet 
words which is, perhaps, the most ob- 
trusive of the minor errors of the poet. 
“Crystalline,” “Apocalypse,”  ‘“‘fore- 
gone,” “evangel,” “ware,” “throb,” 
“level,” “loss,” and the musical term 
“minor,” are for ever upon her lips. 
The chief favourites, however, are 
“down” and “leaning,” which are 
echoed and re-echoed not only ad infini- 
tum, but in every whimsical variation 
of import. As Miss Barrett certainly 
cannot be aware of the extent of this 
mannerism, we will venture to call her 
attention to a few—comparatively a 
very few examples. 


Pealing down the depths of God- 
head. 

Smiling down, as Venus down the 
waves. i 

Smiling down the steep world very 
purely. 


Down the purple of this chamber. . . 

Moving down the hidden depths of 
loving. ; 

Cold the sun shines down the door. ... 

Which brought angels down our talk. . .. 


1246 


Let our souls behind you lean gently 
moved. ; | 

But angels leaning from the golden 
S@aLsra iA Ss. 

And _ melancholy 
heaven. , 

And I know the heavens are leaning 
down. 

Then over the casement she lJeaneth. .. . 

Forbear that dream, too near to heaven 


leaning out of 


it leaned. 
I would Jean my spirit o’er you. : 
Thou, O sapient angel, Jeanest o’er... , 


Shapes of brightness overlean thee. ... 

They are Jeaning their young heads... . 

Out of heaven shall o’er you Jean... . 

While my spirit Jeans and reaches... . 
Bice ett, etc. 


In the matter of grammar, upon 
which the Edinburgh critic insists so 


pertinaciously, the author of “The 
Drama of Exile’ seems to us even 
peculiarly without fault. The nature 


of her studies has, no doubt, imbued 
her with a very delicate instinct of 
constructive accuracy. The occasional 
use of phrases so questionable as “from 
whence,” and the far-fetchedness and 
involution of which we have already 
spoken, are the only noticeable blem- 
ishes of an exceedingly chaste, vigorous, 
and comprehensive style. 

In her inattention to rhythm, Miss 
Barrett is guilty of an error that might 
have been fatal to her fame—that 
would have been fatal to any reputa- 
tion less solidly founded than her own. 
We do not allude so, particularly, to 
her multiplicity of inadmissible rhymes. 
We would wish, to be sure, that she 
had not thought proper to couple Eden 
and succeeding—glories and floorwise— 
burning and morning—thither and 


moonshine and 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


zether—enclose me and across me— 
misdoers and flowers—centre and win- 
ter—guerdon and pardon—conquer and 
anchor —desert and unmeasured — 
atoms and fathoms—opal and people— 
glory and doorway—trumpet and ac- 
compted—taming and overcame him— 
coming and woman—is and trees—off 
and sun-proof—eagles and vigils—na- 
ture and satire—poems and interflow- 
ings—certes and virtues—pardon and 
burden—thereat and  great—children 
and bewildering—mortal and turtle— 
sunshine. It would 
have been better, we say, if such apolo- 
gies for rhymes as these had been 
rejected. But deficiencies of rhythm 
are more serious. In some cases it is 
nearly impossible to determine what 
metre is intended. “The Cry of the 
Children” cannot be scanned: we never 
saw sO poor a specimen of verse. In 
imitating the rhythm of “Locksley 
Hall,” the poetess has preserved with 
accuracy (so far as mere syllables are 
concerned) the forcible line of seven 
trochees with a final cesura. The 
“double rhymes” have only the force 
of a single long syllable—a cesura: 
but the natural rhythmical division, 
occurring at the close of the fourth 
trochee, should never be forced to 
occur, as Miss Barrett constantly forces 
it, in the middle of a word, or of an 
indivisible phrase. If it do so occur, 
we must sacrifice, in perusal, either the 
sense or the rhythm. If she will con- 
sider, too, that this line of seven 
trochees and a cesura is nothing more 
than two lines written in one—a line 
of four trochees succeeded by one of 
three trochees and a cesura—she will 
at once see how unwise she has been 
in composing her poem in quatrains of 











ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


the long line with alternate rhymes, 
instead of immediate ones, as in the 
case of “Locksley Hall.” The result 
is, that the ear, expecting the rhymes 
before they occur, does not appreciate 
them when they do. These points, 
however, will be best exemplified by 
transcribing one of the quatrains in its 
natural arrangement. That actually 
employed is addressed only to the 
eye :— 


Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird 
In among its forest brothers 
Far too strong for it, then, drooping, 
Bowed her face upon her hands— 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, 
Brutal truths of her and others! 
I, she planted: in the desert, 
Swathed her, wind-like, 
sands. 


with my 


Here it will be seen that there is a 
paucity of rhyme, and that it is ex- 
pected at places where it does not 
occur. In fact, if we consider the eight 
lines as two independent quatrains 
(which they are), then we find them 
entirely rhymeless. Now so unhappy 
are these metrical defects—of so much 
importance do we take them to be, 
that we do not hesitate in declaring 
the general inferiority of the poem to 
its prototype to be altogether charge- 
able to them. With equal rhythm 
“Lady Geraldine” had been far—very 
far the superior poem. Inefficient 
rhythm is inefficient poetical expres- 
sion: and expression, in poetry,—what 
is itp—-what is it not? No one living 
can better answer these queries than 
Miss Barrett. 

We conclude our comments upon her 
versification by quoting (we will not 


1247 


say whence—from what one of her 
poems)—a few verses without the 
linear division as it appears in the 
book. There are many readers who 
would never suspect the passage to be 
intended for metre at all—‘‘Ay!—and 
sometimes, on the hillside, while we 
sat down on the gowans, with the for- 
est green behind us, and its shadow cast 
before, and the river running under, 
and across it from the rowans a par- 
tridge whirring near us till we felt the 
air it bore—there, obedient to her 
praying, did I read aloud the poems 
made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments 
more various of our own—read the pas- 
toral parts of Spenser—or the subtle 
interflowings found in Petrarch’s son- 
nets;—here’s the book!—the leaf is 
folded down!” 

With this extract we make an end 
of our fault-finding—and ow, shall we 
speak, equally in detail, of the beauties 
of this book? Alas! here, indeed, do 
we feel the impotence of the pen. We 
have already said that the supreme 
excellence of the poetess whose works 
we review is made up of the multi- 
tudinous sums of a world of lofty 
merits. It is the multiplicity—it is the 
aggregation—which excites our most 
profound enthusiasm, and enforces our 
most earnest respect. But unless we 
had space to extract three-fourths of 
the volumes, how could we convey this 
aggregation by specimens? We might 
quote, to be sure, an example of keen 
insight into our psychal nature, such 
as this:— 


T fell flooded with a dark, 
In the silence of a swoon— 

When I rose, still cold and stark, 
There was night,—I saw the moon; 


i248 


And the stars, each in its place, 
And the May-blooms on the grass, 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 
And I walked as if apart 

From myself, when I could stand— 
And I pitied my own heart, 

As if I held it in my hand, 
Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence. 


Or we might copy an instance of the 
purest and most radiant imagination, 
such as this:— 


So, young muser, I sat listeuing 

To my Fancy’s wildest word— 

On a sudden, through the glistening 

Leaves around, a little stirred, 

Came a sound, a sense of music, 

Which was rather felt than heard. 

Softly, finely, it unwound me— 

From the world it shut me in— 

Like a fountain falling round me 

Which with silver waters thin, 

Holds a little marble Naiad sitting 
smilingly within. 


Or, again, we might extract a specimen 
of wild Dantesque vigour, such as this 
—in combination with a pathos never 
excelled :— 


Ay! be silent—let them hear each other 
breathing 
For a moment mouth to mouth— 
Jiet them touch each other’s hands in a 
fresh wreathing 
Of their tender human youth! 


Let them feel that this cold metallic 
motion 
Is not all the life God fashions or 
reveals— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


Let them prove their inward souls 
against the notion 
That they live in you, or under you, 


O wheels! 


Or, still again, we might give a passage 
embodying the most elevated senti- 
ment, most tersely and musically thus 
expressed :— 


And since, Prince Albert, men have 
called thy spirit high and rare, 
And true to truth, and brave for truth, 
as some at Augsburg were— 

We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts 
and by thy poet-mind, 

Which not by glory or degree takes 
measure of mankind, 

Esteem that wedded had less dear 
for sceptre than for ring, 

And hold her uncrowned womanhood 
to be the royal thing! 


These passages, we say, and a hun- 
dred similar ones, exemplifying particu- 
lar excellences, might be displayed, and 
we should still fail, as lamentably as 
the scholastikos with his brick, in con- 
veying an idea of the vast totality. By 
no individual stars can we present the 
constellatory radiance of the book. To 
the book, then, with implicit confidence 
we appeal. 

That Miss Barrett has done more, in 
poetry, than any woman, living or dead, 
will scarcely be questioned:—that she 
has surpassed all her poetical contempo- 
raries of either sex (with a single excep- 
tion), is our deliberate opinion—not 
idly entertained, we think, nor founded 
on any visionary basis. It may not be 
uninteresting, therefore, in closing this 
examination of her claims, to deter- 
mine in what manner she holds poetical 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 


relation with these contemporaries, or 
with her immediate predecessors, and 
especially with the great exception to 
which we have alluded,—if at all. 

If ever mortal “wrecked his thoughts 
upon expression” it was Shelley. If 
ever poet sang (as a bird sings)—im- 
pulsively—earnestly—with utter aban- 
donment—to himself solely—and for 
the mere joy of his own song—that 
poet was the author of the “Sensitive 
Plant.” Of Art—beyond that which is 
the inalienable instinct of Genius—he 
either had little or disdained all. He 
really disdained that Rule which is the 
emanation from Law, because his own 
soul was law in itself. His rhapsodies 
are but the rough notes—the steno- 
graphic memoranda of poems—memo- 
randa which, because they were all- 
sufficient for his own intelligence, he 
cared not to be at the trouble of tran- 
scribing in full for mankind. In all 
his works we find no conception 
thoroughly wrought out. For this rea- 
son it is that he is the most fatiguing 
of poets. Yet he wearies in having 
done too little rather than too much; 
what seems in him the diffuseness of 
one idea, is the conglomerate concision 
of many;—and this concision it is 
which renders him obscure. With such 
a man, to imitate was out of the ques- 
tion; it would have answered no pur- 
pose—for he spoke to his own spirit 
alone, which would have comprehended 
no alien tongue;—he was, therefore, 
profoundly original. His quaintness 
arose from intuitive perception of that 
truth to which Lord Verulam alone has 
given distinct voice:—“There is no 
exquisite beauty which has not some 
strangeness in its proportion.” But 
whether obscure, original, or quaint, he 


1249 


was at all times sincere. He had no 
affectations. 

From the ruins of Shelley there 
sprang into existence, affronting the 
Heavens, a tottering and fantastic 
pagoda, in which the salient angles, 
tipped with mad jangling bells, were 
the idiosyncratic faults of the great 
original—faults which cannot be called 
such in view of his purposes, but which 
are monstrous when we regard his 
works as addressed to mankind. A 
“school” arose—if that absurd term 
must still be employed—a school—a 
system of rules—upon the basis of the 
Shelley who had none. Young men 
innumerable, dazzled with the glare and 
bewildered with the bizarrerie of the 
divine lightning that flickered through 
the clouds of the Prometheus, had no 
trouble whatever in heaping up imita- 
tive vapours, but for the lightning were 
content, perforce, with its spectrum, in 
which the bizarrerie appeared without 
the fire. Nor were great and mature 
minds unimpressed by the contempla- 
tion of a greater and more mature; and 
thus gradually were interwoven inte 
this school of all lawlessness—of ob- 
scurity, quaintness, exaggeration—the 
misplaced didacticism of Wordsworth, 
and the even more  preposterously 
anomalous metaphysicianism of Cole- 
ridge. Matters were now fast verging 
to their worst, and at length, in Tenny- 
son, poetic inconsistency attained its 
extreme. But it was precisely this 
extreme which, following the law of all 
extremes, wrought in him a natural and 
inevitable revulsion, leading him first 
to contemn and secondly to investigate 
his early manner, and finally, to winnow 
from its magnificent elements the truest 


1250 


and purest of all poetical styles. But 
not even yet is the process complete, 
and for this reason in part, but chiefly 
on account of the mere fortuitousness 
of that mental and moral combination 
which shall unite in one person (if ever 
it shall) the Shelleyan abandon, the 
Tennysonian poetic sense, the most pro- 
found instinct of Art, and the sternest 
Will properly to blend and vigorously 
to control all;—chiefly, we say, because 
such combination of antagonisms must 
be purely fortuitous, has the world 
never yet seen the noblest of the poems 
of which it is possible that it may be 
put in possession. 

And yet Miss Barrett has narrowly 
missed the fulfilment of these condi- 
tions. Her poetic inspiration is the 
highest—we can conceive nothing more 
august. Her sense of Art is pure in 
itself, but has been contaminated by 
pedantic study of false models—a study 
which has the more easily led her 
astray, because she placed an undue 
value upon it as rare—as alien to her 
character of woman. The accident of 
having been long secluded by ill-health 
from the world has effected, moreover, 
in her behalf, what an innate reck- 
lessness did for Shelley—has imparted 
to her, if not precisely that abandon 
to which I have referred, at least a 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


something that stands well in its stead 
—a comparative independence of men 
and opinions with which she did not 
come personally in contact—a happy 
audacity of thought and expression 
never before known in one of her sex. 
It is, however, this same accident of 
ill-health, perhaps, which has invali- 
dated her original Will—diverted her 
from proper individuality of purpose— 
and seduced her into the sin of imita- 
tion. Thus what she might have done 
we cannot altogether determine. What 
she has actually accomplished is before 
us. With Tennyson’s works beside her, 
and a keen appreciation of them in 
her soul—appreciation too keen to be 
discriminative;—with an imagination 
even more vigorous than his, although 
somewhat less ethereally delicate; with 
inferior art and more feeble volition; 
she has written poems such as he could 
not write, but such as he, under her 
conditions of ill-health and seclusion, 
would have written during the epoch 
of his pupildom, in that school which 
arose out of Shelley, and from which, 
over a disgustful gulf of utter incon- 
gruity and absurdity, lit only by mias- 
matic. flashes, into the broad open 
meadows of Natural Art and Divine 
Genius, he—Tennyson—is at once the 
bridge and the transition. 


Thomas Babington Macaulay 


(First published in Graham’s Magazine, June, 1841.—Ed.) 


Macautay has obtained a reputation 
which, although deservedly great, is yet 
in a remarkable measure undeserved. 
The few who regard him merely as a 
terse, forcible, and logical writer, full 


of thought, and abounding in original 
views, often sagacious, and never other- 
wise than admirably expressed—appear 
to us precisely in the right. The many 
who look upon him as not only all this, 


THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 


but as a comprehensive and profound 
thinker, little prone to error, err essen- 
tially themselves. The source of the 
general mistake lies in a very singular 
consideration—yet in ene upon which 
we do not remember ever to have heard 
a word of comment. We allude to a 
tendency in the public mind towards 
logic for logic’s sake—a liability to con- 
found the vehicle with the thing con- 
veyed—an aptitude to be so dazzled by 


the luminousness with which an idea. 


is set forth as to mistake it for the 
luminousness of the idea itself. The 
error is one exactly analogous with that 
which leads the immature poet to think 
himself sublime wherever he is obscure, 
because obscurity is a source of the 
sublime—thus confounding obscurity of 
expression with the expression of ob- 
scurity. In the case of Macaulay— 
and we may say, en passant, of our 
own Channing—we assent to what he 
says too often because we so very 
clearly understand what it is that he 
intends to say. Comprehending vividly 
the points and the sequence of his argu- 
ment, we fancy that we are concurring 
in the argument itself. It is not every 
mind which is at once able to analyse 
the satisfaction it receives from such 
Essays as we see here. If it were 
merely beauty of style for which they 
were distinguished—if they were re- 
markable only for rhetorical flourishes 
—we would not be apt to estimate 
these flourishes at more than their due 
value. We would not agree with the 
doctrines of the essayist on account of 
the elegance with which they were 
urged. On the contrary, we would be 
inclined to disbelief. But when all 
ornament save that of simplicity is dis- 


1251 


claimed—when we are attacked by pre- 
cision of language, by perfect accuracy 
of expression, ‘by directness and single- 
ness of thought, and above all by a 
logic the most rigorously close and con- 
sequential—it is hardly a matter for 
wonder that nine of us out of ten are 
content to rest in the gratification thus 
received as in the gratification of abso- 
lute truth. 

Of the terseness and simple vigour 
of Macaulay’s style it is unnecessary to 
point out instances. Every one will 
acknowledge his merits on this score. 
His exceeding closeness of logic, how- 
ever, is more especially remarkable. 
With this he suffers nothing to interes 
fere. Here, for example, is a sentence 
in which, to preserve entire the chain 
of his argument—to leave no minute 
gap which the reader might have to fill 
up with thought—he runs into most 
unusual tautology. 

“The books and traditions of a sect 
may contain, mingled with propositions 
strictly theological, other propositions, 
purporting to rest on the same author- 
ity, which relate to physics. If new 
discoveries should throw discredit on 
the physical propositions, the theologi- 
cal propositions, unless they can be 
separated from the physical proposi- 
tions, will share in their discredit.” 

These things are very well in their 
way; but it is indeed questionable 
whether they do not appertain rather 
to the trickery of thought’s vehicle 
than to thought itself—rather to rea- 
son’s shadow than to reason. Truth, 
for truth’s sake, is seldom so enforced. 
It is scarcely too much to say that the 
style of the profound thinker is never 
closely logical. Here we might instance 


1252 


George Combe—than whom a more 
candid reasoner never, perhaps, wrote 
or spoke—than whom a more complete 
antipode to Babington Macaulay there 
certainly never existed. The former 
reasons to discover the true. The lat- 
ter argues to convince the world, and, 
in arguing, not unfrequently surprises 
himself into conviction. What Combe 
appears to Macaulay it would be a 
difficult thing to say. What Macaulay 
is thought of by Combe we can under- 
stand very well. The man who looks 
at an argument in its details alone will 
not fail to be misled by the one; while 
he who keeps steadily in view the gen- 
erality of a thesis will always at least 
approximate the truth under guidance 
of the other. 

Macaulay’s tendency—and the tend- 
ency of mere logic in general—to con- 
centrate force upon minutie, at the 
expense of a subject as a whole, is well 
instanced in ap article (in the volume 
now before us) on Ranke’s “History 
of the Popes.” This article is called 
a review—possibly because it is any- 
thing else—as lucus is lucus a non 
lucendo. In fact it is nothing more 
than a beautifully written treatise on 
the main theme of Ranke himself; the 
whole matter of the treatise being de- 
duced from the History. In the way 
of criticism there is nothing worth the 
name. The strength of the essayist is 
put forth to account for the progress 
of Romanism by maintaining that the- 
ology is not a progressive science. The 
enigmas, says he in substance, which 
perplex the natural theologian are the 
same in all ages, while the Bible, where 
alone we are to seek revealed truth, 
has always been what it is. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


The manner in which these two prop- 
ositions are set forth is a model for 
the logician and for the student of 
belles lettres—yet the error into which 
the essayist has rushed headlong is 
egregious. He attempts to deceive his 
readers, or has deceived himself, by 
confounding the nature of that proof 
from which we reason of the concerns 
of earth, considered as man’s habita- 
tion, and the nature of that evidence 
from which we reason of the same earth 
regarded as a unit of that vast whole, 
the universe. In the former case, the 
data being palpable, the proof is direct: 
in the latter it is purely analogical. 
Were the indications we derive from 
science, of the nature and designs of 
Deity, and thence, by inference, of 
man’s destiny—were these indications 
proof direct, no advance in science 
would strengthen them—for, as our 
author truly observes, “nothing could 
be added to the force of the argument 
which the mind finds in every beast, 
bird, or flower’—but as these indica- 
tions are rigidly analogical, every step 
in human knowledge—every astronomi- 
cal discovery, for instance—throws 
additional light upon the august sub- 
ject, by extending the range of analogy. 
That we know no more to-day of the 
nature of Deity—of his purposes—and 
thus of man himself—than we did even 
a dozen years ago—is a proposition 
disgracefully absurd; and of this any 
astronomer could assure Mr. Macaulay. 
Indeed, to our own mind, the only 
irrefutable argument in support of the 
soul’s immortality—or, rather, the only 
conclusive proof of man’s alternate dis- 


CHARLES DICKENS 


solution and re-juvenescence ad infini- 
tum—is to be found in analogies 
deduced from the modern established 
theory of the nebular cosmogony.* 
Mr. Macaulay, in short, has forgotten 
that he frequently forgets, or neglects, 


1253 


the very gist of his subject. He has 
forgotten that analogical evidence can- 
not, at all times, be discoursed of as if 
identical with proof direct. Threugh- 
out the whole of his treatise he has 
made no distinction whatever. 


Charles Dickens 


(Published in Graham’s Magazine, February, 1842.—Ed.) 


WE often hear it said of this or of 
that proposition that it may be good 
in theory but will not answer in prac- 
tice, and in such assertions we find the 
substance of all the sneers at critical 
art which so gracefully curl the upper 
lips of a tribe which is beneath it. We 
mean the small geniuses—the literary 
Titmice—animalcula which judge of 
merit solely by result, and boast of the 
solidity, tangibility, and infallibility of 
the test which they employ. The worth 
of a work is most accurately estimated, 
they assure us, by the number of those 
who peruse it; and “does a book sell?” 
is a query embodying, in their opinion, 
all that need be said or sung on the 


‘topic of its fitness for sale. We should 


as soon think of maintaining, in the 
presence of these creatures, the dictum 
of Anaxagoras, that snow is black, as 
of disputing, for example, the profun- 
dity of that genius which, in a run 


* This cosmogony demonstrates that 
all existing bodies in the universe are 
formed of a nebular matter, a rare 
ethereal medium pervading space— 
shows the mode and laws of formation 
—and proves that all things are in a 
perpetual state of progress—that noth- 
ing in nature is perfected.—E. A. P. 


of five hundred nights, has rendered 
itself evident in ‘London Assurance.” 
“What,” cry they, “are critical precepts 
to us, or to anybody? Were we to 
observe all the critical rules in creation 
we should still be unable to write a 
good book”—a point, by the way, which 
we shall not now pause to deny. ‘Give 
us results,’ they vociferate, ‘for we are 
plain men of common sense. We con- 
tend for fact instead of fancy—for 
practice in opposition to theory.” 

The mistake into which the Titmice 
have been innocently led, however, is 
precisely that of dividing the practice 


which they would uphold from the 


theory to which they would object. 
They should have been told in infancy, 
and thus prevented from exposing them- 
selves in old age, that theory and prac- 
tice are in so much one, that the former 
implies or includes the latter. A theory 
is only good as such, in proportion to 
its reducibility to practice. If the prac+ 
tice fail, it is because the theory is 
imperfect. To say what they are in 
the daily habit of saying—that such or 
such a matter may be good in theory 
but is false in practice—is to perpe- 
trate a bull—to commit a paradox—to 
state a contradiction in terms—in plain 
words, to tell a lie which is a lie at 


1254 


sight to the understanding of anything 
bigger than a Titmouse. 

But we have no idea just now of 
persecuting the Tittlebats by too close 
a scrutiny into their little opinions. It 
is not our purpose, for example, to 
press them with so grave a weapon as 
the argumentum ad absurdum, or to 
ask them why, if the popularity of a 
book be in fact the measure of its 
worth, we should not be at once in 
condition to admit the inferiority of 
“Newton’s. Principia” to  ‘Hoyle’s 
Games”; of “Ernest Maltravers’ to 
“Jack the Giant-Killer,” or “Jack Shep- 
pard,” or “Jack Brag’; and of ‘“Dick’s 
Christian Philosopher” to ‘Charlotte 
Temple,’ or the “Memoirs of De 
Gramont,” or to one or two dozen other 
works which must be nameless. Our 
present design is but to speak, at some 
length, of a book which in so much 
concerns the Titmice that it affords 
them the very kind of demonstration 
which they chiefly affect—practical 
demonstration—of the fallacy of one of 
their favourite dogmas; we mean the 
dogma that no work of fiction can fully 
suit, at the same time, the critical and 
the popular taste; in fact, that the 
disregarding or contravening of critical 
rule is absolutely essential to success, 
beyond a certain and very limited ex- 
tent, with the public at large. And if, 
in the course of our random observa- 
tions—for we have no space for sys- 
tematic review—it should appear, 
incidentally, that the vast popularity of 
“Barnaby Rudge” must be regarded 
less as the measure of its value, than 
as the legitimate and inevitable result 
of certain well-understood critical 
propositions reduced by genius into 
practice, there will appear nothing more 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


than what has before become apparent 
in the “Vicar of Wakefield” of Gold- 
smith, or in the “Robinson Crusoe” of 
De Foe—nothing more, in fact, than 
what is a truism to all but the Titmice. 

Those who know us will not, from 
what is here premised, suppose it our 
intention to enter into any wholesale 
laudation of “Barnaby Rudge.” In 
truth, our design may appear, at a 
cursory glance, to be very different 
indeed. Boccalini, in his ‘“Advertise- 
ments from Parnassus,” tells us that a 
critic once presented Apollo with a 
severe censure upon an excellent poem. 
The god asked him for the beauties of 
the work. He replied that he only 
troubled himself about the errors. 
Apollo presented him with a sack of 
unwinnowed wheat, and bade him pick 
out all the chaff for his pains. Now 
we have not fully made up our minds 
that the god was in the right. We 
are not sure that the limit of critical 
duty is not very generally misappre- 
hended. Excellence may be considered 
an axiom, or a proposition which be- 
comes self-evident just in proportion 
to the clearness or precision with which 
it is put. If it fairly exists, in this 
sense, it requires no further elucidation. 
It is not excellence if it need to be 
demonstrated as such. To point out 
too particularly the beauties of a work, 
is to admit tacitly that these beauties 
are not wholly admirable. Regarding 
then, excellence as that which is capa- 
ble of self-manifestation, it but remains 
for the critic to show when, where, and 
how it fails in becoming manifest; and, 
in this showing, it will. be the fault of 
the book itself if what of beauty it 
contains be not at least placed in the 
fairest light. In a word, we may as- 


CHARLES DICKENS 


sume, notwithstanding a vast deal of 
pitiable cant upon this topic, that in 
pointing out frankly the errors of a 
work, we do nearly all that is critically 
necessary in displaying its merits. In 
teaching what perfection is, how, in 
fact, shall we more rationally proceed 
than in specifying what it zs not? 

The plot of “Barnaby Rudge” runs 
thus: About a hundred years ago, 
Geoffrey Haredale and John Chester 
were schoolmates in England—the for- 
mer being the scapegoat and drudge of 
the latter. Leaving school, the boys 
become friends, with much of the old 
understanding. Haredale loves; Chester 
deprives him of his mistress. The one 
cherishes the most deadly hatred; the 
other merely contemns and avoids. By 
routes widely different both attain ma- 
ture age. Haredale, remembering his 
old love, and still cherishing his old 
hatred, remains a bachelor and is poor. 
Chester, among other crimes, is guilty 
of the seduction and heartless abandon- 
ment of a gipsy-girl, who, after the 
desertion of her lover, gives birth to 
a son, and, falling into evil courses, is 
finally hung at Tyburn. The son is 
received and taken charge of at an inn 
called the Maypole, upon the borders 
of Epping Forest, and about twelve 
miles from London. This inn is kept 
by one John Willet, a burly-headed and 
very obtuse little man, who has a son, 
Joe, and who employs his protege, 
under the single name of Hugh, as 
perpetual hostler at the inn. - Hugh’s 
father marries, in the meantime, a rich 
parvenue, who soon dies, but not before 
having presented Mr. Chester with a 
boy, Edward. The father (a thoroughly 
selfish man-of-the-world, whose model 
is Chesterfield), educates this son at a 


1255 


distance, seeing him rarely, and calling 
him to the paternal residence, at Lon- 
don, only when he has attained the age 
of twenty-four or five. He, the father, 
has long ere this time spent the fortune 
brought him by his wife, having been 
living upon his wits and a small annuity 
for some eighteen years. The son is 
recalled chiefly that, by marrying an 
heiress on the strength of his own per- 
sonal merit and the reputed wealth of 
old Chester, he may enable the latter to 
continue his gaieties in old age. But of 
this design, as well as of his poverty, 
Edward is kept in ignorance for some 
three or four years after his recall; 
when the father’s discovery of what he 
considers an inexpedient love-entangle- 
ment on the part of the son induces 
him to disclose the true state of his 
affairs, as well as the real tenor of his 
intentions. 

Now the love-entanglement of which 
we speak is considered inexpedient by 
Mr. Chester for two reasons—the first 
of which is that the lady beloved is the 
orphan niece of his old enemy Hare- 
dale, and the second is that Haredale 
(although in circumstances which have 
been much and very unexpectedly im- 
proved during the preceding twenty-two 
years) is still insufficiently wealthy to 
meet the views of Mr. Chester. 

We say that about twenty-two years 
before the period in question, there 
came an unlooked-for change in the 
worldly circumstances of MHaredale. 
This gentleman has an elder brother, 
Reuben, who has long possessed the 
family inheritance of the Haredales, re- 
siding at a mansion called “The War- 
ren,” not far from the Maypole Inn, 
which is itself a portion of the estate. 
Reuben is a widower, with one child, 


1256 


a daughter, Emma. Besides this daugh- 
ter, there’ are living with him a 
gardener, a steward (whose name is 
Rudge) and ¢wo women servants, one 
of whom is the wife of Rudge. On the 
night of the nineteenth of March 1733, 
Rudge murders his master for the sake 
of a large sum of money which he is 
known to have in possession. During 
the struggle Mr. Haredale grasps the 
cord of an alarm-bell which hangs 
within his reach, but succeeds in sound- 
ing it only once or twice, when it is 
severed by the knife of the ruffan, who 
then, completing his bloody business, 
and securing the money, proceeds to 
quit the chamber. While doing this, 
however, he is disconcerted by meeting 
the gardener, whose pallid countenance 
evinces suspicion of the deed com- 
mitted. The murderer is thus forced 
to kill his fellow-servant. Having done 
so, the idea strikes him of transferring 
the burden of the crime from himself. 
He dresses the corpse of the gardener 
in his own clothes, puts upon its finger 
his own ring, and in its pocket his own 
watch—then drags it to a pond in the 
grounds and throws it in. He now re- 
turns to the house, and disclosing all 
to his wife, requests her to become a 
partner in his flight. Horror-stricken 
she falls to the ground. He attempts 
to raise her. She seizes his wrist, 
staining her hand with blood in the 
attempt. She renounces him for ever, 
yet promises to conceal the crime. 
Alone he flees the ‘country. The next 
morning, Mr. Haredale being found 
murdered, and the steward and gar- 
dener being both missing, both are sus- 
pected. Mrs. Rudge leaves The Warren 
and retires to an obscure lodging in 
London (where she lives upon an an- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nuity allowed her by Haredale), having 
given birth, on the very day after the 
murder, to a son, Barnaby Rudge, who 
proves an idiot, who bears upon his 
wrist a red mark, and who is born pos- 
sessed with a maniacal horror of blood. 

Some months since the assassination 
having elapsed, what appears to be the 
corpse of Rudge is discovered, and the 
outrage is attributed to the gardener. 
Yet not universally—for as Geoffrey 
Haredale comes into possession of the 
estate, there are not wanting suspicions 
(fomented by Chester) of his own par- 
ticipation in the deed. This taint of 
suspicion acting upon his hereditary 
gloom, together with the natural grief 
and horror of the atrocity, embitters 
the whole life of Haredale. He secludes 
himself at The Warren, and acquires a 
monomaniac acerbity of temper, re- 
lieved only by love of his beautiful 
niece. 

Time wears away. Twenty-two years 
pass by. The niece has ripened into 
womanhood, and loves young Chester 
without the knowledge of her uncle or 
the youth’s father. Hugh has grown a 
stalwart man—the type of man the 
animal, as his father is of man the 
ultra-civilised. Rudge, the murderer, 
returns, urged to his undoing by Fate. 
He appears at the Maypole and inquires 
stealthily of the circumstances which 
have occurred at The Warren, in his 
absence. He proceeds to London, dis- 
covers the dwelling of his wife, threat- 
ens her with the betrayal of her idiot 
son into vice, and extorts from her the 
bounty of Haredale. Revolting at such 
appropriation of such means, the widow, 
with Barnaby, again seeks The Warren, 
renounces the annuity, and, refusing to 
assign any reason for her conduct, states 


CHARLES DICKENS 


her intention of quitting London for 
ever, and of burying herself in some 
obscure retreat—a retreat which she 
begs Haredale not to attempt discover- 
ing. When he seeks her in London the 
next day she is gone, and there are no 
tidings either of herself or of Barnaby, 
until the expiration of five years— 
which brings the time up to that of 
the celebrated ‘No Popery” riots of 
Lord George Gordon. 

In the meanwhile, and immediately 
subsequent to the reappearance of 
Rudge, Haredale and the elder Chester, 
each heartily desirous of preventing the 
union of Edward and Emma, have en- 
tered into a covenant, the result of 
which is that by means of treachery on 
the part of Chester, permitted on that 
of Haredale, the lovers misunderstand 
each other and are estranged. Joe, also, 
the son of the inn-keeper Willet, having 
been coquetted with to too great an ex- 
tent by Dolly Varden (the pretty 
daughter of one Gabriel Varden, a 
locksmith of Clerkenwell, London), and 
having been otherwise maltreated at 
home, enlists in his Majesty’s army and 
is carried beyond seas to America; not 
returning until towards the close of the 
riots. Just before this commencement, 
Rudge, in a midnight prowl about the 
scene of his atrocity, is encountered by 
-an individual who has been familiar 
with him in earlier life while living at 
The Warren. This individual, terrified 
at what he supposes, very naturally, 
to be the ghost of the murdered Rudge, 
relates his adventure to his companions 
at the Maypole, and John Willet con- 
veys the intelligence forthwith to Mr. 
Haredale. Connecting the apparition, in 
his own mind, with the peculiar con- 
duct of Mrs. Rudge, this gentleman im- 


1257 


bibes a suspicion at once of the true 
state of affairs. This suspicion (which 
he mentions to no one) is, moreover, 
very strongly confirmed by an occur- 
rence happening to Varden, the lock- 
smith, who, visiting the woman late one 
night, finds her in communion of a na- 
ture apparently most confidential. with 
a ruffian whom the locksmith knows to. 
be such, without knowing the man him- 
self. Upon an attempt on the part of 
Varden to seize this ruffian, he is 
thwarted by Mrs. R.; and upon Hare- 
dale’s inquiring minutely into the per- 
sonal appearance of the man, he is 
found to accord with Rudge. We have 
already shown that the ruffian was in 
fact Rudge himself. Acting upon the 
suspicion thus aroused, Haredale watches 
by night, alone, in the deserted house 
formerly occupied by Mrs. R., in hope 
of her coming upon the murderer, and 
makes other exertions with the view of 
arresting him, but all in vain. 

It is also at the conclusion of the five 
years that the hitherto uninvaded re- 
treat of Mrs. Rudge is disturbed by a 
message from her husband demanding 
money. He has discovered her abode 
by accident. Giving him what she has 
at the time, she afterwards eludes him, 
and hastens with Barnaby to bury her- 
self in the crowd of London, until she 
can find opportunity again to seek re- 
treat in some more distant region of 
England. But the riots have now be- 
gun. The idiot is beguiled into joining 
the mob, and becoming separated from 
his mother (who, growing ill through 
grief, is borne to an hospital) meets 
with his old playmate Hugh, and be- 
comes with him a ringleader in the re- 
bellion. 


The riots proceed. A conspicuous 


1258 


part is borne in them by one Simon 
Tappertit, a fantastic and conceited lit- 
tle apprentice of Varden’s, and a sworn 
enemy to Joe Willet, who has rivalled 
him in the affections of Dolly. A hang- 
man, Dennis, is also very busy amid 
the mob. Lord George Gordon, and 
his secretary, Gashford, with John 
Grueby, his servant, appear of course 
upon the scene. Old Chester, who, dur- 
ing the five years, has become Sir John, 
instigates Gashford, who has received 
personal insult from Haredale (a Catho- 
lic and consequently obnoxious to the 
mob), instigates Gashford to procure 
the burning of The Warren, and to ab- 
duct Emma during the excitement en- 
suing. The mansion is burning (Hugh, 
who also fancies himself wronged by 
Haredale, being chief actor in the out- 
rage), and Miss H. carried off, in com- 
pany with Dolly, who had long lived 
with her, and whom Tappertit abducts 
upon his own. responsibility. Rudge, 
in the meantime, finding the eye of 
Haredale upon him (since he has be- 
come aware of the watch kept nightly at 
his wife’s), goaded by the dread of 
solitude, and fancying that his sole 
chance of safety lies in joining the 
rioters, hurries upon their track to the 
doomed Warren. He arrives too late— 
the mob have departed. Skulking 
about the ruins, he is discovered by 
Haredale, and finally captured without 
a struggle, within the glowing walls of 
the very chamber in which the deed was 
committed. He is conveyed to prison, 
where he meets and recognises Barn- 
aby, who had been captured as a rioter. 
The mob assail and burn the jail. The 
father and son escape. Betrayed by 
Dennis, both are again taken, and Hugh 
shares their fate. In Newgate, Dennis, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


through accident, discovers the parent- 
age of Hugh, and an effort is made in 
vain to interest Chester in behalf of his 
son. Finally, Varden procures the par- 
don of Barnaby, but Hugh, Rudge, and 
Dennis, are hung. At the eleventh hour 
Joe returns from abroad with one arm. 
In company with Edward Chester he 
performs prodigies of valour (during 
the last riots) on behalf of the Gov- 
ernment. The two, with Haredale and 
Varden, rescue Emma and Dolly. A 
double marriage of course takes place, 
for Dolly has repented her fine airs, and 
the prejudices of Haredale are over- 
come. Having killed Chester in a duel, 
he quits England for ever and ends 
his days in the seclusion of an Italian 
convent. Thus, after summary disposal 
of the understrappers, ends the drama 
of “Barnaby Rudge.” 

We have given, as may well be sup- 
posed, but a very meagre outline of the 
story, and we have given it in the sim- 
ple or natural sequence. That is to say, 
we have related the events, as nearly 
as might be, m the order of their occur- 
rence. But this order would by no 
means have suited the purpose of the 
novelist, whose design has been to main- 
tain the secret of the murder, and the 
consequent mystery which encircles 
Rudge, and the actions of his wife, until 
the catastrophe of his discovery by 
Haredale. The thesis of the novel may 
thus be regarded as based upon curios- 
ity. Every point is so arranged as to 
perplex the reader, and whet his desire 
for elucidation:—for example, the first 
appearance of Rudge at the Maypole; 
his questions; his persecution of Mrs. 
R.; the ghost seen by the frequenter 
of-the Maypole; and Haredale’s impres- 
sive conduct in consequence. What we 





CHARLES DICKENS 


have told, in the very beginning of our 
digest, in regard to the shifting of the 
gardener’s dress, is sedulously kept from 
the reader’s knowledge until he learns it 
from Rudge’s own confession in jail. 
We say sedulously; for, the intention 
once known, the traces of the design 
can be found upon every.page. There 
is an amusing and exceedingly ingenious 
instance at page 145, where Solomon 
Daisy describes his adventure with the 
ghost :— 

“Tt was a ghost—a cried 
Daisy. 

“Whose?” they all three asked to- 
gether. 

In the excess of his emotion (for he 
fell back trembling in his chair and 
waved his hand as if entreating them 
to question him no further) his answer 
was lost upon all but old John Willet, 
who happened to be seated close beside 
him. 

“Who!” cried Parkes 
Cobb—‘Who was it?” 

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Willet, after 
a long pause, “you needn’t ask. The 
likeness of a murdered man. This is 
the nineteenth of March.” 

A profound silence ensued. 


spirit,” 


and Tom 


The impression here skilfully con- 
veyed is that the ghost seen is that of 
Reuben Haredale; and the mind of the 
not-too-acute reader is at once averted 
from the true state of the case—from 
the murderer, Rudge, living in the body. 

Now there can be no question that, 
by such means as these, many points 
which are comparatively insipid in the 
natural sequence of our digest, and 
which would have been comparatively 
insipid even if given in full detail in a 


1259 


natural sequence, are endued with the 
interest of mystery; but neither can it 
be denied that a vast many more points 
are at the same time deprived of all 
effect, and become null through the im- 
possibility of comprehending them with- 
out the key. The author, who, cog- 
nisant of his plot, writes with this cog- 
nisance continually operating upon him, 
and thus writes to himself in spite of 
himself, does not, of course, feel that 
much of what is effective to his own 
informed perception must necessarily be 
lost upon his uniformed readers; and 
he himself is never in condition, as re- 
gards his own work, to bring the matter 
to test. But the reader may easily sat- 
isfy himself of the validity of our ob- 
jection. Let him re-peruse “Barnaby 
Rudge,” and with a pre-comprehension 
of the mystery, these points of which 
we speak break out in all directions 
like stars, and throw quadruple bril- 
liance over the narrative—a brilliance 
which a correct taste will at once de- 
clare unprofitably sacrificed at the 
shrine of the keenest interest of mere 
mystery. 

The design of mystery, however, be- 
ing once determined upon by an author, 
it becomes imperative, first, that no un- 
due or inartistical means be employed 
to conceal the secret of the plot; and, 
secondly, that the secret be well kept. 
Now, when, at page 16, we read that 
“the body of poor Mr. Rudge, the 
steward, was found” months after the 
outrage, etc., we see that Mr. Dickens 
had been guilty of no misdemeanour 
against Art in stating what was not the 
fact; since the falsehood is put into the 
mouth of Solomon Daisy, and given 
merely as the impression of this individ- 
ual and of the public. The writer has 


1260 


not asserted it in his own person, but 
ingeniously conveyed an idea (false in 
itself, yet a belief in which is neces- 
sary for the effect of the tale) by the 
mouth of one of his characters. The 
case is different, however, when Mrs. 
Rudge is repeatedly denominated “the 
widow.” It is the author who, himself, 
frequently so terms her. ‘This is dis- 
ingenuous and inartistical: accidentally 
so, of course. We speak of the matter 
merely by way of illustrating our point, 
and as an oversight on the part of Mr. 
Dickens. 

That the secret be well kept is ob- 
viously necessary. A failure to preserve 
it until the proper moment of denoue- 
ment, throws all into confusion, so far 
as regards the effect intended. If the 
mystery leak out, against the author’s 
will, his purposes are immediately at 
odds and ends; for he proceeds upon 
the supposition that certain impressions 
do exist, which do no¢ exist in the mind 
of his readers. We are not prepared 
to say, so positively as we could wish, 
whether, by the public at large, the 
whole mystery of the murder com- 
mitted by Rudge, with the identity of 
the Maypole ruffan with Rudge him- 
self, was fathomed at any period pre- 
vious to the period intended, or, if so, 
whether at a period so early as mate- 
rially to interfere with the interest de- 
signed; but we are forced, through sheer 
modesty, to suppose this the case; since, 
by ourselves individually, the secret was 
distinctly understood immediately upon 
the perusal of the story of Solomon 
Daisy, which occurs at the seventh page 
of this volume of three hundred and 
twenty-three. In the number of the 
Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post, 
for 1st May, 1841 (the tale having then 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


only begun), will be found a prospective 
notice of some length, in which we 
make use of the following words :— 


That Barnaby is the son of the mur- 
derer may not appear evident to our 
readers—but we will explain. The per- 
son murdered’'is Mr. Reuben Haredale. 
He was found assassinated in his bed- 
chamber. His steward (Mr. Rudge 
senior), and his gardener (name not 
mentioned) are missing. At first both 
are suspected. “Some months after- 
ward’”’—here we use the words of the 
story—‘“the steward’s body, scarcely to 
be recognized but by his clothes, and 
the watch and ring he wore—was found 
at the bottom of a piece of water in the 
grounds, with a deep gash in the breast, 
where he had been stabbed by a knife. 
He was only partly dressed; and all peo- 
ple agreed that he had been sitting up 
reading in his own room, where there 
were many traces of blood, and was sud- 
denly fallen upon and killed, before his 
master.” 

Now, be it observed, it is not the 
author himself who asserts that the 
steward’s body was found; he has put 
the words in the mouth of one of his 
characters. His design is to make it 
appear, in the denouement, that the 
steward, Rudge, first murdered the 
gardener, then went to his master’s 
chamber, murdered him, was _inter- 
rupted by his (Rudge’s) wife, whom he 
seized and held by the wrist, to prevent 
her giving the alarm—that he then, 
after possessing himself of the booty 
desired, returned to the gardener’s 
room, exchanged clothes with him, put 
upon the corpse his own watch and ring, 
and secreted it where it was afterwards 











CHARLES DICKENS 


discovered at so late a period that the 
features could not be identified. 


The differences between our pre- 
conceived ideas, as here stated, and the 
actual facts of the story, will be found 
immaterial. The gardener was mur- 
dered, not before but after his master; 
and that Rudge’s wife seized him by the 
wrist, instead of his seizing her, has so 
much the air of a mistake on the part 
of Mr. Dickens, that we can scarcely 
speak of our own version as erroneous. 
The grasp of a murderer’s bloody hand 
on the wrist of a woman enciente 
would have been more likely to pro- 
duce the effect described (and this every 
one will allow) than the grasp of the 
hand of the woman upon the wrist of 
the assassin. We may therefore say of 
our supposition as Talleyrand said of 
some cockney’s bad French—gque s’il ne 
soit pas Francais, assurement donc il le 
- doit etre—that if we did not rightly 
prophesy, yet, at least, our prophecy 
should have been right. 

We are informed in the Preface to 
“Barnaby Rudge” that ‘no account of 
the Gordon Riots having been intro- 
duced into any work of fiction, and the 
subject presenting very extraordinary 
and remarkable features,” our author 
“was led to project this tale.” But for 
this distinct announcement (for Mr. 
Dickens can scarcely have deceived 
himself) we should have looked upon 
the riots as altogether an after-thought. 
It is evident that they have no neces- 
sary connection with the story. In our 
digest, which carefully includes all 
essentials of the plot, we have dismissed 
the doings of the mob in a paragraph. 
The whole event of the drama would 
have proceeded as well without as with 


1261 


them. They have even the appearance 
of being forcibly introduced. In our 
compendium gbove it will be seen that 
we emphasised several allusions to an 
interval of five years. The action is 
brought up to a certain point. The 
train of events is, so far, uninter- 
rupted—nor is there any apparent need 
of interruption—yet all the characters 
are now thrown forward for a period of 
five years. And why? We ask in vain. 
It is not to bestow upon the lovers a 
more decorous maturity of age—for 
this is the only possible idea which 
suggests iteli—Edward Chester is al- 
ready eight-and-twenty, and Emma 
Haredale would, in America at least, 
be upon the list of old maids. No— 
there is no such reason; nor does there 
appear to be any one more plausible 
than that, as it is now the year of our 
Lord 1775, an advance of five years 
will bring the dramatis persone up to 
a very remarkable period, affording an 
admirable opportunity for their dis- 
play—the period, in short, of the ‘No 
Popery” riots. This was the idea with 
which we were forcibly impressed in 
perusal, and which nothing less than 
Mr. Dickens’s positive assurance to the 
contrary would have been sufficient to 
eradicate. 

It is, perhaps, but one of a thousand 
instances of the disadvantages both to 
the author and the public of the present 
absurd fashion of periodical novel- 
writing, that our author had not suff- 
ciently considered or determined upon 
any particular plot when he began the 
story now under review. In fact, we 
see, or fancy that we see, numerous 
traces of indecision—traces which a 
dexterous supervision of the complete 
work might have enabled him to erase. 


1262 


We have already spoken of the inter- 
mission of a lustrum. The opening 
speeches of old Chester are by far too 
truly gentlemanly for his subsequent 
character. The wife of Varden, also, 
is too wholesale a shrew to be con- 
verted into the quiet wife—the original 
design was to punish her. At page 16, 
we read thus—Solomon Daisy is telling 
his story :— 


“T put as good a face upon it as I 
could, and muffling myself up, started 
out with a lighted lantern in one hand 
and the key of the church in the other” 
—at this point of the narrative, the 
dress of the strange man rustled as if 
he had turned to hear more distinctly. 


Here the design is to call the reader’s 
attention to a point in the tale; but no 
subsequent explanation is made. Again, 
a few lines below— 


The houses were all shut up, and the 
folks indoors, and perhaps there is only 
one man in the world who knows how 
dark it really was. 


Here the intention is still more evi- 
dent, but there is no result. Again, at 
page 54, the idiot draws Mr. Chester 
to the window, and directs his attention 
to the clothes hanging upon the lines 
in the yard— 


“Look down,” he said softly; “do you 
mark how they whisper in each other’s 
ears, then dance and leap to make be- 
lieve they are in sport? Do you see 
how they stop for a moment, when they 
think there is no one looking, and mut- 
ter among themselves again; and then 
how they roll and gambol, delighted 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


with the mischief they’ve been plot- 
ting? Look at ’em now! See how they 
whirl and plunge. And now they stop 
again, and whisper cautiously together— 
little thinking, mind, how often I have 
lain upon the ground and watched them. 
I say, what is it they plot and hatch? 
Do you knowe” 


Upon perusal of these ravings, we at 
once supposed them to have allusion to 
some real plotting; and even now we 
cannot force ourselves to believe them 
not so intended. They suggested the 
opinion that Haredale himself would be 
implicated in the murder, and that the 
counsellings alluded to might be those 
of that gentleman with Rudge. It is 
by no means impossible that some such 
conception wavered in the mind of the 
author. At page 32 we have a confirma- 
tion of our idea, when Varden en- 
deavours to arrest the murderer in the 
house of his wife— 


“Come back—come back!” exciaimed 
the woman, wrestling with and chasing 
him. “Do not touch him on your life. 
He carries other lives besides his own.” 


The denouement fails to account for 
this exclamation. 

In the beginning of the story much 
emphasis is placed upon the two female 
servants of Haredale, and upon his 
journey to and from London, as well as 
upon his wife. We have merely said, 
in our digest, that he was a widower, 
italicising the remark. All these other 
points are, in fact, singularly irrelevant 
in the supposition that the original de- 
sign has not undergone modification. 

Again, at page 57, when Haredale 
talks of “his dismantled and beggared 











CHARLES DICKENS 


hearth,” we cannot help fancying that 
the author had in view some different 
wrong, or series of wrongs, perpetrated 
by Chester, than any which appear in 
the end. This gentleman, too, takes ex- 
treme and frequent pains to acquire 


dominion over the rough Hugh—this’ 


matter is particularly insisted upon by 
the novelist—we look, of course, for 
some important result, but the filching 
of a letter is nearly all that is accom- 
plished. That Barnaby’s delight in the 
desperate scenes of the rebellion is in- 
consistent with his horror of blood will 
strike every reader, and this inconsist- 
ency seems to be the consequence of the 
after-thought upon which we have al- 
ready commented. In fact, the title 
of the work, the elaborate and pointed 
manner of the commencement, the im- 
pressive description of The Warren, and 
especially of Mrs. Rudge, go far to 
show that Mr. Dickens has really de- 
ceived himself—that the soul of the 
plot, as originally conceived, was the 
murder of Haredale, with the subse- 
quent discovery of the murderer in 
Rudge—but that this idea was after- 
wards abandoned, or rather suffered to 
be merged in that of the Popish riots. 
The result has been most unfavourable. 
That which, of itself, would have proved 
highly effective, has been rendered 
nearly null by its situation. In the mul- 
titudinous outrage and horror of the re- 
bellion, the ome atrocity is utterly 
whelmed and extinguished. 

The reasons of this deflection from 
the first purpose appear to-us self-evi- 
dent. One of them we have already 
mentioned. The other is that our au- 
thor discovered, when too late, that 
he had anticipated, and thus rendered 
valueless, his chief effect. ‘This will be 


1263 


readily understood. The particulars of 
the assassination being withheld, the 
strength of the narrator is put forth, in 
the beginning of the story, to whet 
curiosity in respect to these particulars; 
and so far, he is but in proper pursuance 
of his main design. But from this in- 
tention he unwittingly passes into the 
error of exaggerating anticipation. And 
error though it be, it is an error wrought 
with consummate skill. What, for ex- 
ample, could more vividly enhance our 
impression of the unknown horror en- 
acted than the deep and enduring gloom 
of Haredale—than the idiot’s inborn 
awe of blood—or especially, than the 
expression of countenance so imagina- 
tively attributed to Mrs. Rudge—“the 
capacity for expressing terror—some- 
thing only dimly seen, but never absent 
for a moment—the shadow of some 
look to which an instant of intense and 
most unutterable horror only could 
have given rise”? But it is a condition 
of the human fancy that the promises 
of such words are irredeemable. In the 
notice before mentioned we thus spoke 
upon this topic:— 


This is a conception admirably 
adapted to whet curiosity in respect te 
the character of that event which is 
hinted at as forming the basis of the 
story. But this observation should not 
fail to be made—that the anticipation 
must surpass the reality; that no mat- 
ter how terrific be the circumstances 
which, in the denouement, shall appear 
to have occasioned the expression of 
countenance worn habitually by Mrs. 
Rudge, still they will not be able to 
satisfy the mind of the reader. He will 
surely be disappointed. The skillful in- 
timation of horror held out by the artist 


1264 


produces an effect which will deprive his 
conclusion of all. These intimations— 
these dark hints of some _ uncertain 
evil—are often rhetorically praised as 
effective—but are only justly so praised 
where there is no denouement what- 
ever—where the reader’s imagination is 
left to clear up the mystery for itself— 
and this is not the design of Mr. 
Dickens. 


And, in fact, our author was not long 
in seeing his precipitancy. He had 
placed himself in a dilemma from which 
even his high genius could not extri- 
cate him. He at once shifts the main 
interest—and in truth we do not see 
what better he could have done. The 
reader’s attention becomes absorbed in 
the riots, and he fails to observe that 
what should have been the true catas- 
trophe of the novel is exceedingly feeble 
and ineffective. 

A few cursory remarks:—Mr. Dick- 
ens fails peculiarly in pure narration. 
See, for example, page 296, where the 
connection of Hugh and Chester is de- 
tailed by Varden. See also in “The 
Curiosity Shop,” where, when the result 
is fully known, so many words are oc- 
cupied in explaining the relationship of 
the brothers. The effect of the present 
narrative might have been materially in- 
creased by confining the action within 
the limits of London. The “Notre 
Dame” of Hugo affords a fine example 
of the force which can be gained by 
concentration, or unity of place. The 
unity of time is also sadly neglected, 
to no purpose, in “Barnaby Rudge.” 
That Rudge should so long and so deep- 
ly feel the sting of conscience is incon- 
sistent with his brutality. On page 15, 
the interval elapsing between the mur- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


der and Rudge’s return is variously 
stated at twenty-two and twenty-four 
years. It may be asked why the in- 
mates of The Warren failed to hear the 
alarm-bell which was heard by Solomon 
Daisy. The idea of persecution by 


being tracked, as by bloodhounds, from 


one spot of quietude to another, is a 
favourite one with Mr. Dickens. Its 
effect cannot be denied. The stain 
upon Barnaby’s wrist, caused by fright 
in the mother at so late a period of 
gestation as one day before mature par- 
turition, is shockingly at war with all 
medical experience. When Rudge 
escaped from prison, unshackled, with 
money at command, is in agony at his 
wife’s refusal to perjure herself for his 
salvation—is it not queer that he should 
demand any other salvation than lay in 
his heels? At page 17, the road be- 
tween London and the Maypole is de- 
scribed as a horribly rough and dan- 
gerous, and at page 97, as an uncom- 
monly smooth and convenient one. At 
page 116, how comes Haredale in \os- 
session of the key of Mrs. Rudge’s va- 
cated house? 

Some of the conclusions of. chap- 
ters—see pages 40 and 100—seem to 
have been written for the mere purpose 
of illustrating tailpieces. 

The leading idiosyncrasy of Mr. 
Dickens’s remarkable humour is to be 
found in his translating the language of 
gesture, or action, or tone. For ex- 
ample— 


The cronies nodded to each other, 
and Mr. Parkes remarked in an under- 
tone, shaking his head meanwhile, as 
who should say “Let no man contradict 
me, for I won’t believe him,’ that 
Willet was in amazing force to-night. 


CHARLES 


The riots form a series of vivid pic- 
tures never surpassed. 

Mr. Dickens’s English is usually pure. 
His most remarkable error is that of 
employing the adverb “directly” in the 
sense of “as soon as.” For example— 
“Directly he arrived, Rudge said,” etc. 
Bulwer is uniformly guilty of the same 
blunder. 

It is observable that so original a 
stylist as our author should occasionally 


lapse into a gross imitation of what, 


itself, is a gross imitation. We mean 
the manner of Lamb—a manner based 
in the Latin construction. For exam- 
ple— 


In summer time its pump suggests 
to thirsty idlers springs cooler and more 
sparkling and deeper than other wells; 
and as they trace the spillings of full 
pitchers on the heated ground, they 
snuff the freshness, and sighing, cast 
sad looks towards the Thames, and 
think of baths and boats, and saunter 
on, despondent. 


The wood-cut designs which accom- 
pany the edition before us are occa- 
sionally good. The copper engravings 
are pitiably ill-covered and ill-drawn; 
and not only this, but are in broad con- 
tradiction of the wood-designs and 
text. 

There are many coincidences wrought 
into the narrative—those, for example, 
which relate to the nineteenth of 
_ March; the dream of Barnaby, respect- 

ing his father, at the very period when 
his father is actually in the house; and 
the dream -of Haredale previous to his 
final meeting with Chester. These 
things are meant to imsinuate a fatality 


DICKENS 


1265 


which, very properly, is not expressed in 
plain terms—but it is questionable 
whether the story derives more in ideal- 
ity from their introduction than it 
might have gained of verisimilitude 
from their omission. 

The dramatis persone sustain the 
high fame of Mr. Dickens as a deline- 
ator of character. Miggs, the discon- 
solate handmaiden of Varden; Tap- 
pertit, his chivalrous apprentice; Mrs. 
Varden herself; and Dennis, a hang- 
man—may be regarded as original cari- 
catures, of the highest merit as such, 
Their traits are founded in acute obser- 
vation of nature, but are exaggerated 
to the utmost admissible extent. Miss 
Haredale and Edward Chester are com- 
monplaces—no effort has been made in 
their behalf. Joe Willet is a naturally 
drawn country youth. Stagg is a mere 
makeweight. Gashford and Gordon are 
truthfully copied. Dolly Varden is 
truth itself. Haredale, Rudge, and Mrs. 
Rudge are impressive only through the 
circumstances which surround them. 
Sir John Chester is, of course, not orig- 
inal, but is a vast improvement upon 
all his predecessors—his heartlessness is 
rendered somewhat too amusing, and 
his end too much that of a man of 
honour. Hugh is a noble conception. 
His fierce exultation in his animal pow- 
ers; his subserviency to the smooth 
Chester; his mirthful contempt and pa- 
tronage of Tappertit, and his brutal 
vet firm courage in the hour of death— 
form a picture to be set in diamonds. 
Old Willet is not surpassed by any char- 
acter even among those of Dickens. 
He is nature itseli—yet a step farther 
would have placed him in the class of 
caricatures. His combined conceit and 
obtuseness are indescribably droll, and 


1266 


his peculiar misdirected energy when 
aroused is one of the most exquisite 
touches in all humorous painting. We 
shall never forget how heartily we 
laughed at his shaking Solomon Daisy 
and threatening to put him behind the 
fire, because the unfortunate little man 
was too much frightened to articulate. 
Varden is one of those free, jovial, 
honest fellows, at charity with all man- 
kind, whom our author is so fond of 
depicting. And lastly, Barnaby, the 
hero of the tale—in him we have been 
somewhat disappointed. We have al- 
ready said that his delight in the 
atrocities of the rebellion is at variance 
with his horror of blood. But this 
horror of blood is inconsequential; and 
of this we complain. Strongly insisted 
upon in the beginning of the narrative, 
it produces no adequate result. And 
here how fine an opportunity has Mr. 
Dickens missed! The conviction of the 
assassin, after the lapse of twenty-two 
years, might easily have been brought 
about through his son’s mysterious awe 
of blood—an awe created in the unborn 
by the assassination itself—and_ this 
would have been one of the finest possi- 
ble embodiments of the idea which we 
are accustomed to attach to “poetical 
justice.” The raven, too, intensely 
amusing as it is, might have been made, 
more than we now see it, a portion of 
the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. 
Its croakings might have been pro- 
phetically heard in the course of the 
drama. Its character might have per- 
formed, in regard to that of the idiot, 
much the same part as does, in music, 
the accompaniment in respect to the 
air. Each might have been distinct. 
Each might have differed remarkably 
from the other.. Yet between them 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


there might have been wrought an 
analogical resemblance, and although 
each might have existed apart, they 
might have formed together a whole 
which would have been imperfect in 
the absence of either. 

From what we have here said—and 
perhaps said without due deliberation— 
(for alas! the hurried duties of the 
journalist preclude it)—there will not 
be wanting those who will accuse us 
of a mad design to detract from the 
pure fame of the novelist. But to 
such we merely say, in the language 
of heraldry, “Ye should wear a plain 
point sanguine in your arms.” If this 
be understood, well; if not, well again. 
There lives no man feeling a deeper 
reverence for genius than ourself. If 
we have not dwelt so especially upon 
the high merits as upon the trivial 
defects of “Barnaby Rudge” we have 
already given our reasons for the omis- 
sion, and these reasons will be suffi- 
ciently understood by all whom we 
care to understand them. The work 
before us is not, we think, equal to 
the tale which immediately preceded 
it; but there are few—very few others 
to which we consider it inferior. Our 
chief objection has not, perhaps, been 
so distinctly stated as we could wish. 
That this fiction, or indeed that any 
fiction written by Mr. Dickens, should 
be based in the excitement and mainte- 
nance of curiosity we look upon as a 
misconception, on the part of the 
writer, of his own very great yet very 
peculiar powers. He has done this 
thing well, to be sure—he would do 
anything ‘well in comparison with the 
herd of his contemporaries—but he 
has not done it so thoroughly well as 





THOMAS HOOD 


his high and just reputation would 
demand. We think that the whole book 
has been an effort to him—solely 
through the nature of its design. He 
has been smitten with an untimely 
desire for a novel path. The idiosyn- 
crasy of his intellect would lead him 
naturally into the most fluent and sim- 
ple style of narration. In tales of ordi- 
nary sequence he may and will long 


1267 


reign triumphant. He has a talent for 
all things, but no positive genius for 
adaptation, and still less for that meta- 
physical art in which the souls of all 
mysteries be. ‘Caleb Williams” is a 
far less noble work than “The Old 
Curiosity Shop”; but Mr. Dickens 
could no more have constructed the 
one than Mr. Godwin could have 
dreamed of the other. 


Lhomas Hood 


(Published in Broadway Journal, August, 1845.—Ed.) 


“FREQUENTLY since his death,” says 
the American editor of his works, “Hood 
has been called a great author,” a 
phrase used not inconsiderately or in 
vain, but if we adopt the conventional 
idea “of a great author,” there has 
lived, perhaps, no writer of the last 
half-century who, with equal notoriety, 
was less entitled than Hood to the 
term. In fact he was a literary mer- 
chant whose principal. stock-in-trade 
was littleness, for during the larger 
portion of his life he seemed to breathe 
only for the purpose of perpetrating 
puns—things of such despicable plati- 
tude that the man who is capable of 
habitually committing them is very 
seldom capable of anything else. In 
especial, whatever merit may _ acci- 
dentally be discovered in a pun, arises 
altogether from wunexpectedness. This 
is its element, and is twofold. First, 
we demand that the combination of the 
pun be unexpected, and secondly, we 
demand the most entire unexpectedness 
in the pun per se. A rare pun, rarely 
appearing, is, to a certain extent, a 


pleasurable effect—but to no mind, 
however debased in taste, is a continu- 
ous effort at punning otherwise than 
unendurable. The man who maintains 
that he derives gratification from any 
such chapters of punnage as Hood was 
in the daily habit of putting on paper 
has no claim to be believed upon his 
oath. 

The continuous and _ premeditated 
puns of Hood, however, are to be 
regarded as the weak points of the 
man. Independently of their ill effect, 
in a literary view, as mere puns, they 
leave upon us a painful impression; 
for too evidently they are the hypo- 
chondriac’s struggles at mirth—they 
are the grinnings of the death’s-head. 
No one can read his “Literary Remi- 
niscences” without being convinced of 
his habitual despondency—and_ the 
species of pseudo-wit in question is 
precisely of that character which would 
be adopted by an author of Hood’s 
temperament and cast of intellect when 
compelled to write at an emergency. 
That his heart had no interest in these 


1268 


niaiseries is clear. We allude, of course, 
to his mere puns for the puns’ sake—a 
class of writings by which he attained 
his most extensive renown. That he 
did more in this way than in any other 
would follow as a corollary from what 
we have already said—for generally he 
was unhappy, and almost continually 
he was obliged to write invita Minerva. 
But his true element was a very rare 
and ethereal class of hwmour, in which 
the mere pun was left altogether out 
of sight, or took the character of the 
richest grotesquerie, impressing the 
imaginative reader with very remark- 
able force, as if by a new phase of the 
ideal. It is in this species of brilliant 
grotesqueries, uttered with a rushing 
abandon which wonderfully aided its 
effect, that Hood’s marked originality 
of manner consisted; and it is this 
which fairly entitles him at times to 
the epithet “great”;—-we say, fairly so 
entitles him; for that undeniably may 
be considered great (of whatever seem- 
ing littleness in itself) which has the 
capability of producing intense emotion 
in the minds of those who are them- 
selves undeniably great. 

When we said, however, that Hood 
wrought profound impressions upon 
imaginative men, we spoke only of what 
is imagination in the popular accept- 
ance of the term. His true province— 
that is to say the field in which he is 
distinctive—is a kind of borderland 
between the Fancy and the Fantasy— 
but in this region he reigns supreme. 
But when we speak of his province as 
a borderland between Fantasy and 
Fancy, of course we do not mean rig- 
orously to confine him to this province. 
He has made very successful and fre- 
quent incursions into the dominions of 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


humour (in general he has been too 
benevolent to be witty), and there have 
been one or two occasions in which he 
has stepped boldly into the realm of 
Imagination herself. We mean to say, 
however, that he is rarely imaginative 
for more than a paragraph at a time. 
In a word, the genius of Hood is the 
result of vivid fancy impelled or con- 
trolled, certainly tinctured at all points, 
by hypochondriasis. In his wild “Ode 
to Melancholy” we perceive this result 
in the very clearest of manifestations, 
Few things have ever more deeply 
affected us than the passages which 
follows:— 


O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, 
And do not, take my tears amiss; 
For tears must flow to wash away 
A thought that shows so stern as this: 
Forgive, if somewhile I forget, 
In woe to come, the present bliss, 
As frighted Proserpine let fall 
Her flowers at the sight of Dis, 
Ev’n so the dark and bright will kiss. 
The sunniest things throw sternest 
shade, 
And there is ev’n a happiness 
That makes the heart afraid! 


All things are touch’d with melancholy, 
Born of the secret soul’s mistrust, 
To feel her fair ethereal wings 
Weigh down with vile degraded dust; 
Even the bright extremes of joy 
Bring on conclusions of. disgust, 
Like the sweet blossoms of the May, 
Whose fragrance ends in must. 
O give her, then, her tribute just, 
Her sighs and tears, and musings 


holy! 
There is no music in the life 
That sounds with idiot laughter 
solely; 




















THOMAS HOOD 


There’s hot a string attuned to mirth, 
But has its chords of melancholy. 


“The Dream of Eugene Aram” is 
too well known in America to need 
comment from us. It has more of true 
imagination than almost any other 
composition of its author—but even 
when engaged on so serious a subject, 
he found great difficulty in keeping 
aloof from the grotesqve—the result 
(we say) of warm fancy impelled by 
hypochondriasis. The opening stanza 
affords an example :— 


’Twas in the prime of summer time, 
An evening calm and cool, 
When four-and-twenty happy boys 
Came bounding out of school; 
There were some that ran, and some 
that leapt 
Like troutlets in a pool. 


The twenty-fourth stanza approaches 
more nearly the imaginative spirit than 
any passage in the poem, but the taint 
of the fantastical is over it still:— 


And peace went with them one and all, 
And each calm pillow spread; 

But guilt was my grim chamberlain, 
That lighted me to bed; 

And drew my midnight curtains round, 
With fingers bloody red!* 


“Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious 
Leg” is, perhaps, more thoroughly char- 
acteristic of Hood’s genius than any 
single thing which he has written. It 
is quite a long poem—comprising nearly 
three thousand lines—and its author has 





*A part of this criticism is in the 
assay, “Poetic Principle.”—Ed. 


1269 


evidently laboured much with it. Its 
chief defect is in its versification; for 
this Hood had no ear—of its principles 
he knew nothing at all. Not that his 
verses, individually, are very lame, but 
that they have no capacity for running 
together. The reader is continually get- 
ting baulked, not because the lines are 
unreadable, but because the lapse of 
one rhythm to another is so inartistically 
managed. 

The story concerns a very rich heiress 
who is excessively pampered by her 
parents, and who at length gets thrown 
from a horse and so injures a leg as to 
render amputation inevitable. To sup- 
ply the place of the true limb, she in- 
sists upon a leg of solid gold—a leg of 
the exact proportions of the original. 
She puts up with its inconvenience for 
the sake of the admiration it excites. 
Its attraction, however, excites the 
cupidity of a chevalier d’industrie, who 
cajoles her into wedlock, dissipates her 
fortune, and finally, purloining her 
golden leg, dashes out her brains with 
it, elopes, and puts an end to the story. 
It is wonderfully well told, and abounds 
in the most brilliant points—embracing 
something of each of the elementary 
faculties which we have been discussing 
—but most especially rich in that 
which we have termed Fantasy. 

The miost remarkable poems, how- 
ever, are those which we have still to 
speak of. They convey, too, most dis- 
tinctly the genius of the author—nor 
can any one thoughtfully read them 
without a conviction that hitherto that 
genius has been greatly misconceived— 
without perceiving that even the wit of 
Hood had its birth in a taint of mel- 
ancholy perhaps hereditary—and nearly 
amounting to monomania. 


1270 


“The Song of the Shirt” is such a 
composition as only Hood could have 
conceived or written. Its popularity 
has been unbounded. Its effect arises 
from that grotesquerie which we have 
referred to the vivid fancy of the au- 
thor, impelled by hypochondriasis; but 
“The Song of the Shirt” has scarcely a 
claim to the title of poem. This, how- 
ever, is a mere question of words, and 
can by no means affect the high merit 
of the composition, to whatever appel- 
lation it may be considered entitled. 

“The Bridge of Sighs,” on the con- 
trary, is a poem of the loftiest order, 
and, with one exception, the finest writ- 
ten by Hood—being very far superior 
to “The Dream of Eugene Aram.” Not 
its least merit is the effective rush and 
whirl of its singular versification—so 
thoroughly in accordance with the wild 


insanity which is the thesis of the 


whole. 

“The Haunted House” we prefer to 
any composition of its author. It is a 
masterpiece of its kind—and that kind 
belongs to a very lofty—if not to the 
very loftiest order of poetical literature. 
Had we seen this piece before penning 
our first notice of Hood we should have 
had much hesitation in speaking of 
Fancy and Fantasy as his predominant 
features. At all events we should have 
given him credit for much more of true 
imagination than we did. Not the least 
merit of the work is its rigorous sim- 
plicity. There is no narrative, and no 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE | 


doggerel philosophy. The whole sub- 
ject is the description of a deserted 
house which the popular superstition 
considers haunted. The thesis is one 
of the truest in all poetry. As a mere 
thesis it is really difficult to conceive 
anything better. The strength of the 
poet is put forth in the invention of 
traits in keeping with the ideas of 
crime, abandonment, and ghostly visita- 
tion. Every legitimate art is brought 
in to aid in conveying the intended ef- 
fects; and (what is quite remarkable in 
the case of Hood) nothing discordant 
is at any point introduced. He has here 
very little of what we have designated 
as the fantastic—little which is not 
strictly harmonious. The metre and 
rhythm are not only in themselves ad- 
mirably adapted to the whole design, 
but, with a true artistic feeling, the 
poet has preserved a thorough mono- 
tone throughout, and renders its effect 
more impressive by the repetition 
(gradually increasing in frequency to- 
wards the finale) of one of the most 
pregnant and effective of the stanzas :— 


O’er all there hung a shadow and a 
fear, 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 

The place is haunted! 


Had Hood only written “The 
Haunted House” it would have sufficed 
to render him immortal. 


Lhomas Moore 


(Published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, January, 1840.—Ed.) 


Amip the vague mythology of Egypt, 
the voluptuous scenery of her Nile, and 
the gigantic mysteries of her pyramids, 
Anacreon Moore has found all of that 
striking material which he so much de- 
lights in working up, and which he has 
embodied in the poem before us. The 
design of the story (for plot it has 
none) has been a less consideration than 
its facilities, and is made subservient 
to its execution. The subject is com- 
prised in five epistles. In the first, Al- 
ciphron, the head of the Epicurean 
sect at Athens, writes, from Alexandria 
to his friend Cleon, in the former city. 
He tells him (assigning a reason for 
quitting Athens and her pleasures) that, 
having fallen asleep one night after 
protracted festivity, he beholds, in a 
dream, a spectre, who tells him that, 
beside the sacred Nile, he, the Epicur- 
ean, shall find that Eternal Life for 
which he had so long been sighing. In 
the second, from the same to the same, 
the traveler speaks, at large and in rap- 
turous terms, of the scenery of Egypt; 
of the beauty of her maidens; of an ap- 
proaching Festival of the Moon; and of 
a wild hope entertained that amid the 
subterranean chambers of some huge 
pyramid lies the secret which he covets 
—the secret of Life Eternal. In the 
third letter he relates a love adventure 
at the Festival. Fascinated by the 
charms of one of the nymphs of a pro- 
cession, he is first in despair at losing 
sight of her, then overjoyed at again 
seeing her in Necropolis, and finally 
traces her steps until they are lost near 


sera 


one of the smaller pyramids. In epistle 
the fourth (still from the same to the 
same) he enters and explores the pyra- 
mid, and, passing through a complete 
series of Eleusinian mysteries, is at 
length successfully initiated into the se- 
crets of Memphian priestcraft; we 
learning this latter point from letter the 
fifth, which concludes the poem, and is 
addressed by Orcus, high-priest of 
Memphis, to Decius, a pretorian pre- 
fect. 

A new poem from Moore calls to 
mind ihat critical opinion respecting 
him which had its origin, we believe, in 
the dogmatism of Coleridge—we mean 
the opinion that he is essentially the 
poet of fancy—the term being employed 
in contradistinction to zmagination. 
“The fancy,” says the author of the 
“Ancient Mariner,” in his “Biographia 
Literaria,’ “the fancy combines, the 
imagination creates.” And this was 
intended, and has been received, as a 
distinction. If so at all, it is one with- 
out a difference; without even a differ- 
ence of degree. The fancy as nearly 
creates as the imagination; and neither 
creates in any respect. All novel con- 
ceptions are merely unusual combina- 
tions. The mind of man can imagine 
nothing which has not really existed; 
and this point is susceptible of the most 
positive demonstration—see the Baron 
de Bielfeld, in his ‘‘Premiers Traits de 
VErudition Universelle, 1767.” It will 
be said, perhaps, that we can imagine 
a griffin, and that, a griffin does not ex- 
ist. Not the griffin certainly, but its 


122 


component parts. It is a mere com- 
pendium of known limbs and features 
—of known qualities. Thus with all 
which seems to be mew—which appears 
to be a creation of intellect. It is re- 
soluble into the old. The wildest and 
most vigorous effort of mind cannot 
stand the test of this analysis. 

We might make a distinction, of de- 
gree, between the fancy and the imag- 
ination, in saying that the latter is the 
former loftily employed. But expe- 
rience proves this distinction to be un- 
satisfactory. What we feel and know 
to be fancy, will be found still only 
fanciful, whatever be the theme which 
engages it. It retains its idiosyncrasy 
under all circumstances. No subject 
exalts it into the ideal. We might ex- 
emplify this by reference to the writings 
of one whom our patriotism, rather than 
our judgment, has elevated to a niche 
in the Poetic Temple which he does not 
becomingly fill, and which he cannot 
long uninterruptedly hold. We allude 
to the late Dr. Rodman Drake, whose 
puerile abortion, “The Culprit Fay,” we 
examined, at some length, in a critique 
elsewhere; proving it, we think, be- 
yond all’ question, to belong to that 
class of the pseudo-ideal, in dealing 
with which we find ourselves embar- 
rassed between a kind of half-conscious- 
ness that we ought to admire, and the 
certainty that we do not. Dr. Drake 
was employed upon a good subject—at 
least it is a subject precisely identical 
with those which Shakspeare was wont 
so happily to treat, and in which, es- 
pecially, the author of “Lilian” has so 
wonderfully succeeded. But the Amer- 
ican has brought to, his task a mere 
fancy, and has grossly failed in doing 
what many suppose him to have done— 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


in writing an ideal or imaginative poem. 
There is not one particle of the true 
poiaesis (Gr.) about “The Culprit Fay.” 
We say that the subject, even at its best 
points, did not aid Dr. Drake in the 
slightest degree. He was never more 
than fanciful. The passage, for ex- 
ample, chiefly cited by his admirers is 
the account of the “Sylphid Queen”; 
and to show the difference between the 
false and true ideal, we collated, in the 
review just alluded to, this, the most 
admired passage, with one upon a sim- 
ilar topic by Shelley. We shall be par- 
doned for repeating here, as nearly as 
we remember them, some words of 
what we then said. 

The description of the Sylphid Queen 
runs thus: 


But oh, how fair the shape that lay 
Beneath a rainbow bending bright; 
She seemed to the entranced Fay 
The loveliest of the forms of light; 
Her mantle was the purple rolled 
At twilight in the west afar; 
"Twas tied with threads of dawning 
gold, 
And buttoned with a sparkling star. 
Her face was like the lily roon 
That veils the vestal planet’s hue; 
Her eyes two beamlets from the moon 
Set floating in the welkin blue. 
Her hair is like the sunny beam, 
And the diamond gems which round it 
gleam 
Are the pure drops of dewy even 
That ne’er have left their native heaven. 


In the “Queen Mab” of Shelley, a 
Fairy is thus introduced :— 


Those who had looked upon the sight, 
Passing all human glory 


THOMAS MOORE 


Saw not the yellow moon, 

Saw not the mortal scene, 
Heard not the night-wind’s rush, 
Heard not an earthly sound, 

Saw but the fairy pageant, 
Heard. but the heavenly strains 
That filled the lonely dwelling— 


And thus described :— 


The Fairy’s frame was slight; yon fib- 


rous aloud 

That catches but the palest tinge of 
even, 

And which the straining eye can hardly 
seize 

When melting into eastern twilight’s 
shadow, 

Were scarce so thin, so slight; but the 
fair star 

That gems the glittering coronet of 
morn, 


Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, 
As that which, bursting from the Fairy’s 
jorm, 
Spread a purpureal halo round the 
scene, 
Yet with an undulating motion, 
Swayed to her outline gracefully. 


In these exquisite lines the faculty of 
mere comparison is but little exercised 
—that of ideality in a wonderful de- 
gree. It is probable that in a similar 
case Dr. Drake would have formed the 
face of the fairy of the “fibrous cloud,” 
her arms of the “pale tinge of even,” 
her eyes of the “fair stars,” and her 
body of the ‘‘twilight shadow.” Hav- 
ing so done, his admirers would have 
congratulated him upon his imagination, 
not taking the trouble to think that 
they themselves could at any moment 


imagine a fairy of materials equally 


1273 


as good, and conveying an equally dis- 
tinct idea. Their mistake would be pre- 
cisely analogous to that of many a 
schoolboy who admires the imagination 
displayed in “Jack the Giant-Killer,” 
and is finally rejoiced at discovering his 
own imagination to surpass that of the 
author, since the monsters destroyed 
by Jack are only about forty feet in 
height, and he himself has no trouble 
in imagining some of one hundred and 
forty. It will be seen that the fairy 
of Shelley is not a mere compound of 
incongruous natural objects, inartifi- 
cially put together, and unaccompanied 
by any moral sentiment—but a being, 
in the illustration of whose nature some 
physical elements are used collaterally 
as adjuncts, while the main conception 
springs immediately, or thus apparently 
Springs, from the brain of the poet, en- 
veloped in the moral sentiments of 
grace, of colour, of motion—of the 
beautiful, of the mystical, of the au- 
gust— in short, of the ideal. 

The truth is, that the just distinc- 
tion between the fancy and the imagi- 
nation (and which is still but a distinc- 
tion of degree) is involved in the con- 
sideration of the mystic. We give this 
as an idea of our own altogether. We 
have no authority for our opinion—but 
do not the less firmly hold it. The 
term mystic is here employed in the 
sense of Augustus William Schlegel, 
and of most other German critics. It 
is applied by them to that class of com- 
position in which there lies beneath the 
transparent upper current of meaning 
an under or suggestive one. What we 
vaguely term the moral of any senti- 
ment is its mystic or secondary expres- 
sion. It has the vast force of an ac- 
companiment in music. ‘This vivifies 


1274 


the air; that spiritualises the fanciful 
conception, and lifts it into the zdeal. 
This theory will bear, we think, the 
most rigorous tests which can be made 
applicable to it, and will be acknowl- 
edged as tenable by all who are them- 
selves imaginative. If we carefully ex- 
amine those poems, or portions of 
poems, or those prose romances which 
mankind have been accustomed to des- 
ignate as imaginative (for an instinc- 
tive feeling leads us to employ properly 
the term whose full import we have still 
never been able to define), it will be 
seen that all so designated are remark- 
able for the suggestive character which 
we have discussed. They are strongly 
mystic—in the proper sense of the 
word. We will here only call to the 
reader’s mind the ‘Prometheus Vinc- 
tus” of A%schylus; the “Inferno” of 
Dante; the ‘Destruction of Numantia” 
by Cervantes; the “Comus” of Milton; 
the ‘Ancient Mariner,” the ‘‘Christa- 
bel,” and the ‘Kubla Khan,” of Cole- 
ridge; the “Nightingale” of Keats; and, 
most especially, the “Sensitive Plant” of 
Shelley, and the “Undine” of De la 
Motte Fouque. These two latter poems 
(for we call them both such) are the 
finest possible examples of the purely 
ideal. There is little of fancy here, 
and everything of imagination. With 
each note of the lyre is heard.a ghostly, 
and not always a distinct, but an august 
and soul-exalting echo. In every 
glimpse of beauty presented we catch, 
through long and wild vistas, dim be- 
wildering visions of a far more ethereal 
beauty beyond. But not so in poems 
which the world has always persisted in 
terming fanciful. Here the upper cur- 
rent is often exceedingly brilliant and 
beautiful; but then men fee? that this 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


upper current is all. No Naiad voice 
addresses them from below. ‘The notes 
of the air of the song do not tremble 
with the according tones of the accom- 
paniment. 

It is the failure to perceive these 
truths which has occasioned the embar- 
rassment experienced by our critics 
while discussing the topic of Moore’s 
station in the poetic world—that hesi- 
tation with which we are obliged to 
refuse him the loftiest rank among the 
most noble. The popular voice, and the 
popular heart, have denied him that 
happiest quality, imagination—and here 
the popular voice (because for once it 
is gone with the popular heart) is right 
—but yet only relatively so. Imagina- 
tion is not the leading feature of the 
poetry of Moore; but he possesses it 
in no little degree. 

We will quote a few instances from 
the poem now before us—instances 
which will serve to exemplify the dis- 
tinctive feature which we have attrib- 
uted to ideality. 

It is the suggestive force which ex- 
alts and etherealises the passages we 


copy :— 


Or is it that there lurks, indeed, 
Some truth in man’s prevailing creed, 
And that our guardian from on high, 
Come, in that pause from toil and 
sin, 
To put the senses’ curtain by, 
And on the wakeful soul look in! 


Again— 


The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst 

Awfully on my sight—standing sublime 

’Twixt earth and heaven, the watch- 
towers of time, 


THOMAS MOORE 


From whose lone summit, when _ his 
reign hath past 

From earth for ever, he will look his 
last. 


And again— 


Is there for man no hope—but this 
which dooms 

His only lasting trophies to be tombs! 

But ’tis not so—earth, heaven, all na- 
ture shows 

He may become immortal, may unclose 

The wings within him wrapt, and proud- 
ly rise 

Redeemed from earth a creature of the 
skies! 


And here— 


The pyramid shadows, stretching from 
the light, 

Look like the first colossal steps of 
night, 

Stalking across the valley to invade 

The distant hills of porphyry with their 
shade! 


And once more— 


There Silence, thoughtful God, who 
loves 

The neighbourhood of Death, in groves 

Of asphodel lies hid, and weaves 

His hushing spell among the leaves. 


Such lines as these, we must admit, 
however, are not of frequent occurrence 
in the poem—the sum of whose great 
beauty is composed of the several sums 
of a world of minor excellences. 

Moore has always been renowned for 
the number and appositeness, as well as 
novelty, of his similes; and the renown 


1275 


thus acquired is strongly indicative of 
his deficiency in that nobler merit—the 
noblest of them all. No poet thus dis- 
tinguished was ever richly ideal. Pope 
and Cowper are remarkable instances in 
point. Similes (so much insisted upon 
by the critics of the reign of Queen 
Anne) are never, in our _ opinion, 
strictly in good taste, whatever may be 
said to the contrary, and certainly can 
never be made to accord with other 
high qualities, except when naturally 
arising from the subject in the way 
of illustration—and, when thus arising, 
they have seldom the merit of novelty. 
To be novel, they must fail in essential 
particulars. The higher minds will 
avoid their frequent use. ‘They form 
no portion of the ideal, and appertain 
to the fancy alone. 

We proceed with a few random obser- 
vations upon “Alciphron.” The poem 
is distinguished throughout by a very 
happy facility which has never been 
mentioned in connection with its author, 
but which has much to do with the rep- 
utation he has obtained. We allude to 
the facility with which he recounts a 
poetical story in a prosaic way. By 
this is meant that he preserves the tone 
and method of arrangement of a prose 
relation, and thus obtains great advan- 
tages over his more stilted compeers. 
His is no poetical style (such, for ex- 
ample, as the French have—a distinct 
style for a distinct purpose), but an 
easy and ordinary prose manner, orna- 
mented into poetry. By means of this 
he is enabled to enter, with ease, into 
details which would baffle any other 
versifier of the age, and at which Lam- 
artine would stand aghast. For any- 
thing that we see to the contrary, Moore 
might solve a cubic equation in verse. 


1276 


His facility in this respect is truly ad- 
mirable, and is, no doubt, the result of 
long practice after mature deliberation. 
We refer the reader to page 50 of the 
pamphlet now reviewed, where the mi- 
nute and conflicting incidents of the de- 
scent into the pyramid are detailed with 
absolutely more precision than we have 
ever known a similar relation detailed 
with in prose. 

In general dexterity and melody of 
versification the author of “Lalla 
Rookh” is unrivalled; but he is by no 
means at all times accurate, falling oc- 
casionally into the common foible of 
throwing accent upon syllables too un- 
important to sustain it. Thus, in the 
lines which follow, where we have ital- 
icised the weak syllables :— 


And mark ’tis night; 
bids'; . . 

While hark from all the temples a rich 
swell. 

I rushed Hit ‘the cool night air. 


already the sun 


He also too frequently draws out the 
word Heaven into two syllables—a pro- 
traction which it mever will support. 

His English is now and then objec- 
tionable, as at page 26, where he speaks 
of 


lighted barks 
That down Syene’s cataract shoots 


(where, too, he makes shoots rhyme 
with flutes); also, at page 6, and else- 
where, where the word none has im- 
properly a singular, instead of a plural 
force. But such criticism as this is 
somewhat captious, for in general he is 
most highly polished. 

At page 27, he has stolen his ‘woven 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


snow’ from the ventum textilem of Apu- 
leius. 

At page 8, he either himself has mis- 
understood the tenets of Epicurus, or 
wilfully misrepresents them through the 
voice of Alciphron. We incline to the 
former idea, however, as the philosophy 
of that most noble of the sophists is 
habitually perverted by the moderns. 
Nothing could be more spiritual and less 
sensual than the doctrines we so torture 
into wrong. But we have drawn out 
this notice at somewhat too great 
length, and must conclude. In truth, 
the exceeding beauty of “Alciphron” 
has bewildered and detained us. We 
could not point out a poem in any lan- 
guage which, as a whole, greatly ex- 
cels it. It is far superior to “Lalla 
Rookh.” While Moore does not reach, 
except in rare snatches, the height of 
the loftiest qualities of some whom we 
have named, yet he has written finer 
poems than any of equal length, by the 
greatest of his rivals. His radiance, 
not always as bright as some flashes 
from other pens, is yet a radiance of 
equable glow, whose total amount of 
light exceeds, by very much, we think, 
that total amount in the case of any 
contemporary writer whatsoever. <A 
vivid fancy, an epigrammatic spirit, a 
fine taste, vivacity, dexterity, and a 
musical ear, have made him very easily 
what he is, the most popular poet now 
living—if not the most popular that ever 
lived—and, perhaps, a slight modifica- 
tion at birth of that which phrenolo- 
gists have agreed to term temperament 
might have made him the truest and 
noblest votary of the muse of any age 
or clime. As it is, we have only casual 
glimpses of that mens divinior which 
is assuredly enshrined within him. 


Old English Poetry’ 


(Published in Southern Literary Messenger, August, 1836.—Ed.) 


It should not be doubted that at 
Jeast one-third of the affection with 
which we regard the older poets of 
Great Britain should be attributed to 
what is, in itself, a thing apart from 
poetry—we mean to the simple love of 
the antique—and that, again, a third 
of even the proper poetic sentiment in- 
spired by their writings should be as- 
cribed to a fact which, while it has strict 
connection with poetry in the abstract, 
and with the old British poems them- 
selves, should not be looked upon as a 
merit appertaining to the authors of the 
poems. Almost every devout admirer 
of the old bards, if demanded his opin- 
ion of their productions, would mention 
vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a 
sense of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he 
would perhaps say, indefinable delight; 
on being required to point out the 
source of this so shadowy pleasure, he 
would be apt to speak of the quaint in 
phraseology and in general handling. 
This quaintness is, in fact, a very pow- 
erful adjunct to ideality, but in the case 
in question it arises independently of 
the author’s will, and is altogether apart 
from his intention. Words and their 
rhythm have varied. Verses which af- 
fect us to-day with a vivid delight, and 
which delight, in many instances, may 
be traced to the one source, quaintness, 
must have worn in the days of their 
construction a very commonplace air. 
This is, of course, no argument against 


*“The Book of Gems.” 
C. Hall. 


Edited by S. 


1277 


the poems now—we mean it only as 
against the poets then. There is a grow- 
ing desire to overrate them. The old 
English muse was frank, guileless, sin- 
cere, and although very learned, still 
learned without art. No general error 
evinces a more thorough confusion of 
ideas than the error of supposing Donne 
and Cowley metaphysical in the sense 
wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are 
so. 

With the two former ethics were the 
end—with the two latter the means. 
The poet of the “Creation” wished, by 
highly artificial verse, to inculcate what 
he supposed to be moral truth—the 
poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to in- 
fuse the Poetic. Sentiment through chan- 
nels suggested by analysis. The one 
finished by complete failure what he 
commenced in the grossest misconcep- 
tion; the other, by a path which could 
not possibly lead him astray, arrived 
at a triumph which is not the less glor- 
ious because hidden from the profane 
eyes of the multitude. But in this view 
even the “metaphysical verse” of Cow- 
ley is but evidence of the simplicity 
and single-heartedness of the man. And 
he was in this but a type of his school 
—for we may as well designate in this 
way the entire class of writers whose 
poems are bound up in the volume be- 
fore us, and throughout all of whom 
there runs a very perceptible general 
character. They used little art in 
composition. Their writings sprang 
immediately from the soul—and par- 
took intensely of that soul’s nature. 


1278 


Nor is it difficult to perceive the tend- 
ency of this abandon—to elevate im- 
measurably all the energies of mind— 
but, again, so to mingle the greatest 
possible fire, force, delicacy, and all 
good things, with the lowest possible 
bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to 
render it not a matter of doubt that the 
average results of mind in such a school 
will be found inferior to those results 
in one (ceteris paribus) more artificial. 

We cannot bring ourselves to believe 
that the selections of the “Book of 
Gems” are such as wiil impart to a 
poetical reader the clearest possible idea 
of the beauty of the school—but if the 
intention had been merely to show the 
school’s character, the attempt might 
have been considered successful in the 
highest degree. There are long pas- 
sages now before us of the most des- 
picable trash, with no merit whatever 
beyond that of their antiquity. The 
criticisms of the editor do not particu- 
larly please us. His enthusiasm is too 
general and too vivid not to be false. 
His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry 
Wotton’s “Verses on the Queen of Bo- 
hemia”—that “there are few finer 
things in our language’—is untenable 
and absurd. 

In such lines we can perceive not one 
of those higher attributes of Poesy 
which belong to her in all circumstances 
and throughout all time. Here every- 
thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly 
concealed. No prepossession for the 
mere antique (and in this case we can 
imagine no other prepossession) should 
induce us to dignify with the sacred 
name of poetry a series, such as this, of 
elaborate and threadbare compliments, 
stitched, apparently, together, without 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


fancy, without plausibility, and without 
even an attempt at adaptation. 

In common with all the world, we 
have been much delighted with “The 
Shepherd’s Hunting” by Wither—a 
poem partaking, in a remarkable degree, 
of the peculiarities of Jl Penseroso. 
Speaking of Poesy, the author says:— 


By the murmur of a spring, 

Or the least boughs rustling, 

By a daisy whose leaves spread 

Shut when Titan goes to bed, 

Or a shady bush or tree, 

She could more infuse on me 

Than all Nature’s beauties can 

In some other wiser man. 

By her help I also now 

Make this churlish place allow 
Something that may sweeten gladness 
In the very gall of sadness— 

The dull loneness, the black shade, 
That these hanging vaults have made, 
The strange music of the waves 
Beating on these hollow caves, 

This black den which rocks emboss, 
Overgrown with eldest moss, 

The rude portals that give light 
More to terror than delight, 
This my chamber of neglect 

Walled about with disrespect, 

From all these and this dull air 

A fit object for despair, 

She hath taught me by her might 
To draw comfort and delight. 


But these lines, however good, do not 
bear with them much of the general 
character of the English antique. Some- 
thing more of this will be found in 
Corbet’s “Rewards and Fairies!” We 
copy a portion of Marvell’s ‘‘Maiden la- 
menting for her Fawn”—which we pre- 
fer, not only as a specimen of the 


OLD ENGLISH POETRY 


elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful 
poem, abounding in pathos, exquisitely 
delicate imagination and truthfulness, 
to anything of its species:— 


It is a wondrous thing how fleet 

’Twas on those little silver feet, 

With what a pretty skipping grace 

It oft would challenge me the race, 

And when ’t had left me far away 

’Twould stay, and run again, and 
stay; 

For it was nimbler much than hinds, 

And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own, 

But so with roses overgrown, 

And lilies, that you would it guess 

To be a little wilderness; 

And all the spring-time of the year 

It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should 
lie, 

Yet could not, till itself would rise, 

Find it, although before mine eyes. 

For in the flaxen lilies shade 

It like a bank of lilies laid; 

Upon the roses it would feed 

Until its lips even seemed to bleed, 

And then to me ’twould boldly trip, 

And print those roses on my lip; 

But all its chief delight was still 

With roses thus itself to fill, 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 

In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 

Had it lived long it would have been 

Lilies without, roses within. 


How truthful an air of lamentation 
hangs here upon every syllable! It per- 
vades all. It comes over the sweet mel- 
edy of the words—over the gentleness 
and grace which we fancy in the little 
maiden herself—even over the half- 


1279 


playful, half-petulant air with which she 
lingers on the beauties and good quali- 
ties of her favourite—like the cool 
shadow of a summer cloud over a bed 
of lilies and violets, “and all sweet 
flowers.” The whole is redolent of 
poetry of a very lofty order. Every 
line is an idea conveying either the 
beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or 
the artlessness of the maiden, or her 
love, or her admiration, or her grief, or 
the fragrance and warmth and appro- 
priateness of the little nest-like bed of 
lilies and roses which the fawn devoured 
as it lay upon them, and could scarcely 
be distinguished from them by the once 
happy little damsel who went to seek 
her pet with an arch and rosy smile on 
her face. Consider the great variety of 
truthful and delicate thought in the few 
lines we have quoted—the wonder of 
the “little silver feet’—the fawn chal- 
lenging his mistress to a race with “a 
pretty skipping grace,” running on be- 
fore, and then, with head turned back, 
awaiting her approach only to fly from 
it again—can we not distinctly perceive 
all these things? How exceedingly vig- 
orous, too, is the line, 


And trod as if on the four winds! 


a vigour apparent only when we keep 
in mind the artless character of the 
speaker and the four feet of the fa- 
vourite, one for each wind. Then con- 
sider the garden of “my own,” so over- 
grown, entangled with roses and lilies, 
as to be “a little wilderness”’—the 
fawn loving to be there, and there 
“only”—the maiden seeking it “where 
it should lie’—and not.being able to 
distinguish it from the flowers until “‘it- 
self would rise’—the lying among the 


1280 


lilies “like a bank of lilies’—the lov- 
ing to “fill itself with roses,” 


And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
In whitest sheets of lilies cold, 


and these things being its ‘‘chief” de- 
lights—and then the pre-eminent beauty 
and naturalness of the concluding lines, 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


whose very hyperbole only renders them 
more true to nature when we consider 
the innocence, the artlessness, the en- 
thusiasm, the passionate grief, and more 
passionate admiration, of the bereaved 
child— 


Had it lived long it would have been 
Lilies without, roses within. 


William Cullen Bryant 


(Published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, April, 1846.—Ed.) 


Mr. BryANT’s position in the poet- 
ical world is perhaps better settled than 
that of any American. There is less 
difference of opinion about his rank; 
but as usual the agreement is more de- 
cided in private literary circles than in 
what appears to be the public expres- 
sion of sentiment as gleaned from the 
press. I may as well observe here, too, 
that this coincidence of opinion in pri- 
vate circles is in all cases very notice- 
able when compared with the discrep- 
ancy of the apparent public opinion. In 
private it is quite a rare thing to find any 
strongly-marked disagreement—I mean 
of course about mere autorial merit. 
That the opinion of the press is not an 
honest opinion—that necessarily it is im- 
possible that it should be an _ honest 
opinion, is never denied by the mem- 
bers of the press themselves. Individual 
presses, of course, are now and then 
honest, but I speak of the combined 





* A part of this criticism is the same 
as the Introduction to the Literati of 
New York. We have omitted it here— 
Ed. 


effect. Indeed, it would be difficult for 
those conversant with the modus oper- 
andi of public journals to deny the gen- 
eral falsity of impression conveyed. Let 
in America a book be published by an 
unknown, careless or uninfluential au- 
thor; if he publishes it “fon his own 
account” he will be confounded at find- 
ing that no notice of it is taken at all. 
If it has been entrusted to a publisher 
of caste, there will appear forthwith 
in each of the leading business papers 
a variously-phrased critique to the ex- 
tent of three or four lines, and to the 
effect that ‘‘we have received from the 


fertile press of So and So a, volume en- 


titled This and That, which appears to 
be well worthy perusal, and which is 
‘got up’ in the customary neat style of 
the enterprising firm of So and So.” On 
the other hand, let our author have ac- 
quired influence, experience, or (what 
will stand him in good stead of either) 
effrontery, on the issue of his book 
he will obtain from his publisher a 
hundred copies (or more, as_ the 
case may be), “for distribution among 
friends connected with the press.” 





. 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 


Armed with these, he will call person- 
ally either at the office or (if he under- 
stands his game) at the private resi- 
dence of every editor within his reach, 
enter into conversation, compliment the 
journalist, interest him, as if incident- 
ally, in the subject of the book, and fi- 
nally, watching an opportunity, beg leave 
to hand him “a volume which, quite op- 
portunely, is on the very matter now 
under discussion.” If the editor seems 
sufficiently interested, the rest is left 
to fate; but if there is any lukewarm- 
ness (usually indicated by a polite re- 
gret on the editor’s part that he really 
has ‘no time to render the work that 
justice which its importance demands’’), 
then our author is prepared to under- 
stand and to sympathise; has, luckily, 
a friend thoroughly conversant with the 
topic, and who (perhaps) could be per- 
suaded to write some account of the 
volume—provided that the editor would 
be kind enough just to glance over the 
critique and amend it in accordance 
with his own particular views. Glad to 
fill half a column or so of his editorial 
space, and still more glad to get rid of 
his visitor, the journalist assents. The 
author retires, consults the friend, in- 
structs him touching the strong points 
of the volume, and insinuating in some 
shape a quid pro quo gets an elaborate 
critique written (or, what is more usual 
and far more simple, writes it himself), 
and his business in this individual quar- 
ter is accomplished. Nothing more than 
sheer impudence is requisite to accom- 
plish it in all. 

In general, the books of the toadies 
and quacks, not being read at all, are 
safe from any contradiction of this 
self-bestowed praise; but now and then 
it happens that the excess of the lauda- 


1281 


tion works out in part its own remedy. 
Men of leisure, hearing one of the toady 
works commended, look at it, read its 
preface and a few pages of its body, 
and throw it aside with disgust, won- 
dering at the ill taste of the editors who 
extol it. But there is an iteration, and 
then a continuous reiteration of the 
panegyric, till these men of leisure be- 
gin to suspect themselves in the wrong, 
to fancy that there may really be some- 
thing good lying perdu in the volume. 
In a fit of desperate curiosity they read 
it through critically, their indignation 
growing hotter at each succeeding page 
till it gets the better even of contempt. 
The result is, that reviews now appear 
in various quarters entirely at variance 
with the opinions so generally expressed, 
and which, but for these indignation re- 
views, would have passed universally 
current as the opinion of the public. 
It is in this manner that those gross 
seeming discrepancies arise which s¢ 
often astonish us, but which vanish ine 
stantaneously in private society. 

But although it may be said, in gen- 
eral, that Mr. Bryant’s position is come 
paratively well settled, still for somé 
time past there has been a growing ten- 
dency to underestimate him. The new 
licentious ‘‘schools” of poetry—I do not 
now speak of the transcendentalists, 
who are the merest nobodies, fatiguing 
even themselves, but the Tennysonian 
and Barrettian schools—having, in their 
rashness of spirit, much in accordance 
with the whole spirit of the age, thrown 
into the shade necessarily all that seems 
akin to the conservatism of half a cen- 
tury ago, the conventionalities, even the 
most justifiable decora of composition, 
are regarded, per se, with a suspicious 


eye. When I say per se, i mean that, 


1282 


from finding them so long in connection 
with conservatism of thought, we have 
come at last to dislike them, not merely 
as the outward visible signs of that con- 
servatism, but as things evil in them- 
selves. It is very clear that those ac- 
curacies and elegancies’ of style, and of 
general manner, which in the time of 
Pope were considered as prima facie 
and indispensable indications of genius, 
are now conversely regarded. How few 
are willing to admit the possibility of 
reconciling genius with artistic skill! 
Yet this reconciliation is not only pos- 
sible, but an absolute necessity. It is a 
mere prejudice which has hitherto pre- 
vented the union, by studiously insist- 
Ing upon a natural repulsion which not 
only does not exist, but which is at war 
with all the analogies of nature. The 
greatest poems will not be written until 
this prejudice is annihilated; and I 
mean to express a very exalted opinion 
of Mr. Bryant when I say that his 
works in time to come will do much 
towards the annihilation. 

I have never disbelieved in the per- 
fect consistency, and even congeniality, 
of the highest genius and the profound- 
est art; but in the case of the author of 
“The Ages,” I have fallen into the gen- 
eral error of undervaluing his poetic 
ability on account of the mere “elegan- 
cies and accuracies’ to which allusion 
has already been made. I confess that, 
with an absolute abstraction from all 
personal feelings, and with the most 
sincere intention to do justice, I was 
at one period beguiled into this popu- 
lar error; there can be no difficulty; 
therefore, on my part, in excusing the 
inadvertence in others. ' 

It will never do to claim for Bryant 
a genius of the loftiest order, but there 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


has been latterly, since the days of Mr. 
Longfellow and Mr. Lowell, a growing 
disposition to deny him genius in any 
respect. He is now commonly spoken 
of as “a man of high poetical talent, 
very ‘correct,’ with a warm apprecia- 
tion of the beauty of nature and great 
descriptive powers, but rather too much 
of the old-school manner of Cowper, 
Goldsmith, and Young.” This is the 
truth, but not the whole truth. Mr. 
Bryant has genius, and that of a marked 
character, but it has been overlooked by 
modern schools, because deficient in 
those externals which have become in 
a measure symbolical of those schools. 

Mr. Griswold, in summing up his 
comments on Bryant, has the following 
significant objections: “His genius is 
not versatile; he has related no history; 
he has not sung of the passion of love; 
he has not described artificial life. Still 
the tenderness and feeling in ‘The 
Death of the Flowers,’ ‘Rizpah,’ “The 
Indian Girl's Lament,’ and other pieces, 
show that he might have excelled in de- 


lineations of the gentler passions had- 


he made them his study.” | 
Now, in describing xo artificial life, 
in relating zo history, in mot singing 
the passion of love, the poet has merely 
shown himself the profound artist, has 
merely evinced a proper consciousness 
that such are not the legitimate themes 
of poetry. That they are not, I have 
repeatedly shown, or attempted to show, 
and to go over the demonstration now 
would be foreign to the gossiping and 
desultory nature of the present article. 
What Mr. Griswold means by “the 
gentler passions” is, I presume, not very 
clear to himself, but it is possible that 
he employs the phrase in consequence 
of the gentle, unpassionate emotion in- 














WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 


duced by the poems of which he quotes 
the titles. It is precisely this “‘unpas- 
sionate emotion” which is the limit of 
the true poetical art. Passion proper 


and poesy are discordant. Poetry, in 
elevating, tranquillises the soul. With 
the heart it has nothing to do. For a 


fuller explanation of these views I refer 
the reader to an analysis of a poem by 
Mrs. Welby—an analysis published 
about a year ago in The Democratic 
Review. 

The editor of “The Poets and Poetry 
of America” thinks the literary pre- 
cocity of Bryant remarkable. “There 
are few recorded more remarkable,” he 
says. The first edition of “The Em- 
bargo” was in 1808, and the poet was 
born in 1794; he was more than thir- 
teen, then, when the satire was printed 
—although it is reported to have been 
written a year earlier. I quote a few 
lines :— 


Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom 
dispel, 

Chase Error’s mist and break the magic 
spell! 

But vain the wish; for hark! the mur- 
muring meed 

Of hoarse applause from yonder shed 


proceed. 

Enter and view the thronging concourse 
there, 

Intent with gaping mouth and stupid 
stare; 

While in the midst their supple leader 
stands, 

Harangues aloud and flourishes his 


hands, 
To adulation tunes his servile throat, 
And sues successful for each blockhead’s 


vote. 


1283 


This is a fair specimen of the whole, 
both as regards its satirical and rhyth- 
mical power. A satire is, of course, no 
poem. I have known boys of an earlier 
age do better things, although the case 
is rare. All depends upon the course 
of education. Bryant’s father ‘‘was fa- 
miliar with the best English literature, 
and perceiving in his son indications of 
superior genius, attended carefully to his 
instruction, taught him the art of com- 
position, and guided his literary taste.” 
This being understood, the marvel of 
such verse as I have quoted ceases at 
once, even admitting it to be the boy’s 
own work; but it is difficult to make 
any such admission. The father must 
have suggested, revised, retouched. 

The longest poem of Bryant’s is 
“The Ages’—thirty-five Spenserian 
stanzas. It is the one improper theme 
of its author. The design is, “from a 
survey of the past ages of the world, 
and of the successive advances of man- 
kind in knowledge and virtue, to justify 
and confirm the hopes of the philan- 
thropist for the future destinies of the 
human race.” All this would have been 
more rationally, because more effec- 
tually, accomplished in prose.  Dis- 
missing it as a poem (which in its gen- 
eral tendency it is not), one might com- 
mend the force of its argumentation but 
for the radical error of deducing a hope 
of progression from the cycles of physi- 
cal nature. 

The sixth stanza is a specimen of 
noble versification (within the narrow 
limits of the Iambic Pentameter). 


Look on this beautiful world and read 
the truth 

In her fair page; 
brings 


see, every season 


1284 


New change to her of everlasting youth; 

Still the green soil with joyous living 
things 

Swarms; the wide air is full of joyous 
wings; 

And myriads still are happy in the sleep 

Of Ocean’s azure gulphs and where he 
flings 

The restless surge. 
keep 

In his complacent arms, the earth, the 
air, the deep. 


Eternal Love doth 


The cadences here at page, swarms, 
and surge, cannot be surpassed. There 
are comparatively few consonants. 
Liquids and the softer vowels abound, 
and the partial line after the pause at 
“surge,” with the stately march of the 
succeeding Alexandrine, is one of the 
finest conceivable finales. 

The poem, in general, has unity, com- 
pleteness. Its tone of calm, elevated, 
and hopeful contemplation is well sus- 
tained throughout. There is an occa- 
sional quaint grace of expression, as in 


Nurse of full streams and lifter up of 
proud 

Sky-mingling mountains that o’erlook 
the cloud! 


or of antithetical and rhythmical force 
combined, as in 


The shock that hurled 
To dust, in many fragments dashed and 
strown, 
The throne whose roots were in another 
world 
And whose far-stretching shadow awed 
our own. 


But we look in vain for anything 
more worthy commendation. 
“Thanatopsis” is the poem by which 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


its author is best known, but is by no 
means his best poem. It owes the 
extent of its celebrity to its nearly 
absolute freedom from defect, in the 
ordinary understanding of the term. I 
mean to say that its negative merit 
recommends it to the public attention. 
It is a thoughtful, well-phrased, well- 
constructed, well-versified poem. The 
concluding thought is exceedingly noble, 
and has done wonders for the success 
of the whole composition. 

“The Waterfowl” is very beautiful, 
but, like ““Thanatopsis,” owes a great 
deal to its completeness and pointed 
termination. 

“Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids!” 
will strike every poet as the truest 
poem written by Bryant. It is richly 
ideal. 

“June” is sweet and perfectly well 
modulated in its rhythm, and inex- 
pressibly pathetic. It serves well to 
illustrate my previous remarks about 
passion in its connection with poetry. 
In “June” there is, very properly, 
nothing of the intense passion of grief, 
but the subdued sorrow which comes 
up, as if perforce, to the surface of 
the poet’s gay sayings about his grave, 
we find thrilling us to the soul, while 
there is yet a spiritual elevation in the 
thrill. 


And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
Come, from the village sent, 

Or songs of maids beneath the moon 
With fairy laughter blent? 

And what if, in the evening light, 

Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument? 

I would the lovely scene around 

Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know—TI know I should not see 
The season’s glorious show, 








The friends 





WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 


: Nor would its brightness shine for me, 


Nor its wild music flow; 
But if around my place of sleep 
I love should come to 
weep, 
They might not haste to go:— 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and 
bloom, 
Should keep them lingering by my 
tomb. 


The thoughts here belong to the 
highest class of poetry, the imaginative- 
natural, and are of themselves sufficient 
to stamp their author a man of genius. 

In a “Sonnet, To ,’ are some 
richly imaginative lines. I quote the 
whole :— 





Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances 


shine 
Too brightly to shine long; another 
spring 
Shall deck her for men’s eyes, but not 
for thine, 
Sealed in a sleep which knows no 
waking. 
The fields for thee have no medicinal 
leaf, 
And the vexed ore no mineral of 
power; 
And they who love thee wait in anxious 
grief, 
Till the slow plague shall bring the 
fatal hour. 


Glide softly to thy rest, then; death 
should come 
Gently to one of gentle mould like 
thee, 
As light winds wandering through groves 
of bloom, 
Detach the delicate blossom from the 
tree, 
Close thy sweet eyes calmly and with- 
out pain, 


1285 


And we will trust in God to see thee 
yet again. 


The happiest jimale to these extracts 
will be the magnificent conclusion of 
“Thanatopsis.” 


So live, that, when thy summons comes 
to join 

The innumerable caravan that moves 

To that mysterious realm where each 
shall take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry slave at 
night, 

Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained 
and soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy 
grave— 

Like one that draws the drapery of his 
couch 


_ About him and lies down to pleasant 


dreams. 


In the minor morals of the muse Mr. 
Bryant excels. In versification (as far 
as he goes) he is unsurpassed in Amer- 
ica—unless, indeed, by Mr. Sprague. 
Mr. Longfellow is not so thorough a 
versifier within Mr. Bryant’s limits, but 
a far better one upon the whole, on 
account of his greater range. Mr. B., 
however, is by no means always accu- 
rate—or defensible, for accurate is not 
the term. His lines are occasionally 
unpronounceable through excess of 
harsh consonants, as in 


As if they loved to breast the breeze 
that sweeps the cool, clear sky. 


Now and then he gets out of his 
depth in attempting anapestic rhythm, 
of which he makes sad havoc, as in 


1286 


And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all 
That bloomed and smiled in the court 
of Saul. 


Not unfrequently, too, even his 
pentameters are inexcusably rough, 
as in 


Kind influence. Lo! their orbs burn 


more bright, 


which can only be read metrically by 
drawing out “influence” into three 
marked syllables, shortening the long 
monosyllable “Lo!” and _ lengthening 
the short one “their.” 

Mr. Bryant is not devoid of man- 
nerisms, one of the most noticeable of 
which is his use of the epithet ‘“old” 
preceded by some other adjective, e.g — 


In all that proud old world beyond the 
deep; Tis 

There is a foo about these grey old 
rocks; ’ 

The wide old woods resounded with her 
song; . . 

And from the oe old trunks that high 
in heaven, 


etc., etc., etc. These duplicates occur 
so frequently as to excite a smile upon 
each repetition. 

Of merely grammatical errors the 
poet is rarely guilty. Faulty construc- 


tions are more frequently chargeable to’ 


him. In “The Massacre of Scio” we 


read— 


Till the last link of slavery’s chain 
Is shivered to be worn no more. 


What shall be worn no more? The 
chain, of course,—but the link is im- 
plied. It will be understood that I pick 


‘and morally energetic. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


these flaws only with difficulty from 
the poems of Bryant. He is, in the 
“minor morals,” the most generally cor- 
rect of our poets. 

He is now fifty-two years of age. 
In height he is, perhaps, five feet nine. 
His frame is rather robust. His fea- 
tures are large but thin. His counte- 
nance is sallow, nearly bloodless. His 
eyes are piercing grey, deep set, with 
large projecting eyebrows. His mouth 
is wide and massive, the expression of 
the smile hard, cold—even sardonic. 
The forehead is broad, with prominent 
organs of ideality; a good deal bald; 
the hair thin and greyish, as are also 
the whiskers, which he wears in a sim- 
ple style. His bearing is quite distin- 
guished, full of the aristocracy of intel- 
lect. In general, he looks in better 
health than before his last visit to 
England. He seems active—physically 
His dress is 
plain to the extreme of simplicity, al- 
though of late there is a certain degree 
of Anglicism about it. 

In character no man stands more 
loftily than Bryant. The peculiarly 
melancholy expression of his counte- 
nance has caused him to be accused 
of harshness, or coldness of heart. 
Never was there a greater mistake. His 
soul is charity itself, in all respects 
generous and noble. His manners are 
undoubtedly reserved. 

Of late days he has nearly, if not 
altogether abandoned literary pursuits, 
although still editing, with unabated 
vigour, The New York Evening Post. 
He is married (Mrs. Bryant still liv- 
ing), has two daughters (one of them 
Mrs. Parke Godwin), and is residing 
for the present at Vice-Chancellor Mc- 
Cown’s near the junction of Warren 
and Church Streets. 














Nathaniel Hawthorne 


(Published in Godey’s Lady’s Book, November, 1847.—Ed.) 


THE pieces in the volumes entitled 
“Twice-Told Tales’ are now in their 
third republication, and, of course, are 
thrice-told. Mcreover, they are by no 
means ali tales, either in the ordinary 
or in the legitimate understanding of 
the term. Many of them are pure 
essays; for example, “Sights from a 
Steeple,’ ‘Sunday at Home,” “Little 
Annie’s Ramble,” “A Rill from the 
Town-Pump,’ ‘The  Toll-Gatherer’s 
Day,” ‘“The Haunted Mind,’ “The 
Sister Years,” ‘“Snow-Flakes,” ‘Night 
Sketches,” and ‘Foot-Prints on the 
Sea-Shore.” I mention these matters 
chiefly on account of their discrepancy 
with that marked precision and finish 
by which the body of the work is 
distinguished. 

Of the Essays ‘just named, I must 
be content to speak in brief. They 
are each and all beautiful, without 
being characterised by the polish and 
adaptation so visible in the tales 
proper. A painter would at once note 
their leading or predominant feature, 
and style it repose. There is no attempt 
at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, sub- 
dued. Yet this repose may exist simul- 
taneously with high originality of 
thought; and Mr. Hawthorne has 
demonstrated the fact. At every turn 
we meet with novel combinations; yet 
these combinations never surpass the 
limits of the quiet. We are soothed 
as we read; and withal is a calm aston- 
ishment that ideas so apparently ‘ob- 
vious have never occurred or been 
presented to us before. Herein our 


1287 


author differs materially from Lamb or 
Hunt or Hazlitt—who, with vivid 
originality of manner and expression, 
have less of the true novelty of thought 
than is generally supposed, and whose 
Originality at best has an uneasy and 
meretricious quaintness, replete with 
startling effects unfounded in nature, 
and inducing trains of reflection which 
lead to no satisfactory result. The 
Essays of Hawthorne have much of 
the character of Irving, with more of 
originality, and less of finish; while 
compared with “The Spectator,” they 
have a vast superiority at all points. 
“The Spectator,’ Mr. Irving, and Haw- 
thorne have in common that tranquil 
and subdued manner which I have 
chosen to denominate repose; but, in 
the case of the two former, this repose 
is attained rather by the absence of 
novel combination, or of originality, 
than otherwise, and consists chiefly in 
the calm, quiet, unostentatious expres- 
sion of commonplace thoughts, in an 
unambitious, unadulterated Saxon. In 
them, by strong effort, we are made 
to conceive the absence of all. In the 
essays before me the absence of effort 
is too obvious to be mistaken, and a 
strong under-current of suggestion runs 
continuously beneath the upper stream 
of the tranquil thesis. In short, these 
effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the 
product of a truly imaginative intellect, 
restrained, and in some measure re- 
pressed, by fastidiousness of taste, by 
constitutional melancholy, and by indo- 
lence. 


1288 


But it is of his tales that I desire 
principally to speak. The tale proper, 
in my opinion, affords unquestionably 
the fairest field for the exercise of 
the loftiest talent which can be afforded 
by the wide domains of mere prose. 
Were I bidden to say how the highest 
genius could be most advantageously 
employed for the best display of its 
own powers, I-should answer, without 
hesitation—in the composition of a 
rhymed poem, not to exceed in length 
what might be perused in an hour. 
Within this limit alone can the highest 
order of true poetry exist. I need only 
here say, upon this topic, that, in 
almost all classes of composition, the 
unity of effect or impression is a point 
of the greatest importance. It is clear, 
moreover, that this unity cannot be 
thoroughly preserved in productions 
whose perusal cannot be completed at 
one sitting. We may continue the read- 
ing of a prose composition, from the 
very nature of prose itself, much longer 
than we can persevere, to any good 
purpose, in the perusal of a poem. 
This latter, if truly fulfilling the de- 
mands of the poetic sentiment, induces 
an exaltation of the soul which cannot 
be long sustained. All high excite- 
ments are necessarily transient. Thus 
a long poem is a paradox. And, with- 
out unity of impression, the deepest 
effects cannot be brought about. Epics 
were the offspring of an imperfect 
sense of Art, and their reign is no more. 
A poem too brief may produce a vivid, 
but never an intense or enduring im- 
pression. Without a certain continuity 
of effort—without a certain duration 
or repetition of purpose—the soul is 
never deeply moved. There must be 
the dropping of the water upon the 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


rock. De Beranger has wrought bril- 
liant things—pungent and spirit-stirring 
—hbut, like all immassive bodies, they 
lack momentum, and thus fail to sat- 


isfy the Poetic Sentiment. They spar- 
kle and excite, but, from want of 
continuity, fail deeply to impress. 


Extreme brevity will degenerate into 
epigrammatism; but the sin of extreme 
length is even more unpardonable. Jn 
medio tutissimus ibis. 

Were I called upon, however, to 
designate that class of composition 
which, next to such a poem as I have 
suggested, should best fulfil the de- 
mands of high genius—should offer it 
the most advantageous field of exer- 
tion—I should unhesitatingly speak of 
the prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne has 
here exemplified it. I allude to the 
short prose narrative, requiring from a 
half-hour to one or two hours in its 
perusal. The ordinary novel is objec- 
tionable, from its length, for reasons 
already stated in substance. As it 
cannot be read at one sitting, it de- 
prives itself, of course, of the immense 
force derivable from totality. Worldly 
interests intervening during the pauses 
of perusal, modify, annul, or counter- 
act, in a greater or less degree, the 
impressions of the book. But simple 
cessation in reading would, of itself, be 
sufficient to destroy the true unity. In 
the brief tale, however, the author is 
enabled to carry out the fulness of his 
intention, be it what it may. During 
the hour of perusal the soul of the 
reader is at the writer’s control. There 
are no external or extrinsic influences— 
resulting from weariness or interruption. 

A skilful literary artist has con- 
structed a tale. If wise, he has not 
fashioned his thoughts to accommodate 











eee EE 








NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


his incidents; but having conceived, 
with deliberate care, a certain unique 
or single effect to be wrought out, he 
then invents such incidents—he then 
combines such events as may best aid 
him in establishing this preconceived 
effect. If his very initial sentence tend 
not to the outbringing of this effect, 
then he has failed in his first step. In 
the whole composition there should be 
no word written, of which the tendency, 
direct or indirect, is not to the one 
pre-established design. And by such 
means, with such care and skill, a pic- 
ture is at length painted which leaves 
in the mind of him who contemplates 
it with a kindred art, a sense of the 
fullest satisfaction. The idea of the 
tale has been -presented unblemished, 
because undisturbed; and this is an end 
unattainable by the novel. Undue 
brevity is just as exceptionable here 
as in the poem; but undue length is 
yet more to be avoided. 

We have said that the tale has a 
point of superiority even over the poem. 
In fact, while the rhythm of this latter 
is an essential aid in the development 
of the poem’s highest idea—the idea 
of the .Beautiful—the artificialities of 
this rhythm are an inseparable bar to 
the development of all points of 
thought or expression which have their 
basis in Truth. But truth is often, and 
in very great degree, the aim of the 
tale. Some of the finest tales are tales 
of ratiocination. Thus the field of this 
species of composition, if not in so 
elevated a region on the Mountain of 
Mind, is a table-land of far vaster 
extent than the domain of the mere 
poem. Its products are never so rich, 
but infinitely more numerous, and more 
appreciable by the mass of mankind. 


1289 


The writer of the prose tale, in short, 
may bring to his theme a vast variety 
of modes or inflections of thought and 
expression—(the ratiocinative, for ex- 
ample, the sarcastic, or the humorous) 
which are not only antagonistical te 
the nature of the poem, but absolutely 
forbidden by one of its most peculiar 
and indispensable adjuncts; we allude, 
of course, to rhythm. It may be added, 
here, par parenthese, that the author 
who aims at the purely beautiful in a 
prose tale is labouring at a great dis- © 
advantage. For Beauty can be better 
treated in the poem. Not so with ter- 
ror, or passion, or horror, or a multi- 
tude of such other points. And here 
it will be seen how full of prejudice 
are the usual animadversions against 
those tales of effect, many fine exam- 
ples of which were found in the earlier 
numbers of Blackwood. The impres- 
sions produced were wrought in a legiti- 
mate sphere of action, and constituted 
a legitimate although sometimes an 
exaggerated interest. They were rel- 
ished by every man of genius: although 
there were found many men of genius 
who condemned them without just 
ground. The true critic will but de- 
mand that the design intended be 
accomplished, to the fullest extent, by 
the means most advantageously appli- 
cable. 

We have very few American tales of 
real merit—we may say, indeed, none 
with the exception of “The Tales of a 
Traveller’ of Washington Irving, and 
these ‘“T'wice-Told Tales” of Mr. Haw- 
thorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. 
John Neal abound in vigour and origi- 
nality; but in general, his compositions 
of this class are excessively diffuse, 
extravagant, and indicative of an im- 


1290 


perfect sentiment of Art. Articles at 
random are, now and then, met with 
in our periodicals which might be ad- 
vantageously compared with the best 
effusions of the British Magazines; but, 
upon the whole, we are far behind our 
progenitors in this department of 
literature. 

Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would 
say, emphatically, that they belong to 
the highest region of Art—an Art sub- 
servient to genius of a very lofty order. 
We had supposed, with good reason 
for so supposing, that he had been 
thrust into his present position by one 
of the impudent cliques which beset 
our literature, and whose pretensions it 
is our full purpose to expose at the 
earliest opportunity; but we have been 
most agreeably mistaken. We know of 
few compositions which the critic can 
more honestly commend than _ these 
“Twice-Told Tales.” As Americans, we 
feel proud of the book.* 

Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is 
invention, creation, imagination, origi- 
nality—a trait which, in the literature 
of fiction, is positively worth all the 
rest. But the nature of the originality, 
so far as regards its manifestation in 
letters, is but imperfectly understood. 
The inventive or original mind as fre- 
quently displays itself in novelty of 
tone aS in novelty of matter. Mr. 
Hawthorne is original in al/ points. 

It would be a matter of some diffi- 
culty to designate the best of these 
tales; we repeat that, without exception, 
they are beautiful. ‘Wakefield’ ‘is 
remarkable for the skill with which an 


* This one sentence proves Poe’s 
critical powers and true, ardent patriot- 
ism.—Ed. 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


old idea—a well-known incident—is 
worked up or discussed. A man of 
whims conceives the purpose of quitting 
his wife and residing incognito, for 
twenty years in her immediate neigh- 
bourhood. Something of this kind 
actually happened in London. The 
force of Mr. Hawthorne’s tale lies in 
the analysis of the motives which must 
or might have impelled the husband to 
such folly, in the first instance, with 
the possible causes of his perseverance. 
Upon this thesis a sketch of singular 
power has been constructed. ‘The 
Wedding Knell” is full of the boldest 
Imagination—an imagination fully con- 
trolled by taste. The most captious 
critic could find no flaw in this pro- 
duction. “The Minister’s Black Veil” 
is a masterly composition, of which 
the sole defect is that to the rabble 
its exquisite skill will be caviare. The 
obvious meaning of this article will be 
found to smother its insinuated one. 
The moral put into the mouth of the 
dying minister will be supposed to con- 
vey the true import of the narrative; 
and that a crime of dark dye (having 
reference to the “young lady’) has 
been committed, is a point which only 
minds congenial with that of the author 
will perceive. “Mr. Higginbotham’s 
Catastrophe” is vividly original and 
managed most dexterously. “Dr. Heid- 
egger’s Experiment” is exceedingly well 
imagined, and executed with surpassing 
ability. The artist breathes in every 
line of it. “The White Old Maid” is 
objectionable even more than “The 
Minister’s Black Veil,” on the score of 
its mysticism. Even with the thought- 
ful and analytic there will be much 
trouble in penetrating its entire import. 

“The Hollow of the Three Hills’? we 























NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


would quote in full had we space; not 
as evincing higher talent than any of 
the other pieces, but as affording an 
excellent example of the author’s pecul- 
jar ability. The subject is common- 
place. A witch subjects the Distant 
and the Past to the view of a mourner. 
It has been the fashion to describe, 
in such cases, a mirror in which the 
images of the absent appear; or a cloud 
of smoke is made to arise, and thence 
the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr. 
Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened 
his effect by making the ear, in place 
of the eye, the medium by which the 
fantasy is conveyed. The head of the 
mourner is enveloped in the cloak of 
the witch, and within its magic folds 
there arise sounds which have an all- 
sufficient intelligence. Throughout this 
article also, the artist is conspicuous— 
not more in positive than in negative 
merits. Not only is all done that should 
be done, but (what perhaps is an end 
with more difficulty attained) there is 
nothing done which should not be. 
Every word tells, and there is not a 
word which does ot tell. 

In ‘‘Howe’s Masquerade” we observe 
something which resembles a plagiarism 
—but which may be a very flattering 
coincidence of thoughts. We quote the 
passage in question:— 


With a dark flush of wrath upon 
his brow they saw the general draw his 
sword and advance to meet the figure 
in the cloak before the latter had 
stepped one pace upon the floor. ‘VzI- 
lain, unmuffle yourself, cried he, ‘you 
pass no farther!’ The figure, without 
blenching a hair’s-breadth from the 
sword which was pointed at his breast, 
made a solemn pause, and lowered the 


1291 


cape of the cloak from his face, yet 
not sufficiently for the spectators to 
catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William 
Howe had evidently seen enough. The 
sternness of his countenance gave place 
to a look of wild amazement, if not 
horror, while he recoiled several steps 
from the figure, and let fall his sword 
upon the floor. 


The idea here is that the figure in 
the cloak is the phantom or reduplica- 
tion of Sir William Howe; but in an 
article called ‘William Wilson,” one of 
the “Tales of the Grotesque and Ara- 
besque,” we have not only the same 
idea, but the same idea similarly pre- 
sented in several respects. We quote 
two paragraphs, which our readers may 
compare with what has been already 
given. We have italicised, above, the 
immediate particulars of resemblance. 


The brief moment in which I averted 
my eyes had been sufficient to pro- 
duce, apparently, a material change 
in the arrangement at the upper or 
farther end of the room. A large mir- 
ror, it appeared to me, now stood where 
none had been perceptible before; and 
as I stepped up to it in extremity of 
terror, mine own image, but with 
features all pale and dabbled in blood, 
advanced with a feeble and tottering 
gait to meet me. Thus it appeared I 
say, but was not. It was Wilson, who 
then stood before me in the agonies of 
dissolution. Not a line in all the 
marked and singular lineaments of that 
face which was not even identically 
mine own. His mask and cloak lay 
where he had thrown them upon. the 
floor. 


1292 


Here, it will be observed that not 
only are the two general conceptions 
identical, but there are various points 
of similarity. In each case the figure 
seen is the wraith or duplication of the 
beholder. In each case the scene is a 
masquerade. In each case the figure 
is cloaked. In each there is a quarrel— 
that is to say, angry words pass between 
the parties. In each the beholder is 
enraged. In each the cloak and sword 
fall upon the floor. The “Villain, 
unmuffle yourself” of Mr. H. is also 
precisely paralleled by a passage in 
“William Wilson.” 

In the way of objection I have 
scarcely a word to say of these tales. 
There is, perhaps, a somewhat too gen- 
eral or prevalent tone—a tone of mel- 
ancholy and mysticism. The subjects 
are insufficiently varied. ‘There is not 
so much of versatility evinced as we 
might well be warranted in expecting 
from the high powers of Mr. Haw- 
thorne. But beyond these trivial excep- 
tions we have really none to make. 
The style is purity itself. Force 
abounds. High imagination gleams 
from every page. Mr. Hawthorne is a 
man of the truest genius. I only 
regret that my limits will not permit 
me to pay him that full tribute of 
commendation which, under other cir- 
cumstances, I should be so eager to 
pay. 

The reputation of the author of 
“Twice-Told Tales” has been confined, 
until very lately, to literary society; 
and I have not been wrong, perhaps, 
in citing him as the example, par ex- 
cellence, in this country, of the pri- 
vately admired and publicly unappre- 
ciated man of genius. Within the last 
year or two, it is true, an occasional 
critic has been urged, by honest indig- 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


nation, into very warm approval. Mr. 
Webber, for instance (than whom no 
one has a keener relish for that kind 
of writing which Mr. Hawthorne has 
best illustrated), gave us, in a late 
number of the American Review, a 
cordial and certainly a full tribute to 
his talents; and since the issue of the 
‘“Mosses from an Old Manse,” criticisms 
of similar tone have been by no means 
infrequent in our more authoritative 
journals. I can call to mind few re- 
views of Hawthorne published before 
the “Mosses.” One I remember in 
Arcturus (edited by Matthews and 
Duyckinck) for May, 1841; another 
in the American Monthly (edited by 
Hoffman and Herbert) for March, 
1838; a third in the ninety-sixth num- 
ber of the North American Review. 
These criticisms, however, seemed to 
have little effect on the popular taste— 
at least, if we are to form any idea of 
the popular taste by reference to its 
expression in the newspapers, or by the 
sale of the author’s book. It was never 
the fashion (until lately) to speak oz 
him in any summary of our bes: 
authors. 

The daily critics would say, on such 
occasions, “Is there not Irving, and 
Cooper, and Bryant, and Paulding, and 
—Smith?” or, “Have we not Halleck, 
and Dana, and Longfellow, and—Thomp- 


son?” or, “Can we not point trium- 
phantly to our own Sprague, Willis, 
Channing, Bancroft, Prescott, and— 
Jenkins?” but these unanswerable 


queries were never wound up by the 
name of Hawthorne. 

Beyond doubt, this inappreciation of 
him on the part of the public arose 
chiefly from the two causes to which 
I have referred—from the facts that 
he is neither a man of wealth nor a 











NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


| quack; but these are insufficient to ac- 
count for the whole effect. No small 
portion of it is attributable to the very 
_ marked idiosyncrasy of Mr. Hawthorne 
| himself. In one sense, and in great 
| measure, to be peculiar is to be original, 
' and than the true originality there is 
| no higher literary virtue. This true or 
- commendable originality, however, im- 
plies not the uniform, but the continu- 
| ous peculiarity—a peculiarity springing 
from ever-active vigor of fancy—better 
still if from ever-present force of imagi- 
| nation, giving its own hue, its own char- 
acter to everything it touches, and 
especially, self-impelled to touch every- 
thing. 

It is often said, inconsiderately, that 
very original writers always fail in 
popularity—that such and such persons 
are too original to be comprehended 
by the mass. ‘Too peculiar,’ should 
be the phrase, ‘too idiosyncratic.” It 
is, in fact, the excitable, undisciplined, 
and child-like popular mind which most 
keenly feels the original. 

The criticism of the conservatives, 
of the hackneys, of the cultivated old 
clergymen of the North American Re- 
view, is precisely the criticism which 
condemns and alone condemns it. “It 
becometh not a divine,” saith Lord 
Coke, ‘“‘to be of a fiery and salamandrine 
spirit.” Their conscience allowing them 
to move nothing themselves, these dig- 
nitaries have holy horror of being 
moved. “Give us guietude,”’ they say. 
Opening their mouths with proper cau- 
tion, they sigh forth the word “Repose.” 
And this is, indeed, the one thing they 
should be permitted to enjoy, if only 
upon the Christian principle of give and 
take. 

The fact is, that if Mr. Hawthorne 
were really original, he could not fail 


1293 


of making himself felt by the public. 
But the fact is, he is mot original in any 
sense. Those who speak of him a3 
original, mean nothing more than that 
he differs in his manner, or tone, and 
in his choice of subjects, from any 
author of their acquaintance—their ac- 
quaintance not extending to the Ger- 
man Tieck, whose manner, in some of 
his works, is absolutely identical with 
that habitual to Hawthorne. But it 
is clear that the element. of the literary 
originality 1s novelty. The element of 
its appreciation by the reader is the 
reader’s sense of the new. Whatever 
gives him a new and in so much a pleas- 
urable emotion, he considers original, 
and whoever frequently gives him such 
emotion, he considers an original writer. 
In a word, it is by the sum total of 
these emotions that he decides upon the 
writer’s claim to originality. I may ob- 
serve here, however, that there is clearly 
a point at which even novelty itself 
would cease to produce the legitimate 
originality, if we judge this originality. 
as we should, by the effect designed: 
this point is that at which novelty be- 
comes nothing novel; and here the 
artist, to preserve his originality, will 
subside into the commonplace. No one, 
I think, has noticed that, merely through 
inattention to this matter, Moore has - 
comparatively failed in his ‘Lalla 
Rookh.” Few readers, and indeed few 
critics, have commended this poem for 
originality—and, in fact, the effect, 
originality, is not produced by it—yet 
no work of equal size so abounds in 
the happiest originalities, individually 
considered. They are so excessive as, 
in the end, to deaden in the reader all 
capacity for their appreciation. 

These points properly understood, it 
will be seen that the critic (unacquainted 


1294 


with Tieck) who reads a single tale or 
essay by Hawthorne, may be justified 
in thinking him original; but the tone, 
or manner, or choice of subject, which 
induces in this critic the sense of the 
new, will—if not in a second tale, at 
least in.a third and all subsequent ones 
—not only fail of inducing it, but bring 
about an exactly antagonistic impres- 
sion. In concluding a volume, and more 
especially in concluding all the volumes 
of the author, the critic will abandon 
his first design of calling him “‘original,” 
and content himself with styling him 
“peculiar.” 

With the vague opinion that to be 
original is to be unpopular, I could in- 
deed-agree, were I to adopt an under- 
standing of originality which, to my 
surprise, I have known adopted by 
many who have a right to be called 
critical, They have limited, in a love 
for mere words, the literary to the 
metaphysical originality. They regard 
as original in letters, only such combi- 
nations of thought, of incident, and so 
forth, as are, in fact, absolutely novel. 
It is clear, however, not only that it is 
the novelty of effect alone which is 
worth consideration, but that this effect 
is best wrought, for the end of all ficti- 
tious composition, pleasure, by shun- 
ning rather than by seeking the absolute 
novelty of combination. Originality, 
thus understood, tasks and startles the 
intellect, and so brings into undue ac- 
tion the faculties to which, in the lighter 
literature, we least appeal. And thus 
understood, it cannot fail to prove un- 
popular with the masses, who, seeking 
in this literature amusement, are posi- 
tively offended by instruction. But 
the true originality—true in respect of 
its purposes—is that which, in bringing 
out the half-formed, the reluctant, or 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


the unexpressed fancies of mankind, 
or in exciting the more delicate pulses 
of the heart’s passion, or in giving birth 
to some universal sentiment, or in- 
stinct in embryo, thus combines with 
the pleasurable effect of apparent 
novelty, a real egotistic delight. The 
reader, in the case first supposed (that 
of the absolute novelty), is excited, but 
embarrassed, disturbed, in some degree 
even pained at his own want of percep- 
tion, at his own folly in not having him- 
self hit upon the idea. In the second 
case, his pleasure is doubled. He is 
filled with an intrinsic and extrinsic de- 
light. He feels and intensely enjoys 
the seeming hovelty of the thought, 
enjoys it as really novel, as absolutely 
original with the writer—and himself. — 
They two, he fancies, have, alone of 
all men, thought thus. They two have, 
together, created this thing. Hence- 
forward there is a bond of sympathy 
between them—a sympathy which irra- 
diates every subsequent page of the 
book. 

There is a species of writing which, 
with some difficulty, may be admitted 
as a lower degree of what I have called 
the true original. In its »perusal, we 
say to ourselves, not “how original this 
is!” nor “here is an idea which I and 
the author have alone entertained,” but 
“here is a charmingly obvious fancy,” 
or sometimes even, “here is a thought 
which I am not sure has ever occurred 
to myself, but which, of course, has 
occurred to all the rest of the world.” 
This kind of composition (which still 
appertains to a high order) is usually 
designated as the “natural.” It has 
little external resemblance, but strong 
internal affinity to the true original, if, 
indeed, as I have suggested, it is not of 
this latter an inferior degree. It is best 














NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


exemplified, among English writers, in 
Addison, Irving, and Hawthorne. The 
“ease” which is so often spoken of as 
its distinguishing feature, it has been 
the fashion to regard as ease in appear- 
ance alone, as a point of really difficult 
attainment. This idea however, must 
be received with some reservation. The 
natural style is difficult only to those 
who should never intermeddle with it— 
to the unnatural. It is but the result 
of writing with the understanding, or 
with the instinct, that the tone in com- 
position, should be that which, at any 
given point or upon any given topic, 
would be the tone of the great mass of 
humanity. The author who, after the 
manner of the North Americans, is 
merely at all times quiet, is of course, 
upon most occasions, merely silly or 
stupid, and has no more right to be 
thought “easy” or “natural” than has a 
cockney exquisite, or the sleeping beauty 
in the wax-works. 

The “peculiarity,” or sameness, or 
monotone of Hawthorne, would, in its 
mere character of “peculiarity,” and 
without reference to what zs the pecul- 
jarity, suffice to deprive him of all 
chance of popular appreciation. But 
at his failure to be appreciated, we can, 
of course, no longer wonder, when we 
find him monotonous at decidedly the 
worst of all possible points—at that 
point which, having the least concern 
with Nature, is the farthest removed 
from the popular intellect, from the 
popular sentiment, and from the popu- 
lar taste. I allude to the strain of 
allegory which completely overwhelms 
the greater number of his subjects, and 
which in some measure interferes with 
the direct conduct of absolutely all. 

In defence of allegory (however, or 
for whatever object employed), there 


1295 


is scarcely one respectable word to be 
said. Its best appeals are made to the 
fancy—that is te say, to our sense of 
adaptation, not of matters proper, but 
of matters improper for the purpose, of 
the real with the unreal; having never 
more of intelligible connection than has 
something with nothing, never half.so 
much of effective affinity as has the 
substance for the shadow. The deepest 
emotion aroused within us by the hap- 
piest allegory, as allegory, is a very, 
very imperfectly satisfied sense of the 
writer’s ingenuity in overcoming a diffi. 
culty we should have preferred his not 
having attempted to overcome. The 
fallacy of the idea that allegory, in any 
of its moods, can be made to enforce a 
truth—that metaphor, for example, 
may illustrate as well as embellish an 
argument—could be promptly demon. 
strated; the converse of the supposed 
fact might be shown, indeed, with very 
httle trouble—but these are topics for- 
eign to my present purpose. One thing 
is clear, that if allegory ever establishes 
a fact, it is by dint of overturning a 
fiction. Where the suggested meaning 
runs through the obvious one in a very 
profound undercurrent, so as never to 
interfere with the upper one without 
our own volition, so as never to show 
itself unless called to the surface, there 


only, for the proper uses of fictitious 


narrative, is it available at all. Under 
the best circumstances, it must always 
interfere with that unity of effect which, 
to the artist, is worth all the allegory 
in the world. Its vital injury, however, 
is rendered to the most vitally impor- © 
tant point in fiction—that of earnest- 
ness or verisimilitude. That “The Pil- 
grim’s Progress” is a ludicrously over- 
rated book, owing its seeming popular- 
ity to one or two of those accidents in 


1296 


critical literature which by the critical 
are sufficiently well understood, is a 
matter upon which no two thinking 
people disagree; but the pleasure de- 
rivable from it, in any sense, will be 
found in the direct ratio of the read- 
er’s capacity to smother its true pur- 
pose, in the direct ratio of his ability 
to keep the allegory out of sight, or of 
his inability to comprehend it. Of 
allegory properly handled, judiciously 
subdued, seen only as a shadow or by 
suggestive glimpses, and making its 
nearest approach to truth in a not ob- 
trusive and therefore not unpleasant 
appositeness, the “Undine” of De La 
Motte Fougue is the best, and undoubt- 
edly a very remarkable specimen. 

The obvious causes, however, which 
have prevented Mr. Hawthorne’s popu- 
larity, do not suffice to condemn him 
in the eyes of the few who belong 
properly to books, and to whom books, 
perhaps, do not quite so properly be- 
long. These few estimate an author, 
not as do the public, altogether by what 
he does, but in great measure—indeed, 
even in the greatest measure—by what 
he evinces a capability of doing. In 
this view, Hawthorne stands among 
literary people in America much in the 
same light as did Coleridge in England. 
The few also, through a certain warp- 
ing of the taste, which long pondering 
upon books as books merely never fails 
to induce, are not in condition to view 
the errors of a scholar as errors alto- 
gether. At any time these gentlemen 
are prone to think the public not right 
rather than an educated author wrong. 
But the simple truth is, that the writer 
who aims at impressing the people, is 
always wrong when he fails in forcing 


WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE 


that people to receive the impression. 
How far Mr. Hawthorne has addressed 
the people at all, is of course not a 
question for me to decide. His books 
afford strong internal evidence of hay- 
ing been written to himself and his par- 
ticular friends alone. 

There has long existed in literature 
a fatal and unfounded prejudice, which 
it will be the office of this age to over- 
throw—the idea that the mere bulk of 
a work must enter largely into our esti- 
mate of its merit. I do not suppose 
even the weakest of the Quarterly re- 
viewers weak enough to maintain that 
in a book’s size or mass, abstractly con- 
sidered, there is anything which espe- 
cially calls for our admiration. A moun- 
tain, simply through the sensation of 
physical magnitude which it conveys, 
does indeed affect us with a sense of the 
sublime, but we cannot admit any such 
influence in the contemplation even 
of “The Columbiad.” The Quarterlies 
themselves will not admit it. And yet, 
what else are we to understand by their 
continual prating about “sustained ef- 
fort?” Granted that this sustained effort 
has accomplished an epic—let us then 
admire the effort (if this be a thing 
admirable), but certainly not the epic 
on the effort’s account. Common sense, 
in the time to come, may possibly insist 
upon measuring a work of art rather by 
the object it fulfils, by the impression 
it makes, than by the time it took to 
fulfil the object, or by the extent of 
“sustained effort” which became neces- 
sary to produce the impression. The 


fact is, that perseverance is one thing 


and genius quite another; nor can all 
the transcendentalists iin Heathendom 
sonfound them. 





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igct 2.0 1990 


Sc 
aa Poe, Edgar Allan — 


The works of Edgar Allan 


AUTHOR 


TITLE 


Poe, Edgar Allan 
The works of Edgar Allan Poe 


South Hunterdon Reg. Library 
301 Mt. Airy-Harbourton Rd. 
Lambertville, NJ 08530 





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